explanation of catholic morals a concise, reasoned, and popular exposition of catholic morals by rev. john h. stapleton new york, cincinnati, chicago: benzinger brothers printers to the holy apostolic see publishers of benzinger's magazine nihil obstat. remy lafort, _censor librorum_. imprimatur john m. farley, archbishop of new york new york, march , copyright, , by benzinger brothers. preface the contents of this volume appeared originally in the catholic transcript, of hartford, connecticut, in weekly installments, from february, , to february, . during the course of their publication, it became evident that the form of instruction adopted was appreciated by a large number of readers in varied conditions of life-- this appreciation being evinced, among other ways, by a frequent and widespread demand for back-numbers of the publishing journal. the management finding itself unable to meet this demand, suggested the bringing out of the entire series in book-form; and thus, with very few corrections, we offer the "briefs" to all desirous of a better acquaintance with catholic morals. the author. contents i. believing and doing ii. the moral agent iii. conscience iv. laxity and scruples v. the law of god and its breach vi. sin vii. how to count sins viii. capital sins ix. pride x. covetousness xi. lust xii. anger xiii. gluttony xiv. drink xv. envy xvi. sloth xvii. what we believe xviii. why we believe xix. whence our belief: reason xx. whence our belief: grace and will xxi. how we believe xxii. faith and error xxiii. the consistent believer xxiv. unbelief xxv. how faith may be lost xxvi. hope xxvii. love of god xxviii. love of neighbor xxix. prayer xxx. petition xxxi. religion xxxii. devotions xxxiii. idolatry and superstition xxxiv. occultism xxxv. christian science xxxvi. swearing xxxvii. oaths xxxviii. vows xxxix. the professional vow xl. the profession xli. the religious xlii. the vow of poverty xliii. the vow of obedience xliv. the vow of chastity xlv. blasphemy xlvi. cursing xlvii. profanity xlviii. the law of rest xlix. the day of rest l. keeping the lord's day holy li. worship of sacrifice lii. worship of rest liii. servile works liv. common works lv. parental dignity lvi. filial respect lvii. filial love lviii. authority and obedience lix. should we help our parents? lx. disinterested love in parents lxi. educate the children lxii. educational extravagance lxiii. godless education lxiv. catholic schools lxv. some weak points in the catholic school system lxvi. correction lxvii. justice and rights lxviii. homicide lxix. is suicide a sin? lxx. self-defense lxxi. murder often sanctioned lxxii. on the ethics of war lxxiii. the massacre of the innocents lxxiv. enmity lxxv. our enemies lxxvi. immorality lxxvii. the sink of iniquity lxxviii. wherein nature is opposed lxxix. hearts lxxx. occasions lxxxi. scandal lxxxii. not good to be alone lxxxiii. a helping hand lxxxiv. thou shalt not steal lxxxv. petty thefts lxxxvi. an oft exploited, but specious plea lxxxvii. contumely lxxxviii. defamation lxxxix. detraction xc. calumny xci. rash judgment xcii. mendacity xciii. concealing the truth xciv. restitution xcv. undoing the evil xcvi. paying back xcvii. getting rid of ill-gotten goods xcviii. what excuses from restitution xcix. debts moral briefs. chapter i. believing and doing. morals pertain to right living, to the things we do, in relation to god and his law, as opposed to right thinking, to what we believe, to dogma. dogma directs our faith or belief, morals shape our lives. by faith we know god, by moral living we serve him; and this double homage, of our mind and our works, is the worship we owe our creator and master and the necessary condition of our salvation. faith alone will save no man. it may be convenient for the easy-going to deny this, and take an opposite view of the matter; but convenience is not always a safe counsellor. it may be that the just man liveth by faith; but he lives not by faith alone. or, if he does, it is faith of a different sort from what we define here as faith, viz., a firm assent of the mind to truths revealed. we have the testimony of holy writ, again and again reiterated, that faith, even were it capable of moving mountains, without good works is of no avail. the catholic church is convinced that this doctrine is genuine and reliable enough to make it her own; and sensible enough, too. for faith does not make a man impeccable; he may believe rightly, and live badly. his knowledge of what god expects of him will not prevent him from doing just the contrary; sin is as easy to a believer as to an unbeliever. and he who pretends to have found religion, holiness, the holy ghost, or whatever else he may call it, and can therefore no longer prevaricate against the law, is, to common-sense people, nothing but a sanctified humbug or a pious idiot. nor are good works alone sufficient. men of emancipated intelligence and becoming breadth of mind, are often heard to proclaim with a greater flourish of verbosity than of reason and argument, that the golden rule is religion enough for them, without the trappings of creeds and dogmas; they respect themselves and respect their neighbors, at least they say they do, and this, according to them, is the fulfilment of the law. we submit that this sort of worship was in vogue a good many centuries before the god-man came down upon earth; and if it fills the bill now, as it did in those days, it is difficult to see the utility of christ's coming, of his giving of a law of belief and of his founding of a church. it is beyond human comprehension that he should have come for naught, labored for naught and died for naught. and such must be the case, if the observance of the natural law is a sufficient worship of the creator. what reasons christ may have had for imposing this or that truth upon our belief, is beside the question; it is enough that he did reveal truths, the acceptance of which glorifies him in the mind of the believer, in order that the mere keeping of the commandments appear forthwith an insufficient mode of worship. besides, morals are based on dogma, or they have no basis at all; knowledge of the manner of serving god can only proceed from knowledge of who and what he is; right living is the fruit of right thinking. not that all who believe rightly are righteous and walk in the path of salvation: losing themselves, these are lost in spite of the truths they know and profess; nor that they who cling to an erroneous belief and a false creed can perform no deed of true moral worth and are doomed; they may be righteous in spite of the errors they profess, thanks alone to the truths in their creeds that are not wholly corrupted. but the natural order of things demands that our works partake of the nature of our convictions, that truth or error in mind beget truth or error correspondingly in deed and that no amount of self-confidence in a man can make a course right when it is wrong, can make a man's actions good when they are materially bad. this is the principle of the tree and its fruit and it is too old-fashioned to be easily denied. true morals spring from true faith and true dogma; a false creed cannot teach correct morality, unless accidentally, as the result of a sprinkling of truth through the mass of false teaching. the only accredited moral instructor is the true church. where there is no dogma, there can logically be no morals, save such as human instinct and reason devise; but this is an absurd morality, since there is no recognition of an authority, of a legislator, to make the moral law binding and to give it a sanction. he who says he is a law unto himself chooses thus to veil his proclaiming freedom from all law. his golden rule is a thing too easily twistable to be of any assured benefit to others than himself; his moral sense, that is, his sense of right and wrong, is very likely where his faith is--nowhere. it goes without saying that the requirements of good morals are a heavy burden for the natural man, that is, for man left, in the midst of seductions and allurements, to the purely human resources of his own unaided wit and strength; so heavy a burden is this, in fact, that according to catholic doctrine, it cannot be borne without assistance from on high, the which assistance we call grace. this supernatural aid we believe essential to the shaping of a good moral life; for man, being destined, in preference to all the rest of animal creation, to a supernatural end, is thereby raised from the natural to a supernatural order. the requirements of this order are therefore above and beyond his native powers and can only be met with the help of a force above his own. it is labor lost for us to strive to climb the clouds on a ladder of our own make; the ladder must be let down from above. human air-ships are a futile invention and cannot be made to steer straight or to soar high in the atmosphere of the supernatural. one-half of those who fail in moral matters are those who trust altogether, or too much, in their own strength, and reckon without the power that said "without me you can do nothing." the other half go to the other extreme. they imagine that the almighty should not only direct and aid them, but also that he should come down and drag them along in spite of themselves; and they complain when he does not, excuse and justify themselves on the ground that he does not, and blame him for their failure to walk straight in the narrow path. they expect him to pull them from the clutches of temptation into which they have deliberately walked. the drunkard expects him to knock the glass out of his hand: the imprudent, the inquisitive and the vicious would have it so that they might play with fire, yea, even put in their hand, and not be scorched or burnt. 'tis a miracle they want, a miracle at every turn, a suspension of the laws of nature to save them from the effects of their voluntary perverseness. too lazy to employ the means at their command, they thrust the whole burden on the maker. god helps those who help themselves. a supernatural state does not dispense us from the obligation of practising natural virtue. you can build a supernatural life only on the foundations of a natural life. to do away with the latter is to build in the air; the structure will not stay up, it will and must come down at the first blast of temptation. catholic morals therefore require faith in revealed truths, of which they are but deductions, logical conclusions; they presuppose, in their observance, the grace of god; and call for a certain strenuosity of life without which nothing meritorious can be effected. we must be convinced of the right god has to trace a line of conduct for us; we must be as earnest in enlisting his assistance as if all depended on him; and then go to work as if it all depended on ourselves. chapter ii. the moral agent. morals are for man, not for the brute; they are concerned with his thoughts, desires, words and deeds; they suppose a moral agent. what is a moral agent? a moral agent is one who, in the conduct of his life, is capable of good and evil, and who, in consequence of this faculty of choosing between right and wrong is responsible to god for the good and evil he does. is it enough, in order to qualify as a moral and responsible agent, to be in a position to respect or to violate the law? it is not enough; but it is necessary that the agent know what he is doing; know that it is right or wrong; that he will to do it, as such; and that he be free to do it, or not to do it. whenever any one of these three elements--knowledge, consent and liberty--is wanting in the commission or omission of any act, the deed is not a moral deed; and the agent, under the circumstances, is not a moral agent. when god created man, he did not make him simply a being that walks and talks, sleeps and eats, laughs and cries; he endowed him with the faculties of intelligence and free will. more than this, he intended that these faculties should be exercised in all the details of life; that the intelligence should direct, and the free will approve, every step taken, every act performed, every deed left undone. human energy being thus controlled, all that man does is said to be voluntary and bears the peculiar stamp of morality, the quality of being good or evil in the sight of god and worthy of his praise or blame, according as it squares or not with the rule of morality laid down by him for the shaping of human life. of all else he takes no cognizance, since all else refers to him not indifferently from the rest of animal creation, and offers no higher homage than that of instinct and necessity. when a man in his waking hours does something in which his intelligence has no share, does it without being aware of what he is doing, he is said to be in a state of mental aberration, which is only another name for insanity or folly, whether it be momentary or permanent of its nature. a human being, in such a condition, stands on the same plane with the animal, with this difference, that the one is a freak and the other is not. morals, good or bad, have no meaning for either. if the will or consent has no part in what is done, we do nothing, another acts through us; 'tis not ours, but the deed of another. an instrument or tool used in the accomplishment of a purpose possesses the same negative merit or demerit, whether it be a thing without a will or an unwilling human being. if we are not free, have no choice in the matter, must consent, we differ in nothing from all brutish and inanimate nature that follows necessarily, fatally, the bent of its instinctive inclinations and obeys the laws of its being. under these conditions, there can be no morality or responsibility before god; our deeds are alike blameless and valueless in his sight. thus, the simple transgression of the law does not constitute us in guilt; we must transgress deliberately, wilfully. full inadvertence, perfect forgetfulness, total blindness is called invincible ignorance; this destroys utterly the moral act and makes us involuntary agents. when knowledge is incomplete, the act is less voluntary; except it be the case of ignorance brought on purposely, a wilful blinding of oneself, in the vain hope of escaping the consequences of one's acts. this betrays a stronger willingness to act, a more deliberately set will. concupiscence has a kindred effect on our reason. it is a consequence of our fallen nature by which we are prone to evil rather than to good, find it more to our taste and easier to yield to wrong than to resist it. call it passion, temperament, character, what you will,--it is an inclination to evil. we cannot always control its action. everyone has felt more or less the tyranny of concupiscence, and no child of adam but has it branded in his nature and flesh. passion may rob us of our reason, and run into folly or insanity; in which event we are unconscious agents, and do nothing voluntary. it may so obscure the reason as to make us less ourselves, and consequently less willing. but there is such a thing as, with studied and refined malice and depravity, to purposely and artificially, as it were, excite concupiscence, in order the more intensely and savagely to act. this is only a proof of greater deliberation, and renders the deed all the more voluntary. a person is therefore more or less responsible according as what he does, or the good or evil of what he does, is more or less clear to him. ignorance or the passions may affect his clear vision of right and wrong, and under the stress of this deception, wring a reluctant yielding of the will, a consent only half willingly given. because there is consent, there is guilt but the guilt is measured by the degree of premeditation. god looks upon things solely in their relation to him. an abomination before men may be something very different in his sight who searches the heart and reins of man and measures evil by the malice of the evil-doer. the only good or evil he sees in our deeds is the good or evil we ourselves see in them before or while we act. violence and fear may oppress the will, and thereby prove destructive to the morality of an act and the responsibility of the agent. certain it is, that we can be forced to act against our will, to perform that which we abhor, and do not consent to do. such force may be brought to bear upon us as we cannot withstand. fear may influence us in a like manner. it may paralyze our faculties and rob us of our senses. evidently, under these conditions, no voluntary act is possible, since the will does not concur and no consent is given. the subject becomes a mere tool in the hands of another. can violence and fear do more than this? can it not only rob us of the power to will, not only force us to act without consent, but also force the will, force us to consent? never; and the simple reason is that we cannot do two contradictory things at the same time--consent and not consent, for that is what it means to be forced to consent. violence and fear may weaken the will so that it finally yield. the fault, if fault there be, may be less inexcusable by reason of the pressure under which it labored. but once we have willed, we have willed, and essentially, there is nothing unwilling about what is willingly done. the will is an inviolable shrine. men may circumvent, attack, seduce and weaken it. but it cannot be forced. the power of man and devil cannot go so far. even god respects it to that point. in all cases of pressure being brought to bear upon the moral agent for an evil purpose, when resistance is possible, resistance alone can save him from the consequences. he must resist to his utmost, to the end, never yield, if he would not incur the responsibility of a free agent. non-resistance betokens perfect willingness to act. the greater the resistance, the less voluntary the act in the event of consent being finally given; for resistance implies reluctance, and reluctance is the opposition of a will that battles against an oppressing influence. in moral matters, defeat can never be condoned, no matter how great the struggle, if there is a final yielding of the will; but the circumstance of energetic defense stands to a man's credit and will protect him from much of the blame and disgrace due to defeat. thus we see that the first quality of the acts of a moral agent is that he think, desire, say and do with knowledge and free consent. such acts, and only such, can be called good or bad. what makes them good and bad, is another question. chapter iii. conscience. the will of god, announced to the world at large, is known as the law of god; manifested to each individual soul, it is called conscience. these are not two different rules of morality, but one and the same rule. the latter is a form or copy of the former. one is the will of god, the other is its echo in our souls. we might fancy god, at the beginning of all things, speaking his will concerning right and wrong, in the presence of the myriads of souls that lay in the state of possibility. and when, in the course of time, these souls come into being, with unfailing regularity, at every act, conscience, like a spiritual phonograph, gives back his accents and reechoes: "it is lawful," or "it is not lawful." or, to use another simile, conscience is the compass by which we steer aright our moral lives towards the haven of our souls' destination in eternity. but just as behind the mariner's compass is the great unseen power, called attraction, under whose influence the needle points to the star; so does the will or law of god control the action of the conscience, and direct it faithfully towards what is good. we have seen that, in order to prevaricate it is not sufficient to transgress the law of god: we must know; conscience makes us know. it is only when we go counter to its dictates that we are constituted evil-doers. and at the bar of god's justice, it is on the testimony of conscience that sentence will be passed. her voice will be that of a witness present at every deed, good or evil, of our lives. conscience should always tell the truth, and tell it with certainty. practically, this is not always the case. we are sometimes certain that a thing is right when it is really wrong. there are therefore two kinds of conscience: a true and a certain conscience, and they are far from being one and the same thing. a true conscience speaks the truth, that is, tells us what is truly right and truly wrong. it is a genuine echo of the voice of god. a certain conscience, whether it speaks the truth or not, speaks with assurance, without a suspicion of error, and its voice carries conviction. when we act in accordance with the first, we are right; we may know it, doubt it or think it probable, but we are right in fact. when we obey the latter, we know, we are sure that we are right, but it is possible that we be in error. a true conscience, therefore, may be certain or uncertain; a certain conscience may be true or erroneous. a true conscience is not the rule of morality. it must be certain. it is not necessary that it be true, although this is always to be desired, and in the normal state of things should be the case. but true or false, it must be certain. the reason is obvious. god judges us according as we do good or evil. our merit or demerit is dependent upon our responsibility. we are responsible only for the good or evil we know we do. knowledge and certainty come from a certain conscience, and yet not from a true conscience which may be doubtful. now, suppose we are in error, and think we are doing something good, whereas it is in reality evil. we perceive no malice in the deed, and, in performing it, there is consequently no malice in us, we do not sin. the act is said to be materially evil, but formally good; and for such evil god cannot hold us responsible. suppose again that we err, and that the evil we think we do is really good. in this instance, first, the law of morality is violated,--a certain, though erroneous conscience: this is sinful. secondly, a bad motive vitiates an act even if the deed in itself be good. consequently, we incur guilt and god's wrath by the commission of such a deed, which is materially good, but formally bad. one may wonder and say: "how can guilt attach to doing good?" guilt attaches to formal evil, that is, evil that is shown to us by our conscience and committed by us as such. the wrong comes, not from the object of our doing which is good, but from the intention which is bad. it is true that nothing is good that is not thoroughly good, that a thing is bad only when there is something lacking in its goodness, that evil is a defect of goodness; but formal evil alone can be imputed to us and material cannot. the one is a conscious, the other an unconscious, defect. here an erroneous conscience is obeyed; there the same conscience is disregarded. and that kind of a conscience is the rule of morality; to go against it is to sin. there are times when we have no certitude. the conscience may have nothing to say concerning the honesty of a cause to which we are about to commit ourselves. this state of uncertainty and perplexity is called doubt. to doubt is to suspend judgment; a dubious conscience is one that does not function. in doubt the question may be: "to do; is it right or wrong? may i perform this act, or must i abstain therefrom?" in this case, we inquire whether it be lawful or unlawful to go on, but we are sure that it is lawful not to act. there is but one course to pursue. we must not commit ourselves and must refrain from acting, until such a time, at least, as, by inquiring and considering, we shall have obtained sufficient evidence to convince us that we may allow ourselves this liberty without incurring guilt. if, on the contrary, while still doubting, we persist in committing the act, we sin, because in all affairs of right and wrong we must follow a certain conscience as the standard of morality. but the question may be: "to do or not to do; which is right and which is wrong?" here we know not which way to turn, fearing evil in either alternative. we must do one thing or the other. there are reasons and difficulties on both sides. we are unable to resolve the difficulties, lay the doubt, and form a sure conscience, what must we do? if all action can be momentarily suspended, and we have the means of consulting, we must abstain from action and consult. if the affair is urgent, and this cannot be done; if we must act on the spot and decide for ourselves, then, we can make that dubious conscience prudently certain by applying this principle to our conduct: "of two evils, choose the lesser." we therefore judge which action involves the least amount of evil. we may embrace the course thus chosen without a fear of doing wrong. if we have inadvertently chosen the greater evil, it is an error of judgment for which we are in nowise responsible before god. but this means must be employed only where all other and surer means fail. the certainty we thereby acquire is a prudent certainty, and is sufficient to guarantee us against offending. chapter iv. laxity and scruples. in every question of conscience there are two opposing factors: liberty, which is agreeable to our nature, which allows us to do as we list; and law which binds us unto the observance of what is unpleasant. liberty and law are mutually antagonistic. a concession in favor of one is an infringement upon the claims of the other. conscience, in its normal state, gives to liberty and to law what to each is legitimately due, no more, no less. truth lies between extremes. at the two opposite poles of conscientious rectitude are laxity and scruples, one judging all things lawful, the other all things forbidden. one inordinately favors liberty, the other the law. and neither has sufficient grounds on which to form a sound judgment. they are counterfeit consciences, the one dishonest, the other unreasonable. they do unlawful business; and because the verdict they render is founded on nothing more solid than imaginations, they are in nowise standards of morality, and should not be considered as such. the first is sometimes known as a "rubber" conscience, on account of its capacity for stretching itself to meet the exigencies of a like or a dislike. laxity may be the effect of a simple illusion. men often do wrong unawares. they excuse themselves with the plea: "i did not know any better." but we are not here examining the acts that can be traced back to self-illusion; rather the state of persons who labor under the disability of seeing wrong anywhere, and who walk through the commandments of god and the church with apparent unconcern. what must we think of such people in face of the fact that they not only could, but should know better! they are supposed to know their catechism. are there not catholic books and publications of various sorts? what about the sunday instructions and sermons? these are the means and opportunities, and they facilitate the fulfilment of what is in us a bounden duty to nourish our souls before they die of spiritual hunger. a delicate, effeminate life, spiritual sloth, and criminal neglect are responsible for this kind of laxity. this state of soul is also the inevitable consequence of long years passed in sin and neglect of prayer. habit blunts the keen edge of perception. evil is disquieting to a novice; but it does not look so bad after you have done it a while and get used to it. crimes thus become ordinary sins, and ordinary sins peccadillos. then again there are people who, like the pharisees of old, strain out a gnat and swallow a camel. they educate themselves up to a strict observance of all things insignificant. they would not forget to say grace before and after meals, but would knife the neighbor's character or soil their minds with all filthiness, without a scruple or a shadow of remorse. these are they who walk in the broad way that leadeth to destruction. in the first place, their conscience or the thing that does duty for a conscience, is false and they are responsible for it. then, this sort of a conscience is not habitually certain, and laxity consists precisely in contemning doubts and passing over lurking, lingering suspicions as not worthy of notice. lastly, it has not the quality of common prudence since the judgment it pronounces is not supported by plausible reasons. its character is dishonesty. a scruple is a little sharp stone formerly used as a measure of weight. pharmacists always have scruples. there is nothing so torturing as to walk with one or several of these pebbles in the shoe. spiritual scruples serve the same purpose for the conscience. they torture and torment; they make devotion and prayer impossible, and blind the conscience; they weaken the mind, exhaust the bodily forces, and cause a disease that not infrequently comes to a climax in despair or insanity. a scrupulous conscience is not to be followed as a standard of right and wrong, because it is unreasonable. in its final analysis it is not certain, but doubtful and improbable, and is influenced by the most futile reasons. it is lawful, it is even necessary, to refuse assent to the dictates of such a conscience. to persons thus afflicted the authoritative need of a prudent adviser must serve as a rule until the conscience is cured of its morbid and erratic tendencies. it is not scruples to walk in the fear of god, and avoid sin and the occasions thereof: that is wisdom; nor to frequent the sacraments and be assiduous in prayer through a deep concern for the welfare of one's soul: that is piety. it is not scruples to be at a loss to decide whether a thing is wrong or right; that is doubt; nor to suffer keenly after the commission of a grievous sin; that is remorse. it is not scruples to be greatly anxious and disturbed over past confessions when there is a reasonable cause for it: that is natural. a scrupulous person is one who, outside these several contingencies, is continually racked with fears, and persists, against all evidence, in seeing sin where there is none, or magnifies it beyond all proportion where it really is. the first feature--empty and perpetual fears--concerns confessions which are sufficient, according to all the rules of prudence; prayers, which are said with overwrought anxiety, lest a single distraction creep in and mar them; and temptations, which are resisted with inordinate contention of mind, and perplexity lest consent be given. the other and more desperate feature is pertinacity of judgment. the scrupulous person will ask advice and not believe a word he is told. the more information he gets, the worse he becomes, and he adds to his misery by consulting every adviser in sight. he refuses to be put under obedience and seems to have a morbid affection for his very condition. there is only one remedy for this evil, and that remedy is absolute and blind obedience to a prudent director. choose one, consult him as often as you desire, but do not leave him for another. then submit punctiliously to his direction. his conscience must be yours, for the time being. and if you should err in following him, god will hold him, and not you, responsible. chapter v. the law of god and its breach. without going into any superflous details, we shall call the law of god an act of his will by which he ordains what things we may do or not do, and binds us unto observance under penalty of his divine displeasure. the law thus defined pertains to reasonable beings alone, and supposes on our part, as we have seen, knowledge and free will. the rest of creation is blindly submissive under the hand of god, and yields a necessary obedience. man alone can obey or disobey; but in this latter case he renders himself amenable to god's justice who, as his creator, has an equal right to command him, and be obeyed. the maker first exercised this right when he put into his creature's soul a sense of right and wrong, which is nothing more than conscience, or as it is called here, natural law. to this law is subject every human being, pagan, jew and christian alike. no creature capable of a human act is exempt. the provisions of this law consider the nature of our being, that is, the law prescribes what the necessities of our being demand, and it prohibits what is destructive thereof. our nature requires physically that we eat, drink and sleep. similarly, in a moral sense, it calls for justice, truthfulness, respect of god, of the neighbor, and of self. all its precepts are summed up in this one: "do unto others as you would have them do unto you"--the golden rule. thence flows a series of deducted precepts calculated to protect the moral and inherent rights of our nature. but we are more concerned here with what is known as the positive law of god, given by him to man by word of mouth or revelation. we believe that god gave a verbal code to moses who promulgated it in his name before the jewish people to the whole world. it was subsequently inscribed on two stone tables, and is known as the decalogue or ten commandments of god. of these ten, the first three pertain to god himself, the latter seven to the neighbor; so that the whole might be abridged in these two words, "love god, and love thy neighbor." this law is in reality only a specified form of the natural law, and its enactment was necessitated by the iniquity of men which had in time obscured and partly effaced the letter of the law in their souls. latterly god again spoke, but this time in the person of jesus christ. the saviour, after confirming the decalogue with his authority, gave other laws to men concerning the church he had founded and the means of applying to themselves the fruits of the redemption. we give the name of dogma to what he tells us to believe and of morals to what we must do. these precepts of jesus christ are contained in the gospel, and are called the evangelical law. it is made known to us by the infallible church through which god speaks. akin to these divine laws is the purely ecclesiastical law or law of the church. christ sent forth his church clothed with his own and his father's authority. "as the father sent me, so i send you." she was to endure, perfect herself and fulfil her mission on earth. to enable her to carry out this divine plan she makes laws, laws purely ecclesiastical, but laws that have the same binding force as the divine laws themselves, since they bear the stamp of divine authority. god willed the church to be; he willed consequently all the necessary means without which she would cease to be. for catholics, therefore, as far as obligations are concerned, there is no practical difference between god's law and the law of his church. jesus christ is god. the church is his spouse. to her the saviour said: "he that heareth you, heareth me, and he that despiseth you despiseth me." a breach of the law is a sin. a sin is a deliberate transgression of the law of god. a sin may be committed in thought, in desire, in word, or in deed, and by omission as well as by commission. it is well to bear in mind that a thought, as well as a deed, is an act, may be a human and a moral act, and consequently may be a sin. human laws may be violated only in deed; but god, who is a searcher of hearts, takes note of the workings of the will whence springs all malice. to desire to break his commandments is to offend him as effectually as to break them in deed; to relish in one's mind forbidden fruits, to meditate and deliberate on evil purposes, is only a degree removed from actual commission of wrong. evil is perpetrated in the will, either by a longing to prevaricate or by affection for that which is prohibited. if the evil materializes exteriorly, it does not constitute one in sin anew, but only completes the malice already existing. men judge their fellows by their works; god judges us by our thoughts, by the inner workings of the soul, and takes notice of our exterior doings only in so far as they are related to the will. therefore it is that an offense against him, to be an offense, need not necessarily be perpetrated in word or in deed; it is sufficient that the will place itself in opposition to the will of god, and adhere to what the law forbids. sin is not the same as vice. one is an act, the other is a state or inclination to act. one is transitory, the other is permanent. one can exist without the other. a drunkard is not always drunk, nor is a man a drunkard for having once or twice overindulged. in only one case is vice less evil than sin, and that is when the inclination remains an unwilling inclination and does not pass to acts. a man who reforms after a protracted spree still retains an inclination, a desire for strong drink. he is nowise criminal so long as he resists that tendency. but practically vice is worse than sin, for it supposes frequent wilful acts of sin of which it is the natural consequence, and leads to many grievous offenses. a vice is without sin when one struggles successfully against it after the habit has been retracted. it may never be radically destroyed. there may be unconscious, involuntary lapses under the constant pressure of a strong inclination, as in the vice of parsing, and it remains innocent as long as it is not wilfully yielded to and indulged. but to yield to the ratification of an evil desire or propensity, without restraint, is to doom oneself to the most prolific of evils and to lie under the curse of god. chapter vi. sin. if the almighty had never imposed upon his creatures a law, there would be no sin; we would be free to do as we please. but the presence of god's law restrains our liberty, and it is by using, or rather abusing, our freedom, that we come to violate the law. it is for this reason that law is said to be opposed to liberty. liberty is a word of many meanings. men swear by it and men juggle with it. it is the slogan in both camps of the world's warfare. it is in itself man's noblest inheritance, and yet there is no name under the sun in which more crimes are committed. by liberty as opposed to god's law we do not understand the power to do evil as well as good. that liberty is the glory of man, but the exercise of it, in the alternative of evil, is damnable, and debases the creature in the same proportions as the free choice of good ennobles him. that liberty the law leaves untouched. we never lose it; or rather, we may lose it partially when under physical restraint, but totally, only when deprived of our senses. the law respects it. it respects it in the highest degree when in an individual it curtails or destroys it for the protection of society. liberty may also be the equal right to do good and evil. there are those who arrogate to themselves such liberty. no man ever possessed it, the law annihilated it forever. and although we have used the word in this sense, the fact is that no man has the right to do evil or ever will have, so long as god is god. these people talk much and loudly about freedom--the magic word!--assert with much pomp and verbosity the rights of man, proclaim his independence, and are given to much like inane vaunting and braggadocio. we may be free in many things, but where god is concerned and he commands, we are free only to obey. his will is supreme, and when it is asserted, we purely and simply have no choice to do as we list. this privilege is called license, not liberty. we have certain rights as men, but we have duties, too, as creatures, and it ill-becomes us to prate about our rights, or the duties of others towards us, while we ignore the obligations we are under towards others and our first duty which is to god. our boasted independence consists precisely in this: that we owe to him not only the origin of our nature, but even the very breath we draw, and which preserves our being, for "in him we live, move and have our being." the first prerogative of god towards us is authority or the right to command. our first obligation as well as our highest honor as creatures is to obey. and until we understand this sort of liberty, we live in a world of enigmas and know not the first letter of the alphabet of creation. we are not free to sin. liberty rightly understood, true liberty of the children of god, is the right of choice within the law, the right to embrace what is good and to avoid what is evil. this policy no man can take from us; and far from infringing upon this right, the law aids it to a fuller development. a person reading by candlelight would not complain that his vision was obscured if an arc light were substituted for the candle. a traveler who takes notice of the signposts along his way telling the direction and distance, and pointing out pitfalls and dangers, would not consider his rights contested or his liberty restricted by these things. and the law, as it becomes more clearly known to us, defines exactly the sphere of our action and shows plainly where dangers lurk and evil is to be apprehended. and we gladly avail ourselves of this information that enables us to walk straight and secure. the law becomes a godsend to our liberty, and obedience to it, our salvation. he who goes beyond the bounds of true moral liberty, breaks the law of god and sins. he thereby refuses to god the obedience which to him is due. disobedience involves contempt of authority and of him who commands. sin is therefore an offense against god, and that offense is proportionate to the dignity of the person offended. the sinner, by his act of disobedience, not only sets at naught the will of his maker, but by the same act, in a greater or lesser degree, turns away from his appointed destiny; and in this he is imitated by nothing else in creation. every other created thing obeys. the heavens follow their designated course. beasts and birds and fish are intent upon one thing, and that is to work out the divine plan. man alone sows disorder and confusion therein. he shows irreverence for god's presence and contempt for his friendship; ingratitude for his goodness and supreme indifference for the penalty that follows his sin as surely as the shadow follows its object. so that, taken all in all, such a creature might fitly be said to be one part criminal and two parts fool. folly and sin are synonymous in holy writ. "the fool saith in his heart there is no god." sin is essentially an offense. but there is a difference of degree between a slight and an outrage. there are direct offenses against god, such as the refusal to believe in him or unbelief; to hope in him, or despair, etc. indirect offenses attain him through the neighbor or ourselves. all duties to neighbor or self are not equally imperious and to fail in them all is not equally evil. then again, not all sins are committed through pure malice, that is, with complete knowledge and full consent. ignorance and weakness are factors to be considered in our guilt, and detract from the malice of our sins. hence two kinds of sin, mortal and venial. these mark the extremes of offense. one severs all relation of friendship, the other chills the existing friendship. by one, we incur god's infinite hatred, by the other, his displeasure. the penalty for one is eternal; the other can be atoned for by suffering. it is not possible in all cases to tell exactly what is mortal and what venial in our offenses. there is a clean-cut distinction between the two, but the line of demarcation is not always discernible. there are, however, certain characteristics which enable us in the majority of cases to distinguish one from the other. first, the matter must be grievous in fact or in intention; that is, there must be a serious breach of the law of god or the law of conscience. then, we must know perfectly well what we are doing and give our full consent. it must therefore be a grave offense in all the plenitude of its malice. of course, to act without sufficient reason, with a well-founded doubt as to the malice of the act, would be to violate the law of conscience and would constitute a mortal sin. there is no moral sin without the fulfilment of these conditions. all other offenses are venial. we cannot, of course, read the soul of anybody. if, however, we suppose knowledge and consent, there are certain sins that are always mortal. such are blasphemy, luxury, heresy, etc. when these sins are deliberate, they are always mortal offenses. others are usually mortal, such as a sin against justice. to steal is a sin against justice. it is frequently a mortal sin, but it may happen that the amount taken be slight, in which case the offense ceases to be mortal. likewise, certain sins are usually venial, but in certain circumstances a venial sin may take on such malice as to be constituted mortal. our conscience, under god, is the best judge of our malevolence and consequently of our guilt. chapter vii. how to count sins. the number of sins a person may commit is well-nigh incalculable, which is only one way of saying that the malice of man has invented innumerable means of offending the almighty--a compliment to our ingenuity and the refinement of our natural perversity. it is not always pleasant to know, and few people try very hard to learn, of what kind and how many are their daily offenses. this knowledge reveals too nakedly our wickedness which we prefer to ignore. catholics, however, who believe in the necessity of confession of sins, take a different view of the matter. the requirements of a good confession are such as can be met only by those who know in what things they have sinned and how often. there are many different kinds of sin. it is possible by a single act to commit more than one sin. and a given sin may be repeated any number of times. to get the exact number of our misdeeds we must begin by counting as many sins at least as there are kinds of sin. we might say there is an offense for every time a commandment or precept is violated, for sin is a transgression of the law. but this would be insufficient inasmuch as the law may command or forbid more than one thing. let the first commandment serve as an example. it is broken by sins against faith, or unbelief, against hope, or despair, against charity, against religion, etc. all these offenses are specifically different, that is, are different kinds of sin; yet but one precept is transgressed. since therefore each commandment prescribes the practice of certain virtues, the first rule is that there is a sin for every virtue violated. but this is far from exhausting our capacity for evil. our virtue may impose different obligations, so that against it alone we may offend in many different ways. among the virtues prescribed by the first commandment is that of religion, which concerns the exterior homage due to god. i may worship false gods, thus offending against the virtue of religion, and commit a sin of idolatry. if i offer false homage to the true god, i also violate the virtue of religion, but commit a sin specifically different, a sin of superstition. thus these different offenses are against but one of several virtues enjoined by one commandment. the virtue of charity is also prolific of obligations; the virtue of chastity even more so. one act against the latter may contain a four-fold malice. it would be out of place here to adduce more examples: a detailed treatment of the virtues and commandments will make things clearer. for the moment it is necessary and sufficient to know that a commandment may prescribe many virtues, a virtue may impose many obligations, and there is a specifically different sin for each obligation violated. but we can go much farther than this in wrongdoing, and must count one sin every time the act is committed. "yes, but how are we to know when there is one act or more than one act! an act may be of long or short duration. how many sins do i commit if the act lasts, say, two hours? and how can i tell where one act ends and the other begins?" in an action which endures an hour or two hours, there may be one and there may be a dozen acts. when the matter a sinner is working on is a certain, specified evil, the extent to which he prevaricates numerically depends upon the action of the will. a fellow who enters upon the task of slaying his neighbor can kill but once in fact; but he can commit the sin of murder in his soul once or a dozen times. it depends on the will. sin is a deliberate transgression, that is, first of all an act of the will. if he resolves once to kill and never retracts till the deed of blood is done, he sins but once. if he disavows his resolution and afterwards resolves anew, he repeats the sin of murder in his soul as often as he goes through this process of will action. this sincere retraction of a deed is called moral interruption and it has the mysterious power of multiplying sins. not every interruption is a moral one. to put the matter aside for a certain while in the hope of a better opportunity, for the procuring of necessary facilities or for any other reason, with the unshaken purpose of pursuing the course entered upon, is to suspend action; but this action is wholly exterior, and does not affect the will. the act of the will perseveres, never loses its force, so there is no moral, but only a physical, interruption. there is no renewal of consent for it has never been withdrawn. the one moral act goes on, and but one sin is committed. thus, of two wretches on the same errand of crime, one may sin but once, while the other is guilty of the same sin a number of times. but the several sins last no longer than the one. which is the more guilty? that is a question for god to decide; he does the judging, we do the counting. this possible multiplication of sin where a single act is apparent emphasizes the fact that evil and good proceed from the will. it is by the will primarily and essentially that we serve or offend god, and, absolutely speaking, no exterior deed is necessary for the accomplishment of this end. the exterior deed of sin always supposes a natural preparation of sin-- thought, desires, resolution,--which precede or accompany the deed, and without which there would be no sin. it is sinful only inasmuch as it is related to the will, and is the fruit thereof. the interior act constitutes the sin in its being; the exterior act constitutes it in its completeness. all of which leads up to the conclusion, of a nature perhaps to surprise some, that to resolve to sin and to commit the sin in deed are not two different sins, but one complete sin, in all the fulness of its malice. true, the exterior act may give rise to scandal, and from it may devolve upon us obligations of justice, the reparation of injury done; true, with the exterior complement the sin may be more grievous. but there cannot be several sins if there be one single uninterrupted act of the will. an evil thing is proposed to your mind; you enjoy the thought of doing it, knowing it to be wrong; you desire to do it and resolve to do it; you take the natural means of doing it; you succeed and consummate the evil--a long drawn out and well prepared deed, 'tis true, but only one sin. the injustices, the scandal, the sins you might commit incidentally, which do not pertain naturally to the deed, all these are another matter, and are other kinds of sins; but the act itself stands alone, complete and one. but these interior acts of sin, whether or not they have reference to external completion, must be sinful. the first stage is the suggestion of the imagination or simple seeing of the evil in the mind, which is not sinful; the next is the moving of the sensibility or the purely animal pleasure experienced, in which there is no evil, either; for we have no sure mastery over these faculties. from the imagination and sensibility the temptation passes before the will for consent. if consent is denied, there is no deadly malice or guilt, no matter how long the previous effects may have been endured. no thought is a sin unless it be fully consented to. chapter viii. capital sins. you can never cure a disease till you get at the seat or root of the evil. it will not do to attack the several manifestations that appear on the surface, the aches and pains and attendant disorders. you must attack the affected organ, cut out the root of the evil growth, and kill the obnoxious germ. there is no other permanent remedy; until this is done, all relief is but temporary. and if we desire to remove the distemper of sin, similarly it is necessary to seek out the root of all sin. we can lay our finger on it at once; it is inordinate self-love. ask yourself why you broke this or that commandment. it is because it forbade you a satisfaction that you coveted, a satisfaction that your self-love imperiously demanded; or it is because it prescribed an act that cost an effort, and you loved yourself too much to make that effort. examine every failing, little or great, and you will trace them back to the same source. if we thought more of god and less of ourselves we would never sin. the sinner lives for himself first, and for god afterwards. strange that such a sacred thing as love, the source of all good, may thus, by abuse, become the fountainhead of all evil! perhaps, if it were not so sacred and prolific of good, its excess would not be so unholy. but the higher you stand when you tumble, the greater the fall; so the better a thing is in itself, the more abominable is its abuse. love directed aright, towards god first, is the fulfilment of the law; love misdirected is the very destruction of all law. yet it is not wrong to love oneself; that is the first law of nature. one, and one only being, the maker, are we bound to love more than ourselves. the neighbor is to be loved as ourselves. and if our just interests conflict with his, if our rights and his are opposed to each other, there is no legitimate means but we may employ to obtain or secure what is rightly ours. the evil of self-love lies in its abuse and excess, in that it goes beyond the limits set by god and nature, that it puts unjustly our interests before god's and the neighbor's, and that to self it sacrifices them and all that pertains to them. self, the "ego," is the idol before which all must bow. self-love, on an evil day, in the garden of eden, wedded sin, satan himself officiating under the disguise of a serpent; and she gave birth to seven daughters like unto herself, who in turn became fruitful mothers of iniquity. haughty pride, first-born and queen among her sisters, is inordinate love of one's worth and excellence, talents and beauty; sordid avarice or covetousness is excessive love of riches; loathsome lust is the third, and loves carnal pleasures without regard for the law; fiery anger, a counterpart of pride, is love rejected but seeking blindly to remedy the loss; bestial gluttony worships the stomach; green-eyed envy is hate for wealth and happiness denied; finally sloth loves bodily ease and comfort to excess. the infamous brood! these parents of all iniquity are called the seven capital sins. they assume the leadership of evil in the world and are the seven arms of satan. as it becomes their dignity, these vices never walk alone or go unattended, and that is the desperate feature of their malice. each has a cortege of passions, a whole train of inferior minions, that accompany or follow. once entrance gained and a free hand given, there is no telling the result. once seated and secure, the passion seeks to satisfy itself; that is its business. certain means are required to this end, and these means can be procured only by sinning. obstacles often stand in the way and new sins furnish steps to vault over, or implements to batter them down. intricate and difficult conditions frequently arise as the result of self-indulgence, out of which there is no exit but by fresh sins. hence the long train of crimes led by one capital sin towards the goal of its satisfaction, and hence the havoc wrought by its untrammeled working in a human soul. this may seem exaggerated to some; others it may mislead as to the true nature of the capital sins, unless it be dearly put forth in what their malice consists. capital sins are not, in the first place, in themselves, sins; they are vices, passions, inclinations or tendencies to sin, and we know that a vice is not necessarily sinful. our first parents bequeathed to us as an inheritance these germs of misery and sin. we are all in a greater or lesser degree prone to excess and to desire unlawful pleasures. yet, for all that, we do not of necessity sin. we sin when we yield to these tendencies and do what they suggest. the simple proneness to evil, devoid of all wilful yielding is therefore not wrong. why? because we cannot help it; that is a good and sufficient reason. these passions may lie dormant in our nature without soliciting to evil; they may, at any moment, awake to action with or without provocation. the sight of an enemy or the thought of a wrong may stir up anger; pride may be aroused by flattery, applause or even compliments; the demon of lust may make its presence known and felt for a good reason, for a slight reason, or for no reason at all; gluttony shows its head at the sight of food or drink, etc. he who deliberately and without reason arouses a passion, and thus exposes himself imprudently to an assault of concupiscence, is grievously guilty; for it is to trifle with a powerful and dangerous enemy and it betokens indifference to the soul's salvation. suggestions, seductions, allurements follow upon the awakening of these passions. when the array of these forces comes in contact with the will, the struggle is on; it is called temptation. warfare is the natural state of man on earth. without it, the world here below would be a paradise, but life would be without merit. in this unprovoked and righteous battle with sin, the only evil to be apprehended is the danger of yielding. but far from being sinful, the greater the danger, the more meritorious the struggle. it matters not what we experience while fighting the enemy. imagination and sensation that solicit to yielding, anxiety of mind and discouragement, to all this there is no wrong attached, but merit. right or wrong depends on the outcome. every struggle ends in victory or defeat for one party and in temptation there is sin only in defeat. a single act of the will decides. it matters not how long the struggle lasts; if the will does not capitulate, there is no sin. this resistance demands plenty of energy, a soul inured to like combats and an ample provision of weapons of defense--faith, hatred of sin, love of god. prayer is essential. flight is the safest means, but is not always possible. humility and self-denial are an excellent, even necessary, preparation for assured victory. no man need expect to make himself proof against temptation. it is not a sign of weakness; or if so, it is a weakness common to all men. there is weakness only in defeat, and cowardice as well. the gallant and strong are they who fight manfully. manful resistance means victory, and victory makes one stronger and invincible, while defeat at every repetition places victory farther and farther beyond our reach. success requires more than strength, it requires wisdom, the wisdom to single out the particular passion that predominates in us, to study its artifices and by remote preparation to make ourselves secure against its assaults. the leader thus exposed and its power for evil reduced to a minimum, it will be comparatively easy to hold in check all other dependent passions. chapter ix. pride. excellence is a quality that raises a man above the common level and distinguishes him among his fellow-beings. the term is relative. the quality may exist in any degree or measure. 'tis only the few that excel eminently; but anyone may be said to excel who is, ever so little, superior to others, be they few or many. three kinds of advantages go to make up one's excellence. nature's gifts are talent, knowledge, health, strength, and beauty; fortune endows us with honor, wealth, authority; and virtue, piety, honesty are the blessings of grace. to the possession of one or several of these advantages excellence is attached. all good is made to be loved. all gifts directly or indirectly from god are good, and if excellence is the fruit of these gifts, it is lawful, reasonable, human to love it and them. but measure is to be observed in all things. virtue is righteously equidistant, while vice goes to extremes. it is not, therefore, attachment and affection for this excellence, but inordinate, unreasonable love that is damnable, and constitutes the vice of pride. god alone is excellent and all greatness is from him alone. and those who are born great, who acquire greatness, or who have greatness thrust upon them, alike owe their superiority to him. nor are these advantages and this preeminence due to our merits and deserts. everything that comes to us from god is purely gratuitous on his part, and undeserved on ours. since our very existence is the effect of a free act of his will, why should not, for a greater reason, all that is accidental to that existence be dependent on his free choice? finally, nothing of all this is ours or ever can become ours. our qualities are a pure loan confided to our care for a good and useful purpose, and will be reclaimed with interest. since the malice of our pride consists in the measure of affection we bestow upon our excellence, if we love it to the extent of adjudging it not a gift of god, but the fruit of our own better selves; or if we look upon it as the result of our worth, that is, due to our merits, we are guilty of nothing short of downright heresy, because we hold two doctrines contrary to faith. "what hast thou, that thou hast not received?" if a gift is due to us, it is no longer a gift. this extreme of pride is happily rare. it is directly opposed to god. it is the sin of lucifer. a lesser degree of pride is, while admitting ourselves beholden to god for whatever we possess and confessing his bounties to be undeserved, to consider the latter as becoming ours by right of possession, with liberty to make the most of them for our own personal ends. this is a false and sinful appreciation of god's gifts, but it respects his and all subordinate authority. if it never, in practice, fails in this submission, there is sin, because the plan of god, by which all things must be referred to him, is thwarted; but its malice is not considered grievous. pride, however, only too often fails in this, its tendency being to satisfy itself, which it cannot do within the bounds of authority. therefore it is that from being a venial, this species of pride becomes a mortal offense, because it leads almost infallibly to disobedience and rebellion. there is a pride, improperly so called, which is in accordance with all the rules of order, reason and honor. it is a sense of responsibility and dignity which every man owes to himself, and which is compatible with the most sincere humility. it is a regard, an esteem for oneself, too great to allow one to stoop to anything base or mean. it is submissive to authority, acknowledges shortcomings, respects others and expects to be respected in return. it can preside with dignity, and obey with docility. far from being a vice, it is a virtue and is only too rare in this world. it is nobility of soul which betrays itself in self-respect. here is the origin, progress and development of the vice. we first consider the good that is in us, and there is good in all of us, more or less. this consideration becomes first exaggerated; then one-sided by reason of our overlooking and ignoring imperfections and shortcomings. out of these reflections arises an apprehension of excellence or superiority greater than we really possess. from the mind this estimate passes to the heart which embraces it fondly, rejoices and exults. the conjoint acceptation of this false appreciation by the mind and heart is the first complete stage of pride--an overwrought esteem of self. the next move is to become self-sufficient, presumptuous. a spirit of enterprise asserts itself, wholly out of keeping with the means at hand. it is sometimes foolish, sometimes insane, reason being blinded by error. the vice then seeks to satisfy itself, craves for the esteem of others, admiration, flattery, applause, and glory. this is vanity, different from conceit only in this, that the former is based on something that is, or has been done, while the latter is based on nothing. vanity manifested in word is called boasting; in deed that is true, vain-glory; in deed without foundation of truth, hypocrisy. but this is not substantial enough for ambition, another form of pride. it covets exterior marks of appreciation, rank, honor, dignity, authority. it seeks to rise, by hook or crook, for the sole reason of showing off and displaying self. still growing apace, pride becomes indignant, irritated, angry if this due appreciation is not shown to its excellence; it despises others either for antipathy or inferiority. it believes its own judgment infallible and, if in the wrong, will never acknowledge a mistake or yield. finally the proud man becomes so full of self that obedience is beneath him, and he no longer respects authority of man or of god. here we have the sin of pride in all the plenitude of its malice. pride is often called an honorable vice, because its aspirations are lofty, because it supposes strength, and tends directly to elevate man, rather than to debase and degrade him, like the other vices. yet pride is compatible with every meanness. it lodges in the heart of the pauper as well as in that of the prince. there is nothing contemptible that it will not do to satisfy itself; and although its prime malice is to oppose god it has every quality to make it as hideous as satan himself. it goeth before a fall, but it does not cease to exist after the fall; and no matter how deep down in the mire of iniquity you search, you will find pride nethermost. other vices excite one's pity; pride makes us shudder. chapter x. covetousness. "what is a miser?" asked the teacher of her pupils, and the bright boy spoke up and answered: one who has a greed for gold. but he and all the class were embarrassed as to how this greed for gold should be qualified. the boy at the foot of the class came to the rescue, and shouted out: misery. less wise answers are made every day in our schools. misery is indeed the lot, if not the vice, of the miser. 'tis true that this is one of the few vices that arrive at permanent advantages, the others offering satisfaction that lasts but for a moment, and leaves nothing but bitterness behind. yet, the more the miser possesses the more insatiable his greed becomes, and the less his enjoyment, by reason of the redoubled efforts he makes to have and to hold. but the miser is not the only one infected with the sin of avarice. his is not an ordinary, but an extreme case. he is the incarnation of the evil. he believes in, hopes in, and loves gold above all things; he prays and sacrifices to it. gold is his god, and gold will be his reward, a miserable one. this degree of the vice is rare; or, at least, is rarely suffered to manifest itself to this extent; and although scarcely a man can be found to confess to this failing, because it is universally regarded as most loathsome and repulsive, still few there are who are not more or less slaves to cupidity. pride is the sin of the angels; lust is the sin of the brute, and avarice is the sin of man. scripture calls it the universal evil. we are more prone to inveigh against it, and accuse others of the vice than to admit it in ourselves. sometimes, it is "the pot calling the kettle black;" more often it is a clear case of "sour grapes." disdain for the dollars "that speak," "the mighty dollars," in abundance and in superabundance, is rarely genuine. there are, concerning the passion of covetousness, two notions as common as they are false. it is thought that this vice is peculiar to the rich, and is not to be met with among the poor. now, avarice does not necessarily suppose the possession of wealth, and does not consist in the possession, but in the inordinate desire, or greed for, or the lust of, riches. it may be, and is, difficult for one to possess much wealth without setting one's heart on it. but it is also true that this greed may possess one who has little or nothing. it may be found in unrestrained excess under the rags of the pauper and beggar. they who aspire to, or desire, riches with avidity are covetous whether they have much, little, or nothing. christ promised his kingdom to the poor in spirit, not to the poor in fact. spiritual poverty can associate with abundant wealth, just as the most depraved cupidity may exist in poverty. another prejudice, favorable to ourselves, is that only misers are covetous, because they love money for itself and deprive themselves of the necessaries of life to pile it up. but it is not necessary that the diagnosis reveal these alarming symptoms to be sure of having a real case of cupidity. they are covetous who strive after wealth with passion. various motives may arouse this passion, and although they may increase the malice, they do not alter the nature, of the vice. some covet wealth for the sake of possessing it; others, to procure pleasures or to satisfy different passions. avarice it continues to be, whatever the motive. not even prodigality, the lavish spending of riches, is a token of the absence of cupidity. rapacity may stand behind extravagance to keep the supply inexhausted. it is covetousness to place one's greatest happiness in the possession of wealth, or to consider its loss or privation the greatest of misfortunes; in other words, to over-rejoice in having and to over-grieve in not having. it is covetousness to be so disposed as to acquire riches unjustly rather than suffer poverty. it is covetousness to hold, or give begrudgingly, when charity presses her demands. there is, in these cases, a degree of malice that is ordinarily mortal, because the law of god and of nature is not respected. it is the nature of this vice to cause unhappiness which increases until it becomes positive wretchedness in the miser. anxiety of mind is followed by hardening of the heart; then injustice in desire and in fact; blinding of the conscience, ending in a general stultification of man before the god mammon. all desires of riches and comfort are not, therefore, avarice. one may aspire to, and seek wealth without avidity. this ambition is a laudable one, for it does not exaggerate the value of the world's goods, would not resort to injustice, and has not the characteristic tenacity of covetousness. there is order in this desire for plenty. it is the great mover of activity in life; it is good because it is natural, and honorable because of its motives. chapter xi. lust. pride resides principally in the mind, and thence sways over the entire man; avarice proceeds from the heart and affections; lust has its seat in the flesh. by pride man prevaricating imitates the angel of whose nature he partakes; avarice is proper to man as being a composite of angelic and animal natures; lust is characteristic of the brute pure and simple. this trinity of concupiscence is in direct opposition to the trinity of god--to the father, whose authority pride would destroy; to the son, whose voluntary stripping of the divinity and the poverty of whose life avarice scorns and contemns to the holy ghost, to whom lust is opposed as the flesh is opposed to the spirit. this is the mighty trio that takes possession of the whole being of man, controls his superior and inferior appetites, and wars on the whole being on god. and lust is the most ignoble of the three. strictly speaking, it is not here question of the commandments. they prescribe or forbid acts of sin--thoughts, words or deeds; lust is a passion, a vice or inclination, a concupiscence. it is not an act. it does not become a sin while it remains in this state of pure inclination. it is inbred in our nature as children of adam. lust is an appetite like any other appetite, conformable to our human nature, and can be satisfied lawfully within the order established by god and nature. but it is vitiated by the corruption of fallen flesh. this vitiated appetite craves for unlawful and forbidden satisfactions and pleasures, such as are not in keeping with the plans of the creator. thus the vitiated appetite becomes inordinate. at one and the same time, it becomes inordinate and sinful, the passion being gratified unduly by a positive act of sin. this depraved inclination, as everyone knows, may be in us, without being of us, that is, without any guilt being imputed to us. this occurs in the event of a violent assault of passion, in which our will has no part, and which consequently does not materialize, exteriorly or interiorly, in a human act forbidden by the laws of morality. nor is there a transgression, even when gratified, if reason and faith control the inclination and direct it along the lines laid down by the divine and natural laws. outside of this, all manners, shapes and forms of lust are grievous sins, for the law admits no levity of matter. no further investigation, at the present time, into the essence of this vice is necessary. there is an abominable theory familiar to, and held by the dissolute, who, not content with spreading the contagion of their souls, aim at poisoning the very wells of morality. they reason somewhat after this fashion: human nature is everywhere the same. he knows others who best knows himself. a mere glance at themselves reveals the fact that they are chained fast to earth by their vile appetites, and that to break these chains is a task too heavy for them to undertake. the fact is overlooked that these bonds are of their own creation, and that every end is beyond reach of him who refuses to take the means to that end. incapable, too, of conceiving a sphere of morality superior to that in which they move, and without further investigation of facts to make their induction good, they conclude that all men are like themselves; that open profession of morality is unadulterated hypocrisy, that a pure man is a living lie. a more wholesale impeachment of human veracity and a more brutal indignity offered to human nature could scarcely be imagined. reason never argued thus; the heart has reasons which the reason cannot comprehend. truth to be loved needs only to be seen. adversely, it is the case with falsehood. it is habitual with this passion to hide its hideousness under the disguise of love, and thus this most sacred and hallowed name is prostituted to signify that which is most vile and loathsome. depravity? no. goodness of heart, generosity of affections, the very quintessence of good nature! but god is love, and love that does not see the image of the creator in its object is not love, but the brutal instinct. there are some who do not go so far as to identify vice with virtue, but content themselves with esteeming that, since passion is so strong, virtue so difficult and god so merciful to his frail creatures, to yield a trifle is less a sin than a confession of native weakness. this "weakness" runs a whole gamut of euphemisms; imperfections, foibles, frailties, mistakes, miseries, accidents, indiscretions--anything to gloss it over, anything but what it is. at this rate, you could efface the whole decalogue and at one fell stroke destroy all laws, human and divine. what is yielding to any passion but weakness? very few sins are sins of pure malice. if one is weak through one's own fault, and chooses to remain so rather than take the necessary means of acquiring strength, that one is responsible in full for the weakness. the weak and naughty in this matter are plain, ordinary sinners of a very sable dye. theirs is not the view that god took of things when he purged the earth with water and destroyed the five cities with fire. from genesis to the apocalypse you will not find a weakness against which he inveighs so strongly, and chastises so severely. he forbids and condemns every deliberate yielding, every voluntary step taken over the threshold of moral cleanness in thought, word, desire or action. the gravity and malice of sin is not to be measured by the fancies, opinions, theories or attitude of men. the first and only rule is the will of god which is sufficiently clear to anyone who scans the sacred pages whereon it is manifested. and the reason of his uncompromising hostility to voluptuousness can be found in the intrinsic malice of the evil. in man, as god created him, the soul is superior to the body, and of its nature should rule and govern. lust inverts this order, and the flesh lords it over the spirit. the image of god is defiled, dragged in the mire of filth and corruption, and robbed of its spiritual nature, as far as the thing is possible. it becomes corporal, carnal, animal. and thus the superior soul with its sublime faculties of intelligence and will is made to obey under the tyranny of emancipated flesh, and like the brute seeks only for things carnal. it is impossible to say to what this vice will not lead, or to enumerate the crimes that follow in its wake. the first and most natural consequence is to create a distaste and aversion for prayer, piety, devotion, religion and god; and this is god's most terrible curse on the vice, for it puts beyond reach of the unfortunate sinner the only remedy that could save him. but if god's justice is so rigorous toward the wanton, his mercy is never so great as toward those who need it most, who desire it and ask it. the most touching episodes in the gospels are those in which christ opened wide the arms of his charity to sinful but repentant creatures, and lifted them out of their iniquity. that same charity and power to shrive, uplift and strengthen resides to-day, in all its plenitude, in the church which is the continuation of christ. where there is a will there is a way. the will is the sinner's; the way is in prayer and the sacraments. chapter xii. anger. never say, when you are angry, that you are mad; it makes you appear much worse than you really are, for only dogs get mad. the rabies in a human being is a most unnatural and ignoble thing. yet common parlance likens anger to it. it is safe to say that no one has yet been born that never yielded, more or less, to the sway of this passion. everybody gets angry. the child sulks, the little girl calls names and makes faces, the boy fights and throws stones; the maiden waxes huffy, spiteful, and won't speak, and the irascible male fumes, rages, and says and does things that become him not in the least. even pious folks have their tiffs and tilts. all flesh is frail, and anger has an easy time of it; not because this passion is so powerful, but because it is insidious and passes for a harmless little thing in its ordinary disguise. and yet all wrath does not manifest itself thus exteriorly. still waters are deepest. an imperturbable countenance may mask a very inferno of wrath and hatred. to hear us talk, there is no fault in all this, the greater part of the time. it is a soothing tonic to our conscience after a fit of rage, to lay all the blame on a defect of character or a naturally bad temper. if fault there is, it is anybody's but our own. we recall the fact that patience is a virtue that has its limits, and mention things that we solemnly aver would try the enduring powers of the beatified on their thrones in heaven. some, at a loss otherwise to account for it, protest that a particular devil got hold of them and made resistance impossible. but it was not a devil at all. it was a little volcano, or better, a little powder magazine hidden away somewhere in the heart. the imp pride had its head out looking for a caress, when it received a rebuff instead. hastily disappearing within, it spat fire right and left, and the explosion followed, proportionate in energy and destructive power to the quantity of pent-up self-love that served as a charge. once the mine is fired, in the confusion and disorder that follow, vengeance stalks forth in quest of the miscreant that did the wrong. anger is the result of hurt pride, of injured self-love. it is a violent and inordinate commotion of the soul that seeks to wreak vengeance for an injury done. the causes that arouse anger vary infinitely in reasonableness, and there are all degrees of intensity. the malice of anger consists wholly in the measure of our deliberate yielding to its promptings. sin, here as elsewhere, supposes an act of the will, a crazy man is not responsible for his deeds; nor is anyone, for more than what he does knowingly. the first movement or emotion of irascibility is usually exempt of all fault; by this is meant the play of the passion on the sensitive part of our nature, the sharp, sudden fit that is not foreseen and is not within our control, the first effects of the rising wrath, such as the rush of blood, the trouble and disorder of the affections, surexcitation and solicitation to revenge. a person used to repelling these assaults may be taken unawares and carried away to a certain extent in the first storm of passion, in this there is nothing sinful. but the same faultlessness could not be ascribed to him who exercises no restraining power over his failing, and by yielding habitually fosters it and must shoulder the responsibility of every excess. we incur the burden of god's wrath when, through our fault, negligence or a positive act of the will, we suffer this passion to steal away our reason, blind us to the value of our actions, and make us deaf to all considerations. no motive can justify such ignoble weakness that would lower us to the level of the madman. he dishonors his maker who throws the reins to his animal instincts and allows them to gallop ahead with him, in a mad career of vengeance and destruction. many do not go to this extent of fury, but give vent to their spleen in a more cool and calculating manner. their temper, for being less fiery, is more bitter. they are choleric rather than bellicose. they do not fly to acts but to desires and well-laid plans of revenge. if the desire or deed lead to a violation of justice or charity, to scandal or any notable evil consequence, the sin is clearly mortal; the more so, if this inward brooding be of long duration, as it betrays a more deep-seated malice. are there any motives capable of justifying these outbursts of passion? none at all, if our ire has these two features of unreasonableness and vindictiveness. this is evil. no motive, however good, can justify an evil end. if any cause were plausible, it would be a grave injury, malicious and unjust. but not even this is sufficient, for we are forbidden to return evil for evil. it may cause us grief and pain, but should not incite us to anger, hatred and revenge. what poor excuses would therefore be accidental or slight injuries, just penalties for our wrongdoings and imaginary grievances! the less excusable is our wrath, the more serious is our delinquency. our guilt is double-dyed when the deed and the cause of the deed are both alike unreasonable. yet there is a kind of anger that is righteous. we speak of the wrath of god, and in god there can be no sin. christ himself was angry at the sight of the vendors in the temple. holy writ says: be ye angry and sin not. but this passion, which is the fruit of zeal, has three features which make it impossible to confound it with the other. it is always kept within the bounds of a wise moderation and under the empire of reason; it knows not the spirit of revenge; and it has behind it the best of motives, namely, zeal for the glory of god. it is aroused at the sight of excesses, injustices, scandals, frauds; it seeks to destroy sin, and to correct the sinner. it is often not only a privilege, but a duty. it supposes, naturally, judgment, prudence, and discretion, and excludes all selfish motives. zeal in an inferior and more common degree is called indignation, and is directed against all things unworthy, low and deserving of contempt. it respects persons, but loathes whatever of sin or vice that is in, or comes from, unworthy beings. it is a virtue, and is the effect of a high sense of respectability. impatience is not anger, but a feeling somewhat akin to it, provoked by untoward events and inevitable happenings, such as the weather, accidents, etc. it is void of all spirit of revenge. peevishness is chronic impatience, due to a disordered nervous system and requires the services of a competent physician, being a physical, not moral, distemper. anger is a weakness and betrays many other weaknesses; that is why sensible people never allow this passion to sway them. it is the last argument of a lost cause: "you are angry, therefore you are wrong." the great misery of it is that hot-tempered people consider their mouths to be safety-valves, while the truth is that the wagging tongue generates bile faster than the open mouth can give exit to it. st. liguori presented an irate scold with a bottle, the contents to be taken by the mouthful and held for fifteen minutes, each time her lord and master returned home in his cups. she used it with surprising results and went back for more. the saint told her to go to the well and draw inexhaustibly until cured. for all others, the remedy is to be found in a meditation of these words of the "our father:" "forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us." the almighty will take us at our word. chapter xiii. gluttony. self-preservation is nature's first law, and the first and essential means of preserving one's existence is the taking of food and drink sufficient to nourish the body, sustain its strength and repair the forces thereof weakened by labor, fatigue or illness. god, as well as nature, obliges us to care for our bodily health, in order that the spirit within may work out on earth the end of its being. being purely animal, this necessity is not the noblest and most elevating characteristic of our nature. nor is it, in its imperious and unrelenting requirements, far removed from a species of tyranny. a kind providence, however, by lending taste, savor and delectability to our aliments, makes us find pleasure in what otherwise would be repugnant and insufferably monotonous. an appetite is a good and excellent thing. to eat and drink with relish and satisfaction is a sign of good health, one of the precious boons of nature. and the tendency to satisfy this appetite, far from being sinful, is wholly in keeping with the divine plan, and is necessary for a fulsome benefiting of the nourishment we take. on the other hand, the digestive organism of the body is such a delicate and finely adjusted piece of mechanism that any excess is liable to clog its workings and put it out of order. it is made for sufficiency alone. nature never intended man to be a glutton; and she seldom fails to retaliate and avenge excesses by pain, disease and death. this fact coupled with the grossness of the vice of gluttony makes it happily rare, at least in its most repulsive form; for, be it said, it is here question of the excessive use of ordinary food and drink, and not of intoxicants to which latter form of gluttony we shall pay our respects later. the rich are more liable than the poor to sin by gluttony; but gluttony is fatal to longevity, and they who enjoy best life, desire to live longest. 'tis true, physicians claim that a large portion of diseases are due to over-eating and over-drinking; but it must be admitted that this is through ignorance rather than malice. so that this passion can hardly be said to be commonly yielded to, at least to the extent of grievous offending. naturally, the degree of excess in eating and drinking is to be measured according to age, temperament, condition of life, etc. the term gluttony is relative. what would be a sin for one person might be permitted as lawful to another. one man might starve on what would constitute a sufficiency for more than one. then again, not only the quantity, but the quality, time and manner, enter for something in determining just where excess begins. it is difficult therefore, and it is impossible, to lay down a general rule that will fit all cases. it is evident, however, that he is mortally guilty who is so far buried in the flesh as to make eating and drinking the sole end of life, who makes a god of his stomach. nor is it necessary to mention certain unmentionable excesses such as were practiced by the degenerate romans towards the fall of the empire. it would likewise be a grievous sin of gluttony to put the satisfaction of one's appetite before the law of the church and violate wantonly the precepts of fasting and abstinence. and are there no sins of gluttony besides these? yes, and three rules may be laid down, the application of which to each particular case will reveal the malice of the individual. overwrought attachment to satisfactions of the palate, betrayed by constant thinking of viands and pleasures of the table, and by avidity in taking nourishment, betokens a dangerous, if not a positively sinful, degree of sensuality. then, to continue eating or drinking after the appetite is appeased, is in itself an excess, and mortal sin may be committed even without going to the last extreme. lastly, it is easy to yield inordinately to this passion by attaching undue importance to the quality of our victuals, seeking after delicacies that do not become our rank, and catering to an over-refined palate. the evil of all this consists in that we seem to eat and drink, if we do not in fact eat and drink, to satisfy our sensuality first, and to nourish our bodies afterwards; and this is contrary to the law of nature. we seemed to insist from the beginning that this is not a very dangerous or common practice. yet there must be a hidden and especial malice in it. else why is fasting and abstinence--two correctives of gluttony--so much in honor and so universally recommended and commanded in the church? counting three weeks in advent, seven in lent and three ember days four times a year, we have, without mentioning fifty-two fridays, thirteen weeks or one-fourth of the year by order devoted to a practical warfare on gluttony. no other vice receives the honor of such systematic and uncompromising resistance. the enemy must be worthy. as a matter of fact, there lies under all this a great moral principle of christian philosophy. this philosophy sought out and found the cause and seat of all evil to be in the flesh. the forces of sin reside in the flesh while the powers of righteousness--faith, reason and will-- are in the spirit. the real issue of life is between these forces contending for supremacy. the spirit should rule; that is the order of our being. but the flesh revolts, and by ensnaring the will endeavors to dominate over the spirit. now it stands to reason that the only way for the superior part to succeed is to weaken the inferior part. just as prayer and the grace of the sacraments fortify the soul, so do food and drink nourish the animal; and if the latter is cared for to the detriment of the soul, it waxes strong and formidable and becomes a menace. the only resource for the soul is then to cut off the supply that benefits the flesh, and strengthen herself thereby. she acts like a wise engineer who keeps the explosive and dangerous force of his locomotive within the limit by reducing the quantity of food he throws into its stomach. thus the passions being weakened become docile, and are easily held under sway by the power that is destined to govern, and sin is thus rendered morally impossible. it is gluttony that furnishes the passion of the flesh with fuel by feeding the animal too well; and herein lies the great danger and malice of this vice. the evil of a slight excess may not be great in itself; but that evil is great in its consequences. little over-indulgences imperceptibly, but none the less surely, strengthen the flesh against the spirit, and when the temptation comes the spirit will be overcome. the ruse of the saints was to starve the enemy. chapter xiv. drink. intemperance is the immoderate use of anything, good or bad; here the word is used to imply an excessive use of alcoholic beverages, which excess, when it reaches the dignity of a habit or vice, makes a man a drunkard. a drunkard who indulges in "highballs" and other beverages of fancy price and name, is euphemistically styled a "tippler;" his brother, a poor devil who swallows vile concoctions or red "pizen" is called a plain, ordinary "soak." whatever name we give to such gluttons, the evil in both is the same; 'tis the evil of gluttony. this vice differs from gluttony proper in that its object is strong drink, while the latter is an abuse of food and nourishment necessary, in regulated quantity, for the sustenance of the body. but alcohol is not necessary to sustain life as an habitual beverage; it may stimulate, but it does not sustain at all. it has its legitimate uses, like strychnine and other poison and drugs; but being a poison, it must be detrimental to living tissues, when taken frequently, and cannot have been intended by the creator as a life-giving nourishment. its habitual use is therefore not a necessity. its abuse has therefore a more far-fetched malice. but its use is not sinful, any more than the use of any drug, for alcohol, or liquor, is a creature of god and is made for good purposes. its use is not evil, whether it does little good, or no good at all. the fact of its being unnecessary does not make it a forbidden fruit. the habit of stimulants, like the habit of tobacco, while it has no title to be called a good habit, cannot be qualified as an intrinsically bad habit; it may be tolerated as long as it is kept within the bounds of sane reason and does not give rise to evil consequences in self or others. apart, therefore, from the danger of abuse--a real and fatal danger for many, especially for the young--and from the evil effects that may follow even a moderate use, the habit is like another; a temperate man is not, to any appreciable degree, less righteous than a moderate smoker. the man who can use and not abuse is just as moral as his brother who does not use lest he abuse. he must, however, be said to be less virtuous than another who abstains rather than run the risk of being even a remote occasion of sin unto the weak. the intrinsic malice therefore of this habit consists in the disorder of excess, which is called intoxication. intoxication may exist in different degrees and stages; it is the state of a man who loses, to any extent, control over his reasoning faculties through the effects of alcohol. there is evil and sin the moment the brain is affected; when reason totters and falls from its throne in the soul, then the crime is consummated. when a man says and does and thinks what in his sober senses he would not say, do, or think, that man is drunk, and there is mortal sin on his soul. it is not an easy matter to define just when intoxication properly begins and sobriety ends; every man must do that for himself. but he should consider himself well on the road to guilt when, being aware that the fumes of liquor were fast beclouding his mind, he took another glass that was certain to still further obscure his reason and paralyze his will. much has been said and written about the grossness of this vice, its baneful effects and consequences, to which it were useless here to refer. suffice it to say there is nothing that besots a man more completely and lowers him more ignobly to the level of the brute. he falls below, for the most stupid of brutes, the ass, knows when it has enough; and the drunkard does not. it requires small wit indeed to understand that there is no sin in the catalogue of crime that a person in this state is not capable of committing. he will do things the very brute would blush to do; and then he will say it was one of the devil's jokes. the effects on individuals, families and generations, born and unborn, cannot be exaggerated; and the drunkard is a tempter of god and the curse of society. temperance is a moderate use of strong drink; teetotalism is absolute abstention therefrom. a man may be temperate without being a teetotaler; all teetotalers are temperate, at least as far as alcohol is concerned, although they are sometimes, some of them, accused of using temperance as a cloak for much intemperance of speech. if this be true--and there are cranks in all causes--then temperance is itself the greatest sufferer. exaggeration is a mistake; it repels right-thinking men and never served any purpose. we believe it has done the cause of teetotalism a world of harm. but it is poor logic that will identify with so holy a cause the rabid rantings of a few irresponsible fools. the cause of total abstinence is a holy and righteous cause. it takes its stand against one of the greatest evils, moral and social, of the day. it seeks to redeem the fallen, and to save the young and inexperienced. its means are organization and the mighty weapon of good example. it attracts those who need it and those who do not need it; the former, to save them; the latter, to help save others. and there is no banner under which catholic youth could more honorably be enrolled than the banner of total abstinence. the man who condemns or decries such a cause either does not know what he is attacking or his mouthings are not worth the attention of those who esteem honesty and hate hypocrisy. it is not necessary to be able to practice virtue in order to esteem its worth. and it does not make a fellow appear any better even to himself to condemn a cause that condemns his faults. saloon-keepers are engaged in an enterprise which in itself is lawful; the same can be said of those who buy and sell poisons and dynamite and fire-arms. the nature of his merchandise differentiates his business from all other kinds of business, and his responsibilities are of the heaviest. it may, and often does, happen that this business is criminal; and in this matter the civil law may be silent, but the moral law is not. for many a one such a place is an occasion of sin, often a near occasion. it is not comforting to kneel in prayer to god with the thought in one's mind that one is helping many to damnation, and that the curses of drunkards' wives and mothers and children are being piled upon one's head. how far the average liquor seller is guilty, god only knows; but a man with a deep concern for his soul's salvation, it seems would not like to take the risk. chapter xv. envy. when envy catches a victim she places an evil eye in his mind, gives him a cud to chew, and then sends him gadding. if the mind's eye feeds upon one's own excellence for one's own satisfaction, that is pride; if it feeds upon the neighbor's good for one's own displeasure and unhappiness, that is envy. it is not alone this displeasure that makes envy, but the reason of this displeasure, that is, what the evil eye discerns in the neighbor's excellence, namely, a detriment, an obstacle to one's own success. it is not necessary that another's prosperity really work injury to our own; it is sufficient that the evil eye, through its discolored vision, perceive a prejudice therein. "ah!" says envy, "he is happy, prosperous, esteemed! my chances are spoiled. i am overshadowed. i am nothing, he is everything. i am nothing because he is everything." remember that competition, emulation, rivalry are not necessarily envy. i dread to see my rival succeed. i am pained if he does succeed. but the cause of this annoyance and vexation is less his superiority than my inferiority. i regret my failure more than his success. there is no evil eye. 'tis the sting of defeat that causes me pain. if i regret this or that man's elevation because i fear he will abuse his power; if i become indignant at the success of an unworthy person; i am not envious, because this superiority of another does not appear to me to be a prejudice to my standing. whatever sin there is, there is no sin of envy. we may safely assume that a person who would be saddened by the success of another, would not fail to rejoice at that other's misfortune. this is a grievous offense against charity, but it is not, properly speaking, envy, for envy is always sad; it is rather an effect of envy, a natural product thereof and a form of hatred. this unnatural view of things which we qualify as the evil eye, is not a sin until it reaches the dignity of a sober judgment, for only then does it become a human act. envy like pride, anger, and the other vicious inclinations, may and often does crop out in our nature, momentarily, without our incurring guilt, if it is checked before it receives the acquiescence of the will, it is void of wrong, and only serves to remind us that we have a rich fund of malice in our nature capable of an abundant yield of iniquity. after being born in the mind, envy passes to the feelings where it matures and furnishes that supply of misery which characterizes the vice. another is happy at our expense; the sensation is a painful one, yet it has a diabolical fascination, and we fondle and caress it. we brood over our affliction to the embittering and souring of our souls. we swallow and regurgitate over and over again our dissatisfaction, and are aptly said to chew the cud of bitterness. out of such soil as this naturally springs a rank growth of uncharity and injustice in thought and desire. the mind and heart of envy are untrammeled by all bonds of moral law. it may think all evil of a rival and wish him all evil. he becomes an enemy, and finally he is hated. envy points directly to hatred. lastly, envy is "a gadding passion, it walketh the street and does not keep home." it were better to say that it "talketh." there is nothing like language to relieve one's feelings; it is quieting and soothing, and envy has strong feelings. hence, evil insinuations, detraction, slander, etc. justice becomes an empty word and the seamless robe of charity is torn to shreds. as an agent of destruction envy easily holds the palm, for it commands the two strong passions of pride and anger, and they do its bidding. people scarcely ever acknowledge themselves envious. it is such a base, unreasonable and unnatural vice. if we cannot rejoice with the neighbor, why be pained at his felicity? and what an insanity it is to imagine that in this wide world one cannot be happy without prejudicing the happiness of another! what a severe shock it would be to the discontented, the morosely sour, the cynic, and other human owls, to be told that they are victims of this green-eyed monster. they would confess to calumny, and hatred; to envy, never! envy can only exist where there is abundant pride. it is a form of pride, a shape which it frequently assumes, because under this disguise it can penetrate everywhere without being as much as noticed. and it is so seldom detected that wherever it gains entrance it can hope to remain indefinitely. jealousy and envy are often confounded; yet they differ in that the latter looks on what is another's, while the former concerns itself with what is in one's own possession. i envy what is not mine; i am jealous of what is my own. jealousy has a saddening influence upon us, by reason of a fear, more or less well grounded, that what we have will be taken from us. we foresee an injustice and resent it. kept within the limits of sane reason, jealousy is not wrong, for it is founded on the right we have to what is ours. it is in our nature to cling to what belongs to us, to regret being deprived of it, and to guard ourselves against injustice. but when this fear is without cause, visionary, unreasonable, jealousy partakes of the nature and malice of envy. it is even more malignant a passion, and leads to greater disorders and crimes, for while envy is based on nothing at all, there is here a true foundation in the right of possession, and a motive in right to repel injustice. chapter xvi. sloth. not the least, if the last, of capital sins is sloth, and it is very properly placed; for who ever saw the sluggard or victim of this passion anywhere but after all others, last! sloth, of course, is a horror of difficulty, an aversion for labor, pain and effort, which must be traced to a great love of one's comfort and ease. either the lazy fellow does nothing at all--and this is sloth; or he abstains from doing what he should do while otherwise busily occupied--and this too, is sloth; or he does it poorly, negligently, half-heartedly--and this again is sloth. nature imposes upon us the law of labor. he who shirks in whole or in part is slothful. here, in the moral realm, we refer properly to the difficulty we find in the service of god, in fulfiling our obligations as christians and catholics, in avoiding evil and doing good; in a word, to the discharge of our spiritual duties. but then all human obligations have a spiritual side, by the fact of their being obligations. thus, labor is not, like attendance at mass, a spiritual necessity; but to provide for those who are dependent upon us is a moral obligation and to shirk it would be a sin of sloth. not that it is necessary, if we would avoid sin, to hate repose naturally and experience no difficulty or repugnance in working out our soul's salvation. sloth is inbred in our nature. there is no one but would rather avoid than meet difficulties. the service of god is laborious and painful. the kingdom of god suffers violence. it has always been true since the time of our ancestor adam, that vice is easy, and virtue difficult; that the flesh is weak, and repugnance to effort, natural because of the burden of the flesh. so that, in this general case, sloth is an obstacle to overcome rather than a fault of the will. we may abhor exertion, feel the laziest of mortals; if we effect our purpose in spite of all that, we can do no sin. sometimes sloth takes on an acute form known as aridity or barrenness in all things that pertain to god. the most virtuous souls are not always exempt from this. it is a dislike, a distaste that amounts almost to a disgust for prayer especially, a repugnance that threatens to overwhelm the soul. that is simply an absence of sensible fervor, a state of affliction and probation that is as pleasing to god as it is painful to us. after all where would the merit be in the service of god, if there were no difficulty? the type of the spiritually indolent is that fixture known as the half-baked catholic--some people call him "a poor stick"--who is too lazy to meet his obligations with his maker. he says no prayers, because he can't; he lies abed sunday mornings and lets the others go to mass--he is too tired and needs rest; the effort necessary to prepare for and to go to confession is quite beyond him. in fine, religion is altogether too exacting, requires too much of a man. and, as if to remove all doubt as to the purely spiritual character of this inactivity, our friend can be seen, without a complaint, struggling every day to earn the dollar. he will not grumble about rising at five to go fishing or cycling. he will, after his hard day's work, sit till twelve at the theatre or dance till two in the morning. he will spend his energy in any direction save in that which leads to god. others expect virtue to be as easy as it is beautiful. religion should conduce to one's comfort. they like incense, but not the smell of brimstone. they would remain forever content on tabor, but the dark frown of calvary is insupportable. beautiful churches, artistic music, eloquent preaching on interesting topics, that is their idea of religion; that is what they intend religion--their religion--shall be, and they proceed to cut out whatever jars their finer feelings. this is fashionable, but it is not christian: to do anything for god--if it is easy; and if it is hard,--well, god does not expect so much of us. you will see at a glance that this sort of a thing is fatal to the sense of god in the soul; it has for its first, direct and immediate effect to weaken little by little the faith until it finally kills it altogether. sloth is a microbe. it creeps into the soul, sucks in its substance and causes a spiritual consumption. this is neither an acute nor a violent malady, but it consumes the patient, dries him up, wears him out, till life goes out like a lamp without oil. chapter xvii. what we believe. our first duty to god, and the first obligation imposed upon us by the first commandment is faith, or belief in god--we must know him. belief is solely a manner of knowing. it is one way of apprehending, or getting possession of, a truth. there are other ways of acquiring knowledge; by the senses, for instance, seeing, hearing, etc., and by our intelligence or reason. when truth comes to us through the senses, it is called experience; if the reason presents it, it is called science; if we use the faculty of the soul known as faith, it is belief. you will observe that belief, experience and science have one and the same object, namely, truth. these differ only in the manner of apprehending truth. belief relies on the testimony of others; experience, on the testimony of the senses; science, on that of the reason. what i believe, i get from others; what i experience or understand, i owe to my individual self. i neither believe nor understand that hartford exists--i see it. i neither understand nor see that rome exists--i believe it. i neither see nor believe that two parallel lines will never meet--i reason it out, i understand it. now it is beside the question here to object that belief, or what we believe, may or may not be true. neither is all that we see, nor all that our reason produces, true. human experience and human reason, like all things human, may err. here we simply remark that truth is the object of our belief, as it is the object of our experience and of understanding. we shall later see that if human belief may err, faith or divine belief cannot mislead us, cannot be false. neither is it in order here to contend that belief, of its very nature, is something uncertain, that it is synonymous of opinion; or if it supposes a judgment, that judgment is "formidolose," liable at any moment to be changed or contradicted. the testimony of the senses and of reason does not always carry certain conviction. we may or may not be satisfied with the evidence of human belief. as for the divine, or faith, it is certain, or it is not at all; and who would not be satisfied with the guarantee offered by the word of god! and the truths we believe are those revealed by god, received by us through a double agency, the written and the oral word, known as scripture and tradition. scripture is contained in the two testaments; tradition is found in the bosom, the life of the church of christ, in the constant and universal teachings of that church. the scripture being a dead letter cannot explain or interpret itself. yet, since it is applied to the ever-varying lives of men, it needs an explanation and an interpretation; it is practically of no value without it. and in order that the truth thus presented be accepted by men, it is necessary, of prime necessity, that it have the guarantee of infallibility. this infallibility the church of christ possesses, else his mission were a failure. this infallibility is to control the vagaries of tradition, for tradition, of its very nature, tends to exaggeration, as we find in the legends of ancient peoples. exaggerated, they destroy themselves, but in the bosom of god's church these truths forever retain their character unchanged and unchangeable. if you accept the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as revealed by god and delivered to man by the infallible church from the bible and tradition, you have what is called ecclesiastical, catholic or true faith. there is no other true faith. it is even an open question whether there is any faith at all outside of this; for outside the church there is no reasonable foundation for faith, and our faith must be reasonable. however, granting that such a thing can be, the faith of him who takes and leaves off the divine word is called divine faith. he is supposed to ignore invincibly a portion of revealed truth, but he accepts what he knows. if he knew something and refused to embrace it, he would have no faith at all. the same is true of one who having once believed, believes no longer. he impeaches the veracity of god, and therefore cannot further rely on his word. lastly, it matters not at all what kind of truths we receive from god. truth is truth always and ever. we may not be able to comprehend what is revealed to us, and little the wonder. our intelligence is not infinite, and god's is. many things that men tell us we believe without understanding; god deserves our trust more than men. our incapacity for understanding all that faith teaches us proves one thing: that there are limits to our powers, which may be surprising to some, but is nevertheless true. chapter xviii. why we believe. belief, we have said, is the acceptance of a truth from another. we do not always accept what others present to us as truth, for the good reason that we may have serious doubts as to whether they speak the truth or not. it is for us to decide the question of our informant's intellectual and moral trustworthiness. if we do believe him, it is because we consider his veracity to be beyond question. the foundation of our belief is therefore the veracity of him whose word we take. they tell me that lincoln was assassinated. personally, i know nothing about it. but i do know that they who speak of it could know, did know, and could not lead us all astray on this point. i accept their evidence; i believe on their word. it is on the testimony of god's word that we believe in matters that pertain to faith. the idea we have of god is that he is infinitely perfect, that he is all-wise and all-good. he cannot, therefore, under pain of destroying his very existence, be deceived or deceive us. when, therefore, he speaks, he speaks the truth and nothing but the truth. it would be a very stultification of our reason to refuse to believe him, once we admit his existence. now, it is not necessary for us to inquire into the things he reveals, or to endeavor to discover the why, whence and wherefore. it is truth, we are certain of it; what more do we need! it may be a satisfaction to see and understand these truths, just as it is to solve a problem two or three different ways. but it is not essential, for the result is always the same--truth. but suppose, with my senses and my reason, i come to a result at variance with the first, suppose the testimony of god's word and that of my personal observations conflict, what then? there is an error somewhere. either god errs or my faculties play me false. which should have the preference of my assent? the question is answered as soon as it is put. i can conceive an erring man, but i cannot conceive a false god. nothing human is infallible; god alone is proof against all error. this would not be my first offense against truth. "yes, all this is evident. i shall and do believe everything that god deigns to reveal, because he says it, whether or not i see or understand it. but the difficulty with me is how to know that god did speak, what he said, what he meant. my difficulty is practical, not theoretical." and by the same token you have shifted the question from "why we believe" to "whence we believe;" you no longer seek the authority of your faith, but its genesis. you believe what god says, because he says it; you believe he did say it because--the church says it. you are no longer dealing with the truth itself, but with the messenger that brings the truth to be believed. the message of the church is: these are god's words. as for what these words stand for, you are not to trust her, but him. the foundation of divine belief is one thing; the motives of credibility are another. we should not confound these two things, if we would have a clear notion of what faith is, and discover the numerous counterfeits that are being palmed off nowadays on a world that desires a convenient, rather than a genuine article. the received manner of belief is first to examine the truths proposed as coming from god, measure them with the rule of individual reason, of expediency, feeling, fancy, and thus to decide upon their merits. if this proposition suits, it is accepted. if that other is found wanting, it is forthwith rejected. and then it is in order to set out and prove them to be or not to be the word of god, according to their suitability or non-suitability. one would naturally imagine, as reason and common sense certainly suggest, that one's first duty would be to convince oneself that god did communicate these truths; and if so, then to accept them without further dally or comment. there is nothing to be done, once god reveals, but to receive his revelation. outside the church, this procedure is not always followed, because of the rationalistic tendencies of latter-day protestantism. it is a glaring fact that many do not accept all that god says because he says, but because it meets the requirements of their condition, feelings or fancy. they lay down the principle that a truth, to be a truth, must be understood by the human intelligence. this is paramount to asserting that god cannot know more than men--blasphemy on the face of it. thus the divine rock-bed of faith is torn away, and a human basis substituted. faith itself is destroyed in the process. it is, therefore, important, before examining whence comes our faith, to remember why we believe, and not to forget it. this much gained, and for all time, we can go farther; without it, all advance is impossible. chapter xix. whence our belief: reason. my faith is the most reasonable thing in the world, and it must needs be such. the almighty gave me intelligence to direct my life. when he speaks he reveals himself to me as to an intelligent being: and he expects that i receive his word intelligently. were i to abdicate my reason in the acceptance of his truths, i would do my maker as great an injury as myself. all the rest of creation offers him an homage of pure life, of instinct or feeling; man alone can, and must, offer a higher, nobler and more acceptable homage--that of reason. my faith is reasonable, and this is the account my reason gives of my faith: i can accept as true, without in the least comprehending, and far from dishonoring my reason, with a positive and becoming dignity,-- i can accept!--but i must accept--whatever is confided to me by an infallible authority, an authority that can neither deceive nor be deceived. there is nothing supernatural about this statement. that which is perfect cannot be subject to error, for error is evil and perfection excludes evil. if god exists he is perfect. allow one imperfection to enter into your notion of god, and you destroy that notion. when, therefore, god speaks he is an infallible authority. this is the philosophy of common sense. now i know that god has spoken. the existence of that historical personage known as jesus of nazareth is more firmly established than that of alexander or caesar. four books relate a part of his sayings and doings; and i have infinitely less reason to question their authenticity than i have to doubt the authenticity of virgil or shakespeare. no book ever written has been subjected to such a searching, probing test of malevolent criticism, at all times but especially of late years in germany and france. great men, scholars, geniuses have devoted their lives to the impossible task of explaining the gospels away, with the evident result that the position of the latter remains a thousandfold stronger. unless i reject all human testimony, and reason forbids, i must accept them as genuine, at least in substance. these four books relate how jesus healed miraculously the sick, raised the dead to life, led the life of the purest, most honest and sagest of men, claimed to be god, and proved it by rising from the dead himself. that this man is divine, reason can admit without being unreasonable, and must admit to be reasonable; and revelation has nothing to do with the matter. a glaring statement among all others, one that is reiterated and insisted upon, is that all men should share in the fruit of his life; ana for this purpose he founded a college of apostles which he called his church, to teach all that he said and did, to all men, for all time. the success of his life and mission depends upon the continuance of his work. why did he act thus? i do not know. are there reasons for this economy of salvation? there certainly are, else it would not have been established. but we are not seeking after reasons; we are gathering facts upon which to build an argument, and these facts we take from the authentic life of christ. now we give the almighty credit for wisdom in all his plans, the wisdom of providing his agencies with the means to reach the end they are destined to attain. to commission a church to teach all men without authority, is to condemn it to utter nothingness from the very beginning. to expect men to accept the truths he revealed, and such truths! without a guarantee against error in the infallibility of the teacher, is to be ignorant of human nature. and since at no time must it cease to teach, it must be indefectible. being true, it must be one; the work of god, it must be holy; being provided for all creatures, it must be catholic or universal; and being the same as christ founded upon his apostles, it must be apostolic. if it is not all these things together, it is not the teacher sent by god to instruct and direct men. no one who seeks with intelligence, single-mindedness and a pure heart, will fail to find these attributes and marks of the true church of christ. whether, after finding them, one will make an act of faith, is another question. but that he can give his assent with the full approval of his reason is absolutely certain. once he does so, he has no further use for his reason. he enters the church, an edifice illumined by the superior light of revelation and faith. he can leave reason, like a lantern, at the door. therein he will learn many other truths that he never could have found out with reason alone, truths superior, but not contrary, to reason. these truths he can never repudiate without sinning against reason, first, because reason brought him to this pass where he must believe without the immediate help of reason. one of the first things we shall hear from the church speaking on her own authority is that these writings, the four relations of christ's life, are inspired. however a person could discover and prove this truth to himself is a mystery that will never be solved. we cannot assume it; it must be proven. unless it be proven, the faith based on this assumption is not reasonable; and proven it can never be, unless we take it from an authority whose infallibility is proven. that is why we say that it is doubtful if non-catholic faith is faith at all, because faith must be reasonable; and faith that is based on an assumption is to say the least doubtfully reasonable. chapter xx. whence our belief: grace and will. to believe is to assent to a truth on the authority of god's word. we must find that the truth proposed is really guaranteed by the authority of god. in this process of mental research, the mind must be satisfied, and the truth found to be in consonance with the dictates of right reason, or at least, not contrary thereto. but the fact that we can securely give our assent to this truth does not make us believe. something more than reason enters into an act of faith. faith is not something natural, purely human, beginning and ending in the brain, and a product thereof. this is human belief, not divine, and is consequently not faith. we believe that faith is, of itself, as far beyond the native powers of a human being as the sense of feeling is beyond the power of a stone, or intelligence, the faculty of comprehension, is beyond the power of an animal. in other words, it is supernatural, above the natural forces, and requires the power of god to give it existence. "no man can come to me, unless the father who has sent me, draw him." some have faith, others have it not. where did you get your faith? you were not born with it, as you were with the natural, though dormant faculties of speech, reason, and free will. you received it through baptism. you are a product of nature; therefore nature should limit your existence. but faith aspires to, and obtains, an end that is not natural but supernatural. it consequently must itself be supernatural, and cannot be acquired without divine assistance. unless god revealed, you could not know the truths of religion. unless he established a court of final appeal in his church, you could not be sure what he did reveal or what he meant to say. because of the peculiar character of these truths and the nature the certitude we possess, many would not believe all, if god's grace were not there to help them, even though one could and would believe, there no divine belief or faith proper until the soul lives the faculty from him who alone can give it. the reason why many do not believe is not because god's grace is wanting nor because their minds cannot be satisfied, not because they cannot, but because they will not. faith is a gift of god, but not that alone; it is a conviction, but not that alone. it is a firm assent of the will. we are free to believe or not to believe. "as one may be convinced and not act according to his conviction, so may one be convinced and not believe according to his conviction. the arguments of religion do not compel anyone to believe, just as the arguments for good conduct do not compel anyone to obey. obedience is the consequence of willing to obey, and faith is the consequence of willing to believe." i am not obliged to receive as true any religious dogma, as i am forced to accept the proposition that two and two are four. i believe because i choose to believe. my faith is a submission of the will. the authority of god is not binding on me physically, for men have refused and still do refuse to submit to his authority and the authority he communicated to his church. and i know that i, too, can refuse and perhaps more than once have been tempted to refuse, my assent to truths that interfered too painfully with my interests and passions. besides, faith is meritorious, and in order to merit one must do something difficult and be free to act. the difficulty is to believe what we cannot understand, through pride of intelligence, and to bring that stiff domineering faculty to recognize a superior. the difficulty is to bend the will to the acceptance of truths, and consequent obligations that gall our self-love and the flesh'. the believer must have humility and self-denial. the grace of god follows these virtues into a soul, and then your act of faith is complete. herein we discover the great wisdom of god who sets the price of faith, and of salvation that depends on it, not on the mind, but on the will; not on the intelligence alone, but on the heart. to no man is grace denied. every man has the will to grasp what is good. but though to all he gives a will, all have not the same degree of intelligence; he does not endow them equally in this respect. how then could he make intelligence the first principle of salvation and of faith? god searches the heart, not the mind. a modicum of wit is guaranteed to all to know that they can safely believe. be one ever so unlettered and ignorant, and dull, faith and heaven are to him as accessible as to the sage, savant and the genius. for all, the way is the same. chapter xxi. how we believe. faith is the edifice of a christian life. it is, of itself, a mere shell, so to speak, for unless good works sustain and adorn it, it will crumble, and the almighty in his day will reduce it to ashes; faith without works is of no avail. the corner stone of this edifice is the authority of the word of god, while his gratuitous grace, our intelligence and will furnish the material for building. now, there are three features of that spiritual construction that deserve a moment's consideration. first, the edifice is solid; our faith must be firm. no hesitation, no wavering, no deliberate doubting, no suspicion, no take-and-leave. what we believe comes from god, and we have the infallible authority of the church for it, and of that we must be certain. that certainly must not for a moment falter, and the moment it does falter, there is no telling but that the whole edifice so laboriously raised will tumble down upon the guilty shoulders of the imprudent doubter. and of reasons for hesitating and disbelieving there is absolutely none, once we have made the venture of faith and believe sincerely and reasonably. no human power can in reason impugn revealed truths for they are impervious to human intelligence. one book may not at the same time be three books; but can one divine nature be at one and the same time three divine persons? until we learn what divinity and personality are we can affirm nothing on the authority of pure reason. if we cannot assert, how can we deny? and if we know nothing about it, how can we do either? the question is not how is it, but if it is. while it stands thus, and thus ever it must stand, no objection or doubt born of human mind can influence our belief. nothing but pride of mind and corruption of heart can disturb it. if you have a difficulty, well, it is a difficulty, and nothing more. a difficulty does not destroy a thesis that is solidly founded. once a truth is clearly established, not all the difficulties in the world can make it an untruth. a difficulty as to the truth revealed argues an imperfect intelligence; it is idle to complain that we are finite. a difficulty regarding the infallible church should not make her less infallible in our mind, it simply demands a clearing away-theological difficulties should not surprise a novice in theological matters; they are only misunderstandings that militate less against the church than against the erroneous notions we have of her. to allow such difficulties to undermine faith is like overthrowing a solid wall with a soap-bubble. common sense demands that nothing but clearly demonstrated falsity should make us change firm convictions, and such demonstration can never be made against our faith. not from difficulties, properly speaking, but from our incapacity for understanding what we accept as true, results a certain obscurity, which is another feature of faith. believing is not seeing. such strange things we do believe! who can unravel the mysteries of religion? moral certitude is sufficient to direct one's life, to make our acts human and moral and is all we can expect in this world where nothing is perfect. but because the consequences of faith are so far-reaching, we would believe nothing short of absolute, metaphysical certitude. but this is impossible. hence the mist, the vague dimness that surrounds faith, baffling every effort to penetrate it; and within, a sense of rarefied perception that disquiets and torments unless humility born of common sense be there to soothe and set us at rest. moral truths are not geometric theorems and multiplication tables, and it is not necessary that they should be. of course, if, as in science so in faith, reason were everything, our position would hardly be tenable, for then there should be no vagueness but clear vision. but the will enters for something in our act of faith. if everything we believe were as luminous as "two and two are four," a special act of the will would be utterly uncalled for. we must be able, free to dissent, and this is the reason of the obscurity of our faith. it goes without saying that such belief is meritorious. christ himself said that to be saved it is necessary to believe, and no man is saved but through his own merit. faith is, therefore, gratuitous on his part and meritorious on ours. it is in reality a good work that proceeds from the will, under the dictates of right reason, with the assistance of divine grace. chapter xxii. faith and error. intolerance is a harsh term. it is stern, rigid, brutal, almost. it makes no compromise, combats a outrance and exacts blind and absolute obedience. among individuals tolerance should prevail, man, should be liberal with man, the law of charity demands it. in regard to principles, there must and shall eternally be antagonism between truth and error, justice demands it. it is a case of self-preservation; one destroys the other. political truth can never tolerate treason preached or practised; neither can religious truth tolerate unbelief and heresy preached or practised. now our faith is based on truth, the church is the custodian of faith, and the church, on the platform of religious truth, is absolutely uncompromising and intolerant, just as the state is in regard to treason. she cannot admit error, she cannot approve error; to do so would be suicidal. she cannot lend the approval of her presence, nay even of her silence, to error. she stands aloof from heresy, must always see in it an enemy, condemns it and cannot help condemning it, for she stands for truth, pure and unalloyed truth, which error pollutes and outrages. call this what you will, but it is the attitude of honesty first, and of necessity afterwards. "he who is liberal with what belongs to him is generous, he who undertakes to be generous with what does not belong to him is dishonest." our faith is not founded on an act or agreement of men, but on the revelation of god. no human agency can change or modify it. neither church nor pope can be liberal with the faith of which they are the custodians. their sole duty is to guard and protect it as a precious deposit for the salvation of men. this is the stand all governments take when there is question of political truth. and whatever lack of generosity or broadmindedness there be, however contrary to the spirit of this free age it may seem, it is nevertheless the attitude of god himself who hates error, for it is evil, who pursues it with his wrath through time and through eternity. how can a custodian of divine truth act otherwise? even in human affairs, can one admit that two and three are seven? we sometimes hear it said that this intolerance takes from catholics the right to think. this is true in the same sense that penitentiaries, or the dread of them, deprive citizens of the right to act. everybody, outside of sleeping hours and with his thinking machine in good order, thinks. perhaps if there were a little more of it, there would be more solid convictions and more practical faith. holy writ has it somewhere that the whole world is given over to vice and sin because there is no one who thinks. but you have not and never had the right to think as you please, inside or outside the church. this means the right to form false judgments, to draw conclusions contrary to fact. this is not a right, it is a defect, a disease. thus to act is not the normal function of the brain. it is no more the nature of the mind to generate falsehoods than it is the nature of a sewing machine to cut hair. both were made for different things. he therefore who disobeys the law that governs his mind prostitutes that faculty to error. but suppose, being a catholic, i cannot see things in that true light, what then? in such a case, either you persist, in the matter of your faith, in being guided by the smoky lamp of your reason alone, or you will be guided by the authority of god's appointed church. in the first alternative, your place is not in the church, for you exclude yourself by not living up to the conditions of her membership. you cannot deny but that she has the right to determine those conditions. if you choose the latter, then correct yourself. it is human to err, but it is stupidity to persist in error and refuse to be enlightened. if you cannot see for yourself, common sense demands that you get another to see for you. you are not supposed to know the alpha and omega of theological science, but you are bound to possess a satisfactory knowledge in order that your faith be reasonable. has no one a right to differ from the church? yes, those who err unconsciously, who can do so conscientiously, that is, those who have no suspicion of their being in error. these the heavenly father will look after and bring safe to himself, for their error is material and not formal. he loves them but he hates their errors. so does the church abominate the false doctrines that prevail in the world outside her fold, yet at the same time she has naught but compassion and pity and prayers for those deluded ones who spread and receive those errors. to her the individual is sacred, but the heresy is damnable. thus we may mingle with our fellow citizens in business and in pleasure, socially and politically, but religiously--never. our charity we can offer in its fullest measure, but charity that lends itself to error, loses its sacred character and becomes the handmaid of evil, for error is evil. chapter xxiii. the consistent believer. the intolerance of the church towards error, the natural position of one who is the custodian of truth, her only reasonable attitude, makes her forbid her children to read, or listen to, heretical controversy, or to endeavor to discover religious truth by examining both sides of the question. this places the catholic in a position whereby he must stand aloof from all manner of doctrinal teaching other than that delivered by his church through her accredited ministers. and whatever outsiders may think of the correctness of his belief and religious principles, they cannot have two opinions as to the logic and consistency of this stand he takes. they may hurl at him all the choice epithets they choose for being a slave to superstition and erroneous creeds; but they must give him credit for being consistent in his belief; and consistency in religious matters is too rare a commodity these days to be made light of. the reason of this stand of his is that, for him, there can be no two sides to a question which for him is settled; for him, there is no seeking after the truth: he possesses it in its fulness, as far as god and religion are concerned. his church gives him all there is to be had; all else is counterfeit. and if he believes, as he should and does believe, that revealed truth comes, and can come, only by way of external authority, and not by way of private judgment and investigation, he must refuse to be liberal in the sense of reading all sorts of protestant controversial literature and listening to all kinds of heretical sermons. if he does not this, he is false to his principles; he contradicts himself by accepting and not accepting an infallible church; he knocks his religious props from under himself and stands-- nowhere. the attitude of the catholic, therefore, is logical and necessary. holding to catholic principles how can he do otherwise? how can he consistently seek after truth when he is convinced that he holds it? who else can teach him religious truth when he believes that an infallible church gives him god's word and interprets it in the true and only sense? a protestant may not assume this attitude or impose it upon those under his charge. if he does so, he is out of harmony with his principles and denies the basic rule of his belief. a protestant believes in no infallible authority; he is an authority unto himself, which authority he does not claim to be infallible, if he is sober and sane. he is after truth; and whatever he finds, and wherever he finds it, he subjects it to his own private judgment. he is free to accept or reject, as he pleases. he is not, cannot be, absolutely certain that what he holds is true; he thinks it is. he may discover to-day that yesterday's truths are not truths at all. we are not here examining the soundness of this doctrine; but it does follow therefrom, sound or unsound, that he may consistently go where he likes to hear religious doctrine exposed and explained, he may listen to whomever has religious information to impart. he not only may do it, but he is consistent only when he does. it is his duty to seek after truth, to read and listen to controversial books and sermons. if therefore a non-catholic sincerely believes in private judgment, how can he consistently act like a catholic who stands on a platform diametrically opposed to his, against which platform it is the very essence of his religion to protest? how can he refuse to hear catholic preaching and teaching, any more than baptist, methodist and episcopalian doctrines? he has no right to do so, unless he knows all the catholic church teaches, which case may be safely put down as one in ten million. he may become a catholic, or lose all the faith he has. that is one of the risks he has to take, being a protestant. if he is faithful to his own principles and understands the catholic point of view, he must not be surprised if his catholic friends do not imitate his so-called liberality; they have motives which he has not. if he is honest, he will not urge or even expect them to attend the services of his particular belief. and a catholic who thinks that because a protestant friend can accompany him to catholic services, he too should return the compliment and accompany his friend to protestant worship, has a faith that needs immediate toning up to the standard of catholicity; he is in ignorance of the first principles of his religion and belief. a catholic philosopher resumes this whole matter briefly, and clearly in two syllogisms, as follows: (i.) major. he who believes in an infallible teacher of revelation cannot consistently listen to any fallible teacher with a view of getting more correct information than his infallible teacher gives him. to do so would be absurd, for it would be to believe and at the same time not believe in the infallible teacher. minor. the catholic believes in an infallible teacher of revelation. conclusion. therefore, the catholic cannot listen to any fallible teacher with a view of getting more correct information about revealed truth than his church gives him. to do so would be to stultify himself. (ii.) major. he who believes in a fallible teacher--private judgment or fallible church--is free, nay bound, to listen to any teacher who comes along professing to have information to impart, for at no time can he be certain that the findings of his own fallible judgment or church are correct. each newcomer may be able to give him further light that may cause him to change his mind. minor. the protestant believes in such fallible teacher--his private judgment or church. conclusion. therefore, the protestant is free to hear, and in perfect harmony with his principles, to accept the teaching of any one who approaches him for the purpose of instructing him. he is free to hear with a clear conscience, and let his children hear, catholic teaching, for the church claiming infallibility is at its worst as good as his private judgment is at best, namely, fallible. religious variations are so numerous nowadays that most people care little what another thinks or believes. all they ask is that they may be able to know at any time where he stands; and they insist, as right reason imperiously demands, that, in all things, he remain true to his principles, whatever they be. honest men respect sincerity and consistency everywhere; they have nothing but contempt for those who stand, now on one foot, now on the other, who have one code for theory and another for practice, who shift their grounds as often as convenience suggests. the catholic should bear this well in mind. there can be no compromise with principles of truth; to sacrifice them for the sake of convenience is as despicable before man as it is offensive to god. chapter xxiv. unbelief. an atheist in principle is one who denies the existence of god and consequently of all revealed truth. how, in practice, a man endowed with reason and a conscience can do this, is one of the unexplained mysteries of life. christian philosophers refuse to admit that an atheist can exist in the flesh. they claim that his denial is fathered by his desire and wish, that at most he only doubts, and while professing atheism, he is simply an agnostic. an agnostic does not know whether god exists or not--and cares less. he does not affirm, neither does he deny. all arguments for and against are either insufficient or equally plausible, and they fail to lodge conviction in his mind of minds. elevated upon this pedestal of wisdom, he pretends to dismiss all further consideration of the first cause. but he does no such thing, for he lives as though god did not exist. why not live as though he did exist! from a rational point of view, he is a bigger fool than his atheistic brother, for if certainty is impossible, prudence suggests that the surer course be taken. on one hand, there is all to gain; on the other, all to lose. the choice he makes smacks of convenience rather than of logic or common sense. no one may be accused of genuine, or as we call it--formal--heresy, unless he persistently refuses to believe all the truths by god revealed. heresy supposes error, culpable error, stubborn and pertinacious error. a person may hold error in good faith, and be disposed as to relinquish it on being convinced of the truth. to all exterior appearances, he may differ in nothing from a formal heretic, and he passes for a heretic. in fact, and before god, he belongs to the church, to the soul of the church; he will be saved if in spite of his unconscious error he lives well. he is known as a material heretic. an infidel is an unbaptized person, whose faith, even if he does believe in god, is not supernatural, but purely natural. he is an infidel whether he is found in darkest africa or in the midst of this christian commonwealth, and in this latter place there are more infidels than most people imagine. a decadent protestantism rejects the necessity of baptism, thereby ceasing to be christian, and in its trail infidelity thrives and spreads, disguised, 'tis true, but nevertheless genuine infidelity. it is baptism that makes faith possible, for faith is a gift of god. an apostate is one who, having once believed, ceases to believe. all heretics and infidels are not apostates, although they may be in themselves or in their ancestors. one may apostatize to heresy by rejecting the church, or to infidelity by rejecting all revelation; a protestant may thus become an apostate from faith as well as a catholic. this going back on the almighty--for that is what apostasy is,--is, of all misfortunes the worst that can befall man. there may be excuses, mitigating circumstances, for our greatest sins, but here it is useless to seek for any. god gives faith. it is lost only through our own fault. god abandons them that abandon him. apostasy is the most patent case of spiritual suicide, and the apostate carries branded on his forehead the mark of reprobation. a miracle may save him, but nothing short of a miracle can do it, and who has a right to expect it? god is good, but god is also just. it is not necessary to pose as an apostate before the public. one may be a renegade at heart without betraying himself, by refusing his inner assent to a dogma of faith, by wilfully doubting and allowing such doubts to grow upon him and form convictions. people sometimes say things that would brand them as apostates if they meant what they said. this or that one, in the midst of an orgy of sin, or after long practical irreligion, in order to strangle remorse that arises at an inopportune moment, may seem to form a judgment of apostasy. this is treading on exceedingly thin glass. but it is not always properly defection from faith. apostasy kills faith as surely as a knife plunged into the heart kills life. a schismatic does not directly err in matters of faith, but rejects the discipline of the church and refuses to submit to her authority. he believes all that is taught, but puts himself without the pale of the church by his insubordination. schism is a grievous sin, but does not necessarily destroy faith. the source of all this unbelief is, of course, in the proud mind and sensual heart of man. it takes form exteriorly in an interminable series of "isms" that have the merit of appealing to the weaknesses of man. they all mean the same thing in the end, and are only forms of paganism. rationalism and materialism are the most frequently used terms. one stands on reason alone, the other, on matter, and both have declared war to the knife on the supernatural. they tell us that these are new brooms destined to sweep clean the universe, new lamps intended to dissipate the clouds of ignorance and superstition and to purify with their light the atmosphere of the world. but, truth to tell, these brooms have been stirring up dust from the gutters of passion and sin, and these lamps have been offending men's nostrils by their smoky stench ever since man knew himself. and they shall continue to do service in the same cause as long as human nature remains what it is. but christ did not bring his faith on earth to be destroyed by the lilliputian efforts of man. chapter xxv. how faith may be lost. it is part of our belief that no man can lose his faith without mortal sin. the conscious rejection of all or any religious truth once embraced and forming a part of christian belief, or the deliberate questioning of a single article thereof, is a sin, a sin against god's light and god's grace. it is a deliberate turning away from god. the moral culpability of such an act is great in the extreme, while its consequences cannot be weighed or measured by any human norm or rule. no faith was ever wrecked in a day; it takes time to come to such a pass; it is by easy stages of infidelity, by a slow process of half-denials, a constant fostering of habits of ignorance, that one undermines, little by little, one's spiritual constitution. taking advantage of this state of debility, the microbe of unbelief creeps in, eats its way to the soul and finally sucks out the very vitals of faith. nor is this growth of evil an unconscious one; and there lies the malice and guilt. ignorant pride, neglect of prayer and religious worship, disorders, etc., these are evils the culprit knows of and wills. he cannot help feeling the ravages being wrought in his soul; he cannot help knowing that these are deadly perils to his treasure of faith. he complacently allows them to run their course; and he wakes up one fine morning to find his faith gone, lost, dead--and a chasm yawning between him and his god that only a miracle can bridge over. we mentioned ignorance: this it is that attacks the underpinning of faith, its rational basis, by which it is made intelligent and reasonable, without which there can be no faith. ignorance is, of course, a relative term; there are different degrees and different kinds. an ignorant man is not an unlettered or uncultured one, but one who does not know what his religion means, what he believes or is supposed to believe, and has no reason to give for his belief. he may know a great many other things, may be chock full of worldly learning, but if he ignores these matters that pertain to the soul, we shall label him an ignoramus for the elementary truths of human knowledge are, always have been, and always shall be, the solution of the problems of the why, the whence and the whither of life here below. great learning frequently goes hand in hand with dense ignorance. the sunday-school child knows better than the atheist philosopher the answer to these important questions. there is more wisdom in the first page of the catechism than in all the learned books of sceptics and infidels. knowledge, of course, a thorough knowledge of all theological science will not make faith, any more than wheels will make a cart. but a certain knowledge is essential, and its absence is fatal to faith. there are the simple ignorant who have forgotten their catechism and leave the church before the instruction, for fear they might learn something; who never read anything pertaining to religion, who would be ashamed to be detected with a religious book or paper in their hands. then, there are the learned ignorant, such as our public schools turn out in great numbers each year; who, either are above mere religious knowledge-seeking and disdain all that smacks of church and faith; or, knowing little or nothing at all, imagine they possess a world of theological lore and know all that is knowable. these latter are the more to be pitied, their ignorance doubling back upon itself, as it were. when a man does not realize his own ignorance, his case is well nigh hopeless. if learning cannot give faith, neither can it alone preserve it. learned men, pillars of the church have fallen away. pride, you will say. yes, of course, pride is the cause of all evil. but we have all our share of it. if it works less havoc in some than in others, that is because pride is or is not kept within bounds. it is necessarily fatal to faith only when it is not controlled by prayer and the helps of practical religion. god alone can preserve our faith. he will do it only at our solicitation. if, therefore, some have not succeeded in keeping the demon of pride under restraint, it is because they refused to consider their faith a pure gift of god that cannot be safely guarded without god's grace; or they forgot that god's grace is assured to no man who does not pray. the man who thinks he is all-sufficient unto himself in matters of religion, as in all other matters, is in danger of being brought to a sense of his own nothingness in a manner not calculated to be agreeable. no man who practised humble prayer ever lost hi& faith, or ever can; for to him grace is assured. and since faith is nothing if not practical, since it is a habit, it follows that irreligion, neglect to practise what we believe will destroy that habit. people who neglect their duty often complain that they have no taste for religion, cannot get interested, find no consolation therein. this justifies further neglect. they make a pretence to seek the cause. the cause is lack of faith; the fires of god's grace are burning low in their souls. they will soon go out unless they are furnished with fuel in the shape of good, solid, practical religion. that is their only salvation. ignorance, supplemented by lack of prayer and practice, goes a long way in the destruction of faith in any soul, for two essentials are deficient. disorder, too, is responsible for the loss of much faith. luther and henry might have retained their faith in spite of their pride, but they were lewd, and avaricious; and there is small indulgence for such within the church. not but that we are all human, and sinners are the objects of the church's greatest solicitude; but within her pale no man, be he king or genius, can sit down and feast his passions and expect her to wink at it and call it by another name than its own. the law of god and of the church is a thorn in the flesh of the vicious man. the authority of the church is a sword of damocles held perpetually over his head--until it is removed. many a one denies god in a moment of sin in order to take the sting of remorse out of it. one gets tired of the importunities of religion that tell us not to sin, to confess if we do sin. when you meet a pervert who, with a glib tongue, protests that his conscience drove him from the church, that his enslaved intelligence needed deliverance, search him and you will find a skeleton in his closet; and if you do not find it, it is there just the same. a renegade priest some years ago, held forth before a gaping audience, at great length, on the reasons of his leaving the church. a farmer sitting on the last bench listened patiently to his profound argumentation. when the lecturer was in the middle of his twelfthly, the other arose and shouted to him across the hall: "cut it short, and say you wanted a wife." the heart has reasons which the reason does not understand. not always, but frequently, ignorance, neglect and vice come to this. the young, the weak and the proud have to guard themselves against these dangers, hey work slowly, imperceptibly, but surely. two things increase the peril and tend to precipitate matters; reading and companionship. the ignorant are often anxious to know the other side, when they do not know their own. the consequence is that they will not understand fully the question; and if they do, will not be able to resolve the difficulty. they are handicapped by their ignorance and can only make a mess out of it. the result is that they are caught by sophistries like a fly in a web. the company of those who believe differently, or not at all, is also pernicious to unenlightened and weak faith. the example in itself is potent for evil. the catholic is usually not a persona grata as a catholic but for some quality he possesses. consequently, he must hide his religion under the bushel for fear of offending. then a sneer, a gibe, a taunt are unpleasant things, and will be avoided even at the price of what at other times would look like being ashamed of one's faith. if ignorant, he will be silent; if he has not prayed, he will be weak; if vicious, he will be predisposed to fall. if we would guard the precious deposit of faith secure against any possible emergency, we must enlighten it, we must strengthen it, we must live up to it. chapter xxvi. hope. the first commandment bids us hope as well as believe in god. our trust and confidence in his mercy to give us eternal life and the means to obtain it,--this is our hope, founded on our belief that god is what he reveals himself to us, able and willing to do by us as we would have him do. hope is the flower of our faith; faith is the substance of the things we hope for. to desire and to hope are not one and the same thing. we may long for what is impossible of obtaining, while hope always supposes this possibility, better, a probability, nay, even a moral certitude. this expectation remains hope until it comes to the fruition of the things hoped for. the desire of general happiness is anchored in the human heart, deep down in the very essence of our being. we all desire to be happy, we may be free in many things; in this we are not free. we must have happiness, greater than the present, happiness of one kind or another, real or apparent. we may have different notions of this happiness; we desire it according to our notions. life itself is one, long, painful, unsatisfied desire. when that desire is centered in god and the soul's salvation, it incontinently becomes hope, for then we have real beatitude before us, and all may obtain it. it can be true hope only when founded on faith. not only is hope easy, natural, necessary, but it is essential to life. it is the mainspring of all activity. it keeps all things moving, and without it life would not be worth living. if men did not think they could get what they are striving after, they would sit down, fold their arms, let the world move, but they wouldn't. especially is christian hope absolutely necessary for the leading of a christian life, and no man would take upon himself that burden, if he did not confidently expect a crown of glory beyond, sufficient to repay him for all the things endured here below for conscience's sake. hope is a star that beckons us on to renewed effort, a vision of the goal that animates and invigorates us; it is also a soothing balm to the wounds we receive in the struggle. to be without this hope is the lowest level to which man may descend. st. paul uses the term "men without hope" as the most stinging reproach he could inflict upon the dissolute pagans. to have abandoned hope is a terrible misfortune--despair. this must not be confounded with an involuntary perturbation, a mere instinctive dread, a phantasmagoric illusion that involves no part of the will. it is not even an excessive fear that goes by the name of pusillanimity. it is a cool judgment like that of cain: "my sin is too great that i should expect forgiveness." he who despairs, loses sight of god's mercy and sees only his stern, rigorous justice. after hatred of god, this is perhaps the greatest injury man can do to his master, who is love. there has always been more of mercy than of justice in his dealings with men. we might say of him that he is all mercy in this world, to be all justice in the next. therefore while there is life, there is hope. the next abomination is to hope, but to place our supreme happiness in that which should not be the object of our hope. men live for pleasures, riches, and honors, as though these things were worthy of our highest aspirations, as though they could satisfy the unappeasable appetite of man for happiness. greater folly than this can no man be guilty of. he takes the dross for the pure gold, the phantom for the reality. few men theoretically belong to this class; practically it has the vast majority. the presumptuous are those who hope to obtain the prize and do nothing to deserve it. he who would hope to fly without wings, to walk without feet, to live without air or food would be less a fool than he who hopes to save his soul without fulfiling the conditions laid down by him who made us. there is no wages without service, no reward without merit, no crown without a cross. this fellow's mistake is to bank too much on god's mercy, leaving his justice out of the bargain altogether. yet god is one as well as the other, and both equally. the offense to god consists in making him a being without any backbone, so to speak, a soft, incapable judge, whose pity degenerates into weakness. and certainly it is a serious offense. no, hope should be sensible and reasonable. it must keep the middle between two extremes. the measure of our hope should reasonably be the measure of our efforts, for he who wishes the end wishes the means. of course god will make due allowances for our frailties, but that is his business, not ours; and we have no right to say just how far that mercy will go. even though we lead the lives of saints, we shall stand in need of much mercy. prudence tells us to do all things as though it all depended upon us alone; then god will make up for the deficiencies. chapter xxvii. love of god. once upon a time, there lived people who pretended that nothing had existence outside the mind, that objects were merely fictions of the brain; thus, when they gave a name to those objects, it was like sticking a label in the air where they seemed to be. the world is not without folks who have similar ideas concerning charity, to whom it is a name without substance. scarcely a christian but will pretend that he has the virtue of charity, and of course one must take his word for it, and leave his actions and conduct out of all consideration. with him, to love god is to say you do, whether you really do or not. this is charity of the "sounding brass and tinkling cymbal" assortment. to be honest about it, charity or love of god is nothing more or less, practically, than freedom from, and avoidance of, mortal sin. "if any one say, 'i love god' and hates his brother, (or otherwise sins) he is a liar." strong language, but straight to the point! the state of grace is the first, fundamental, and essential condition to the existence of charity. charity and mortal sin are two things irreducibly opposed, uncompromisingly antagonistic, eternally inimical. there is no charity where there is sin; there is no sin where there is charity. that is why charity is called the fulfilment of the law. on the other hand, it sometimes happens that humble folks of the world, striving against temptation and sin to serve the master, imagine they can hardly succeed. true, they rarely offend and to no great extent of malice, but they envy the lot of others more advantageously situated, they think, nearer by talent and state to perfection, basking in the sunshine of god's love. talent, position, much exterior activity, much supposed goodness, are, in their eyes, titles to the kingdom, and infallible signs of charity. and then they foolishly deplore their own state as far removed from that perfection, because forsooth their minds are uncultured, their faith simple, and their time taken up with the drudgery of life. they forget that not this gift or that work or anything else is necessary. one thing alone is necessary, and that is practical love of god. nothing counts without it. and the sage over his books, the wonder-worker at his task, the apostle in his wanderings and labors, the very martyr on the rack is no more sure of having charity than the most humble man, woman or child in the lowest walks of life who loves god too much to offend him. it is not necessary to have the tongues of men and angels, or faith that will move mountains, or the fortitude of martyrs; charity expressed in our lives and deeds rates higher than these. a thing is good in the eyes of its maker if it accomplishes that for which it was made. a watch that does not tell time, a knife that does not cut, and a soul that does not love god are three utterly useless things. and why? because they are no good for what they were made. the watch exists solely to tell the hour, the blade to cut and the soul to love and serve its maker. failing in this, there is no more reason for their being. their utility ceasing, they themselves cease to exist to a certain extent, for a thing is really no longer what it was, when it fails to execute that for which it came into being. charity, in a word, amounts to this, that we love god, but to the extent of not offending him. anything that falls short of such affection is something other than charity, no matter how many tags and labels it may wear. if i beheld a brute strike down an aged parent, i would not for a moment think that affection was behind that blow; and i could not conceive how there could be a spark of filial love in that son's heart until he had atoned for his crime. now love is not one thing when directed towards god, and another where man is concerned. the great hypocrisy of life consists in this that people make an outward showing of loving god, because they know full well that it is their first duty; yet, for all that, they do not a whit mend their ways, and to sin costs them nothing. they varnish it over with an appearance of honesty and decency, and fair-minded men take them for what they appear to be, and should be, and they pass for such. these watches are pretty to look upon, beautiful, magnificent, but they are stopped, the interior is out of order, the main-spring is broken, the hands that run across the face lie. these blades are bright and handsome, but they are dull, blunt, full of nicks, good enough for coarse and vulgar work, but useless for the fine, delicate work for which they were made. the master mechanic and artist of our souls who wants trustworthy timepieces and keen blades, will not be deceived by these gaudy trinkets, and will reject them. others may esteem you for this or that quality, admire this or that qualification you possess, be taken with their superficial gloss and accidental usefulness. the quality required by him who made you is that your soul be filled with charity, and proven by absence of sin. chapter xxviii. love of neighbor. the precept, written in our hearts, as well as in the law, to love god, commands us, at the same time, to love the neighbor. when you go to confession, you are told to be sorry for your sins and to make a firm purpose of amendment. these appear to be two different injunctions; yet in fact and reality, they are one and the same thing, for it is impossible to abhor and detest sin, having at the same moment the intention of committing it. one therefore includes the other; one is not sincere and true without the other; therefore one cannot be without the other. so it is with love of god and of the neighbor; these two parts of one precept are coupled together because they complete each other, and they amount practically to the same thing. the neighbor we are to love is not alone those for whom we naturally have affection, such as parents, friends, benefactors, etc., whom it is easy to love. but our neighbor is all mankind, those far and those near, those who have blessed us and those who have wronged us, the enemy as well as the friend; all who have within them, as we have, the image and likeness of god. no human being can we put outside the pale of neighborly love. as for the love we bear others, it is of course one in substance, but it may be different in degree and various in quality. it may be more or less tender, intense, emphatic. some we love more, others, less; yet for all that, we love them. it is impossible for us to have towards any other being the same feelings we entertain for a parent. the love a good christian bears towards a stranger is not the love he bears towards a good friend. the love therefore that charity demands admits a variety of shades without losing its character of love. when it comes to loving certain ones of our neighbors, the idea is not of the most welcome. what! must i love, really love, that low rascal, that cantankerous fellow, that repugnant, repulsive being? or this other who has wronged me so maliciously? or that proud, overbearing creature who looks down on me and despises me? we have said that love has its degrees, its ebb and flow tide, and still remains love. the low water mark is this: that we refuse not to pray for such neighbors, that we speak not ill of them, that we refuse not to salute them, or to do them a good turn, or to return a favor. a breach in one of these common civilities, due to every man from his fellow-man, may constitute a degree of hatred directly opposed to the charity strictly required of us. it is not however necessary to go on doing these things all during life and at all moments of life. these duties are exterior, and are required as often as a contrary bearing would betoken a lack of charity in the heart. just as we are not called upon to embrace and hug an uninviting person as a neighbor, neither are we obliged to continue our civilities when we find that they are offensive and calculated to cause trouble. but naturally there must be charity in the heart. we should not confound uncharity with a sort of natural repugnance and antipathy, instinctive to some natures, betraying a weakness of character, if you will, but hardly what one could call a clearly defined fault. there are people who can forgive more easily than forget and who succeed only after a long while in overcoming strong feelings. in consequence of this state of mind, and in order to maintain peace and concord, they prefer the absence to the presence of the objects of their antipathy. of course, to nourish this feeling is sinful to a degree; but while striving against it, to remove prudently all occasions of opening afresh the wound, if we act honestly, this does not seem to have any uncharitable malice. now all this is not charity unless the idea of god enter therein. there is no charity outside the idea of god. philanthropy, humanity is one thing, charity is another. the one is sentiment, the other is love--two very different things. the one supposes natural motives, the other, supernatural. philanthropy looks at the exterior form and discovers a likeness to self. charity looks at the soul and therein discovers an image of god, by which we are not only common children of adam, but also children of god and sharers of a common celestial inheritance. neither a cup of water nor a fortune given in any other name than that of god is charity. there are certain positive works of charity, such as almsgiving and brotherly correction, etc., that may be obligatory upon us to a degree of serious responsibility. we must use prudence and intelligence in discerning these obligations, but once they clearly stand forth they are as binding on us as obligations of justice. we are our brothers' keepers, especially of those whom misfortune oppresses and whose lot is cast under a less lucky star. chapter xxix. prayer. no word so common and familiar among christians as prayer. religion itself is nothing more than a vast, mighty, universal, never ceasing prayer. our churches are monuments of prayer and houses of prayer. our worship, our devotions, our ceremonies are expressions of prayer. our sacred music is a prayer. the incense, rising in white clouds before the altar, is symbolical of prayer. and the one accent that is dinned into our ears from altar and pulpit is prayer. prayer is the life of the christian as work is the life of the man; without one and the other we would starve spiritually and physically. if we live well, it is because we pray; if we lead sinful lives, it is because we neglect to pray. where prayer is, there is virtue; where prayer is unknown, there is sin. the atmosphere of piety, sanctity, and honesty is the atmosphere of prayer. strange that the nature and necessity of prayer are so often misunderstood! yet the definition in our catechism is clear and precise. there are four kinds of prayer; adoration, thanksgiving, petition for pardon, and for our needs, spiritual and bodily. one need be neither a catholic nor a christian to see how becoming it is in us to offer to god our homage of adoration and thanksgiving; it is necessary only to believe in a god who made us and who is infinitely perfect. why, the very heathens made gods to adore, and erected temples to thank them, so deep was their sense of the devotion they owed the deity. they put the early christians to death because the latter refused to adore their gods. everywhere you go, under the sun, you will find the creature offering to the creator a homage of worship. he, therefore, who makes so little of god as to forget to adore and thank him becomes inferior to the very pagans who, sunk in the darkness of corruption and superstition as they were, did not, however, forget their first and natural duty to the maker. neglect of this obligation in a man betrays an absence, a loss of religious instinct, and an irreligious man is a pure animal, if he is a refined one. his refinement and superiority come from his intelligence, and these qualities, far from attenuating his guilt, only serve to aggravate it. the brute eats and drinks; when he is full and tired he throws himself down to rest. when refreshed, he gets up, shakes himself and goes off again in quest of food and amusement. in what does a man without prayer differ from such a being? but prayer, strictly speaking, means a demand, a petition, an asking. we ask for our needs and our principal needs are pardon and succor. this is prayer as it is generally understood. it is necessary to salvation. without it no man can be saved. our assurance of heaven should be in exact proportion to our asking. "ask and you shall receive." ask nothing, and you obtain nothing; and that which you do not obtain is just what you must have to save your soul. here is the explanation of it in a nutshell. the doctrine of the church is that when god created man, he raised him from a natural to a supernatural state, and assigned to him a supernatural end. supernatural means what is above the natural, beyond our natural powers of obtaining. our destiny therefore cannot be fulfilled without the help of a superior power. we are utterly incapable by ourselves of realizing the end to which we are called. the condition absolutely required is the grace of god and through that alone can we expect to come to our appointed end. here is a stone. that that stone should have feeling is not natural, but supernatural. god, to give sensation to that stone, must break through the natural order of things, because to feel is beyond the native powers of a stone. it is not natural for an animal to reason, it is impossible. god must work a miracle to make it understand. well, the stone is just as capable of feeling, and the animal of reasoning, as is man capable of saving his soul by himself. to persevere in the state of grace and the friendship of god, to recover it when lost by sin, are supernatural works. only by the grace of god can this be effected. will god do this without being asked? say rather will god save us in spite of ourselves, or unknown to ourselves. he who does not ask gives no token of a desire to obtain. chapter xxx. petitions. for all spiritual needs, therefore, prayer is the one thing necessary. i am in the state of sin. i desire to be forgiven. to obtain pardon is a supernatural act. alone i can no more do it than fly. i pray then for the grace of a good confession--i prudently think myself in the state of grace. were i for a moment left to my depraved nature, to the mercy of my passions, i should fall into the lowest depths of iniquity. the holiest, saintliest of men are just as capable of the greatest abominations as the blackest sinner that ever lived. if he does not fall, and the other does, it is because he prays and the other does not. some people have certain spiritual maladies, that become second nature to them, called dominant passions. for one, it is cursing and swearing; for another vanity and conceit. one is afflicted with sloth, another with uncleanness of one kind or another. to discover the failing is the first duty, to pray against it is the next. you attack it with prayer as you attack a disease with remedies. and if we only used prayer with half the care, perseverance and confidence that we use medicines, our spiritual distemper would be short-lived. a person who passes a considerable time without prayer is usually in a bad state of soul. there is probably no one, who, upon reflection, will fail to discover that his best days were those which his prayers sanctified, and his worst, those which had to get along without any. and when a man starts out badly, the first thing he takes care to do is to neglect his prayers. for praying is an antidote and a reminder; it makes him feel uneasy while in sin, and would make him break with his evil ways if he continued to pray. and since he does not wish to stop, he takes no chances, and gives up his prayers. when he wants to stop, he falls back on his prayers. this brings us to the bodily favors we should ask for. you are sick. you desire to get well, but you do not see the sense of praying for it; for you say, "either i shall get well or i shall not." for an ordinary statement that is as plain and convincing as one has a right to expect; it will stand against all argument. but the conclusion is not of a piece with the premises. in that case why do you call in the physician, why do you take nasty pills and swallow whole quarts of vile concoctions that have the double merit of bringing distress to your palate and your purse? you take these precautions because your most elementary common sense tells you that such precautions as medicaments, etc., enter for something of a condition in the decree of god which reads that you shall die or not die. your return to health or your shuffling off of the mortal coil is subject to conditions of prudence, and according as they are fulfiled or not fulfiled the decree of god will go into effect one way or the other. and why does not your sane common sense suggest to you that prayer enters as just such a condition in the decrees of god, that your recovery is just as conditional on the using of prayer as to the taking of pills? there are people who have no faith in drugs, either because they have never used any or because having once used them, failed to get immediate relief. appreciation of the efficacy of prayer is frequently based on similar experience. to enumerate all the cures effected by prayer would be as bootless as to rehearse all the miracles of therapeutics and surgery. the doctor says: "here, take this, it will do you good. i know its virtue." the church says likewise: "try prayer, i know its virtue." your faith in it has all to do with its successful working. as in bodily sickness, so it is in all the other afflictions that flesh is heir to. prayer is a panacea; it cures all ills. but it should be taken with two tonics, as it were, before and after. before: faith and confidence in the power of god to cure us through prayer. after: resignation to the will of god, by which we accept what it may please him to do in our case; for health is not the greatest boon of life, nor are sickness and death the greatest evils. sin alone is bad; the grace of god alone is good. all other things god uses as means in view of this supreme good and against this supreme evil. faith prepares the system and puts it in order for the reception of the remedy. resignation helps it work out its good effects, and brings out all its virtue. thus prayer is necessary to us all, whether we be christians or pagans, whether just or sinners, whether sick or well. it brings us near to god, and god near to us, and thus is a foretaste and an image of our union with him hereafter. chapter xxxi. religion. as far back as the light of history extends, it shows man, of every race and of every clime, occupied in giving expression, in one way or another, to his religious impressions, sentiments, and convictions. he knew god; he was influenced by this knowledge unto devotion; and sought to exteriorize this devotion for the double purpose of proving its truth and sincerity, and of still further nourishing, strengthening, safeguarding it by means of an external worship and sensible things. accordingly, he built temples, erected altars, offered sacrifices, burnt incense; he sang and wept, feasted and fasted; he knelt, stood and prostrated himself--all things in harmony with his hopes and fears. this is worship or cult. we call it religion, distinct from interior worship or devotion, but supposing the latter essentially. it is commanded by the first precept of god. he who contents himself with a simple acknowledgment of the divinity in the heart, and confines his piety to the realm of the soul, does not fulfil the first commandment. the obligation to worship god was imposed, not upon angels--pure spirits, but upon men--creatures composed of a body as well as a soul. the homage that he had a right to expect was therefore not a purely spiritual one, but one in which the body had a part as well as the soul. a man is not a man without a body. neither can god be satisfied with man's homage unless his physical being cooperate with his spiritual, unless his piety be translated into acts and become religion, in the sense in which we use the word. there is no limit to the different forms religion may take on as manifestations of intense fervor and strong belief. sounds, attitudes, practices, etc., are so many vehicles of expression, and may be multiplied indefinitely. they become letters and words and figures of a language which, while being conventional in a way, is also natural and imitative, and speaks more clearly and eloquently and poetically than any other human language. this is what makes the catholic religion so beautiful as to compel the admiration of believers and unbelievers alike. of course, there is nothing to prevent an individual from making religion a mask of hypocrisy. if in using these practices, he does not mean what they imply, he lies as plainly as if he used words without regard for their signification. these practices, too, may become absurd, ridiculous and even abominable. when this occurs, it is easily explained by the fact that the mind and heart of man are never proof against imbecility and depravity. there are as many fools and cranks in the world as there are villains and degenerates. the church of god regulates divine worship for us with the wisdom and experience of centuries. her sacrifice is the first great act of worship. then there are her ceremonies, rites, and observances; the use of holy water, blessed candles, ashes, incense, vestments; her chants, and fasts and feasts, the symbolism of her sacraments. this is the language in which, as a church, and in union with her children, she speaks to god her adoration, praise and thanksgiving. this is her religion, and we practice it by availing ourselves of these things and by respecting them as pertaining to god. we are sometimes branded as idolaters, that is, as people who adore another or others than god. we offer our homage of adoration to god who is in heaven, and to that same god whom we believe to be on our altars. looking through protestant spectacles, we certainly are idolaters, for we adore what they consider as simple bread. in this light we plead guilty; but is it simple bread? that is the question. the homage we offer to everything and everybody else is relative, that is, it refers to god, and therefore is not idolatry. as to whether or not we are superstitious in our practices, that depends on what is the proper homage to offer god and in what does excess consist. it is not a little astonishing to see the no-creed, dogma-hating, private-judgment sycophants sitting in judgment against us and telling us what is and what is not correct in our religious practices. we thought that sort of a thing--dogmatism--was excluded from protestant ethics; that every one should be allowed to choose his own mode of worship, that the right and proper way is the way one thinks right and proper. if the private-interpreter claims this freedom for himself, why not allow it to us! we thought they objected to this kind of interference in us some few hundred years ago; is it too much if we object most strenuously to it in them in these days! it is strange how easily some people forget first principles, and what a rare article on the market is consistency. the persons, places and things that pertain to the exterior worship of god we are bound to respect, not for themselves, but by reason of the usage for which they are chosen and set aside, thereby becoming consecrated, religious. we should respect them in a spiritual way as we respect in a human way all that belongs to those whom we hold dear. irreverence or disrespect is a profanation, a sacrilege. chapter xxxii. devotions. there is in the church an abundance and a rich variety of what we call devotions--practices that express our respect, affection and veneration for the chosen friends of god. these devotions we should be careful not to confound with a thing very differently known as devotion--to god himself. this latter is the soul, the very essence of religion; the former are sometimes irreverently spoken of as "frills." objectively speaking, these devotions find their justification in the dogma of the communion of saints, according to which we believe that the blessed in heaven are able and disposed to help the unfortunate here below. subjectively they are based on human nature itself. in our self-conscious weakness and unworthiness, we choose instinctively to approach the throne of god through his tried and faithful friends rather than to hazard ourselves alone and helpless in his presence. devotion, as all know, is only another name for charity towards god, piety, holiness, that is, a condition of soul resulting from, and at the same time, conducive to, fidelity to god's law and the dictates of one's conscience. it consists in a proper understanding of our relations to god--creatures of the creator, paupers, sinners and children in the presence of a benefactor, judge and father; and in sympathies and sentiments aroused in us by, and corresponding with, these convictions. in other words, one is devoted to a friend when one knows him well, is true as steel to him, and basks in the sunshine of a love that requites that fidelity. towards god, this is devotion. devotions differ in pertaining, not directly, but indirectly through the creature to god. no one but sees at once that devotion, in a certain degree is binding upon all men; a positive want of it is nothing short of impiety. but devotions have not the dignity of entering into the essence of god-worship. they are not constituent parts of that flower that grows in god's garden of the soul--charity; they are rather the scent and fragrance that linger around its petals and betoken its genuine quality. they are of counsel, so to speak, as opposed to the precept of charity and devotion. they are outside all commandment, and are taken up with a view of doing something more than escaping perdition "quasi per ignem." for human nature is rarely satisfied with what is rigorously sufficient. it does not relish living perpetually on the ragged edge of a scant, uncertain meagerness. people want enough and plenty, abundance and variety. if there are many avenues that lead to god's throne, they want to use them. if there are many outlets for their intense fervor and abundant generosity, they will have them. devotions answer these purposes. impossible to enumerate all the different practices that are in vogue in the church and go under the name of devotions. legion is the number of saints that have their following of devotees. some are universal, are praised and invoked the world over; others have a local niche and are all unknown beyond the confines of a province or nation. some are invoked in all needs and distresses; st. blase, on the other hand is credited with a special power for curing throats, st. anthony, for finding lost things, etc. honor is paid them on account of their proximity to god. to invoke them is as much an honor to them as an advantage to us. if certain individuals do not like this kind of a thing, they are under no sort of an obligation to practise it. if they can get to heaven without the assistance of the saints, then let them do so, by all means; only let them be sure to get there. no one finds devotions repugnant but those who are ignorant of their real character and meaning. if they are fortunate enough to make this discovery, they then, like nearly all converts, become enthusiastic devotees, finding in their devotions new beauties, and new advantages every day. and it is a poor catholic that leaves devotions entirely alone, and a rare one. he may not feel inclined to enlist the favor of this or that particular saint, but he usually has a rosary hidden away somewhere in his vest pocket and a scapular around his neck, or in his pocket, as a last extreme. if he scorns even this, then the chances are that he is catholic only in name, for the tree of faith is such a fertile one that it rarely fails to yield fruit and flowers of exquisite fragrance. oh! of course the lives of all the saints are not history in the strictest sense of the word. but what has that to do with the communion of saints? if simplicity and naivete have woven around some names an unlikely tale, a fable or a myth, it requires some effort to see how that could affect their standing with god, or their disposition to help us in our needs. devotions are not based on historical facts, although in certain facts, events or happenings, real or alleged, they may have been furnished with occasions for coming into existence. the authenticity of these facts is not guaranteed by the doctrinal authority of the church, but she may, and does, approve the devotions that spring therefrom. independently of the truth of private and individual revelations, visions and miracles, which she investigates as to their probability, she makes sure that there is nothing contrary to the deposit of faith and to morals, and then she gives these devotions the stamp of her approval as a security to the faithful who wish to practise them. a catholic or non-catholic may think what he likes concerning the apparitions of the virgin at lourdes; if he is dense enough, he may refuse to believe that miracles have been performed there. but he cannot deny that the homage offered to our lady at lourdes, and known as devotion to our lady of lourdes, is in keeping with religious worship as practised by the church and in consonance with reason enlightened by faith, and so with all other devotions. a vase of flowers, a lamp, a. burning candle before the statue of a saint is a prayer whose silence is more eloquent than all the sounds that ever came from the lips of man. it is love that puts it there, love that tells it to dispense its sweet perfume or shed its mellow rays, and love that speaks by this touching symbolism to god through a favorite saint. chapter xxxiii. idolatry and superstition. the first and greatest sinner against religion is the idolater, who offers god-worship to others than god. there are certain attributes that belong to god alone, certain titles that he alone has a right to bear, certain marks of veneration that are due to him alone. to ascribe these to any being under god is an abomination, and is called idolatry. the idols of paganism have long since been thrown, their temples destroyed; the folly itself has fallen into disuse, and its extravagances serve only in history "to point a moral or adorn a tale." yet, in truth, idolatry is not so dead as all that, if one would take the pains to peruse a few pages of the current erotic literature wherein people see heaven in a pair of blue eyes, catch inspired words from ruby lips and adore a well trimmed chin-whisker. i would sooner, with the old-time egyptians, adore a well-behaved cat or a toothsome cucumber than with certain modern feather-heads and gum-drop hearts, sing hymns to a shapely foot or dimpled cheek and offer incense to "divinities," godlike forms, etc. the way hearts and souls are thrown around from one to another is suggestive of the national game; while the love they bear one another is always infinite, supreme, without parallel on earth or in heaven. no, perhaps they do not mean what they say; but that helps matters very little, for the fault lies precisely in saying what they do say; the language used is idolatrous. and a queer thing about it is that they do mean more than half of what they say. when degenerate love runs riot, it dethrones the almighty, makes gods of clay and besots itself before them. what is superstition and what is a superstitious practice? it is something against the virtue of religion; it sins, not by default as unbelief, but by excess. now, to be able to say what is excessive, one must know what is right and just, one must have a measure. to attempt to qualify anything as excessive without the aid of a rule or measure is simply guesswork. the yankee passes for a mighty clever guesser, outpointing with ease his transatlantic cousin. over there the sovereign guesses officially that devotion to the mother of god is a superstitious practice. this reminds one of the overgrown farmer boy, who, when invited by his teacher to locate the center of a circle drawn on the blackboard, stood off and eyed the figure critically for a moment with a wise squint; and then said, pointing his finger to the middle or thereabouts: "i should jedge it to be about thar'." he was candid enough to offer only an opinion. but how the royal guesser could be sure enough to swear it, and that officially, is what staggers plain people. now right reason is a rule by which to judge what is and what is not superstitious. but individual reason or private judgment and right reason are not synonyms in the english or in any other language that is human. when reasoning men disagree, right reason, as far as the debated question is concerned, is properly said to be off on a vacation, a thing uncommonly frequent in human affairs. in order, therefore that men should not be perpetually at war concerning matters that pertain to men's salvation, god established a competent authority which even simple folks with humble minds and pure hearts can find. in default of any adverse claimant the catholic church must be adjudged that authority. the worship, therefore, that the church approves as worthy of god is not, cannot be, superstition. and what is patently against reason, or, in case of doubt, what she reproves and condemns in religion is superstitious. leaving out of the question for the moment those species of superstition that rise to the dignity of science, to the accidental fame and wealth of humbugs and frauds, the evil embraces a host of practices that are usually the result of a too prevalent psychological malady known as softening of the brain. these poor unfortunates imagine that the almighty who holds the universe in the hollow of his hand, deals with his creatures in a manner that would make a full-grown man pass as a fool if he did the same. dreams, luck-pieces, certain combinations of numbers or figures, ordinary or extraordinary events and happenings--these are the means whereby god is made to reveal to men secrets and mysteries as absurd as the means, themselves. surely god must have descended from his throne of wisdom. strange though it appear, too little religion--and not too much--leads to these unholy follies. there is a religious instinct in man. true religion satisfies it fully. quack religion, pious tomfoolery, and doctrinal ineptitude foisted upon a god-hungry people end by driving some from one folly to another in a pitiful attempt to get away from the deceptions of man and near to god. others are led on by a sinful curiosity that outweighs their common-sense as well as their respect for god. these are the guilty ones. it has been said that there is more superstition--that is belief and dabbling in these inane practices--to-day in one of our large cities than the dark ages ever was afflicted with. if true, it is one sign of the world's spiritual unrest, the decay of unbelief; and irreligion thus assists at its own disintegration. the church swept the pagan world clean of superstition once; she may soon be called upon to do the work over again. chapter xxxiv. occultism. spiritism as a theory, a science, a practice, a religion, or--i might add--a profitable business venture, is considered an evil thing by the church, and by her is condemned as superstition, that is, as a false and unworthy homage to god, belittling his majesty and opposed to the dispensation of christ, according to which alone god can be worthily honored. this evil has many names; it includes all dabbling in the supernatural against the sanction of church authority, and runs a whole gamut of "isms" from fake trance-mediums to downright diabolical possession. the craft found favor with the pagans and flourished many years before the christian era. wondrous things were wrought by the so-called pythonic spirit; evidently outside the natural order, still more evidently not by the agency of god, and of a certainty through the secret workings of the "old boy" himself. it was called necromancy, or the black art. it had attractions for the jews and they yielded to some extent to the temptation of consulting the python. for this reason moses condemned the evil as an abomination. these are his words, taken from deuteronomy: "neither let there be found among you any one that consulteth soothsayers, or observeth dreams and omens; neither let there be any wizard, nor charmer, nor any one that consulteth pythonic spirits or fortune tellers, or that seeketh the truth from the dead. for the lord abhorreth all these things; and for these abominations he will destroy them." the black art had its votaries during the middle ages and kept the church busy warning the faithful against its dangers and its evils. even so great a name as that of albert the great has been associated with the dark doings of the wizard, because, no doubt, of the marvelous fruits of his genius and deep learning, which the ignorant believed impossible to mere human agency. as witchcraft, it nourished during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. the excesses to which it gave rise caused severe laws to be enacted against it and stringent measures were taken to suppress it. many were put to death, sometimes after the most cruel tortures. as is usually the case, the innocent suffered with the guilty. the history of the early new england settlers makes good reading on the subject. some people claim that the spiritism of to-day is only a revival of old-time witchery and necromancy, that it is as prevalent now as it was then, perhaps more prevalent. "only," as father lambert remarks, "the witch of to-day instead of going to the stake as formerly, goes about as madam so-and-so, and is duly advertised in our enlightened press as the great and renowned seeress or clairvoyant, late from the court of the akoorid of swat, more recently from the sublime porte, where she was in consultation with the sultan of turkey, and more recently still from the principal courts of europe. as her stay in the city will be brief, those who wish to know the past or future or wish to communicate with deceased friends, are advised to call on her soon. witchcraft is as prevalent as it ever was, and the witches are as real. they may not have cats on their shoulders or pointed caps, or broomsticks for quick transit, but they differ from the witches of the past only in being liberally paid, instead of liberally punished." the church does not deny the possibility of intercourse between the living and the souls of the dead; she goes farther and admits the fact that such intercourse has taken place, pointing, as well she may, to the scriptures themselves wherein such facts are recorded. the lives of her saints are not without proof that this world may communicate with the unknown. and this belief forms the groundwork, furnishes the basic principles, of spiritism. nevertheless, the church condemns all attempts at establishing such communication between the living and the dead, or even claiming, though falsely, such intercourse. if this is done in the name of religion, she considers it an insult to god, who thereby is trifled with and tempted to a miraculous manifestation of himself outside the ordinary channels of revelation. as an instrument of mere human curiosity, it is criminal, since it seeks to subject him to the beck and call of a creature. in case such practices succeed, there is the grave danger of being mislead and deceived by the evil spirit, who is often permitted, as the instrument of god, to punish guilty men. when resorted to, as a means of relieving fools of their earnings, it is sacrilegious; and those who support such impious humbugs can be excused from deadly sin only on the grounds of lunacy. hypnotism and mesmerism differ from spiritism in this, that their disciples account for the phenomena naturally and lay no claim to supernatural intervention. they produce a sleep in the subject, either as they claim, by the emanation of a subtile fluid from the operator's body, or by the influence of his mind over the mind of the subject they are agreed on this point, that natural laws could explain the phenomenon, if these laws were well understood. with this sort of a thing, as belonging to the domain of science and outside her domain, the church has nothing whatever to do. this is a theory upon which it behooves men of science to work; they alone are competent in the premises. but without at all encroaching on their domain, the church claims the right to pronounce upon the morality of such practices and to condemn the evils that flow therefrom. so great are these evils and dangers, when unscrupulous and ignorant persons take to experimenting, that able and reliable physicians and statesmen have advocated the prohibition by law of all such indiscriminate practices. crimes have been committed on hypnotized persons and crimes have been committed by them. it is a dangerous power exercised by men of evil mind and a sure means to their evil ends. it is likewise detrimental to physical and moral health. finally, he who subjects himself to such influence commits an immoral act by giving up his will, his free agency, into the hands of another. he does this willingly, for no one can be hypnotized against his will; he does it without reason or just motive. this is an evil, and to it must be added the responsibility of any evil he may be made to commit whilst under this influence. therefore is the church wise in condemning the indiscriminate practice of hypnotism or mesmerism; and therefore will her children be wise if they leave it alone. it is not superstition, but it is a sin against man's individual liberty over which he is constituted sole guardian, according to the use and abuse of which he will one day be judged. chapter xxxv. christian science. a recently discovered sin against the first commandment is the worship of mrs. eddy, and it is commonly called christian science. this sacrilegious humbug was conceived in the brain of an old woman up in new hampshire and, like the little demon of error that it is, it leaped forth, after a long period of travail, full-fledged and panoplied, and on its lips were these words: "what fools these mortals be!" dame eddy gets good returns from the sacrilegio-comic tour of her progeny around the country. intellectual boston is at her feet, and boston pays well for its amusements. it is remarkable for an utter lack of anything like christianity or science. it is as christian as buddhism and as scientific as the notions of our early forefathers concerning the automobile. it is a parody on both and like the usual run of parodies, it is a success. the average man should not attempt to delve down into the mysterious depths of mind and matter which form the basis of this system. in the first place, it is an impossible task for an ordinary intelligence; then, again, it were labor lost, for even if one did get down far enough one could get nothing satisfactory out of it. the force of eddyism lies in its being mysterious, incomprehensible and contradictory. these qualities would kill an ordinary system, but this is no ordinary system. the only way to beat the christian scientist is to invite him to focus all the energy of his mind on a vulgar lamp-post and engrave thereon the name of the revered eddy--this to show the power of mind. then to prove the non-existence of matter, ask him to consent to your endeavoring to make a material impression on his head with an immaterial hammer. of course this is not what he meant; but what he did mean will become by no means clearer after the wearisome, interminable lengths to which he will go to elucidate. the fact is that he does not know it himself, and no one can give what he does not possess. true philosophy tells us to define terms and never to employ expressions of more than one meaning without saying in what sense we use them. contempt of this rule is the salvation of christian science, and that is where we lose. yet there is something in this fad after all. total insanity is never met with outside state institutions, and these people are at large. the ravings of a delirious patient are often a monstrous mass of wild absurdities; but, if you question the patient when convalescent, you will sometimes be surprised to find they were all founded on facts which had become exaggerated and distorted. there is no such thing as pure unadulterated error. all of which is meant to convey the idea that at the bottom of all fraud and falsehood there is some truth, and the malice of error is always proportionate with the amount of truth it has perverted. the first truth that has been exaggerated beyond recognition is this, that a large proportion of human diseases are pure fiction of morbid imaginations, induced by the power of the mind. that such is the case, all medical men admit. thus, the mind may often be used as a therapeutic agent, and clever physicians never fail to employ this kind of christian science. mrs. eddy is therefore no more the discoverer of the "malade imaginaire" than moliere. when you' distort this truth and write books proclaiming the fact that all ills are of this sort, then you have eddyism up to date. mrs. eddy gathers her skirts in her hand and leaps over the abyss between "some ills" and "all ills" with the agility of a gazelle. yes, the mind has a wonderful power for healing, but it will make just as much impression on a broken leg as on a block of granite. so much for the scientific part of the theory. the method of healing of jesus christ and that of the foundress of christian science are not one and the same method, although called by the name of faith they appear at first sight to the unwary to be identical. there is a preliminary act of the intelligence in both; there is the exercise of the will power; and a mention of god in eddyism makes it look like a divine assistance. to the superficial there is no difference between a miracle performed at lourdes by god at the intercession of the blessed virgin and a "cure" effected by the widow of new hampshire hills. yet there is a wide difference, as wide as the abyss between error and truth. in faith healing, god interposes and alone does the healing. it is a miracle, a suspension of the ordinary laws of nature. faith is not a cause, but an essential condition. in christian science, it is the mind of the patient or of mrs. eddy that does the work. it is god only in the sense that god is one with the patient. mind is the only thing that exists, and the human mind is one with the mind which is god. then again this cure instead of being in opposition to the normal state of things like a miracle, itself establishes a normal state, for disease is abnormal and in contradiction with the natural state of man. mental healing, according to this system sets the machine going regularly; miracles put it out of order for the moment. christian science therefore, repudiates the healing method of jesus by faith and sets up one of its own, thereby forfeiting all title to be called christian. being, therefore, neither christian nor scientific, this new cult is nothing but pure nonsense, like all superstitions; the product of a diseased mind swayed by the demon of pride, and should be treated principally as a mental disorder. the chief, and only, merit of the system consists in illustrating the truth, as old as the world, that when men wander from the house where they are fed with a celestial nourishment, they will be glad to eat any food offered them that has a semblance of food, even though it be but husks and refuse. man is a religious animal; take away the true god, and he will adore anything or everything, even to a cucumber. however limited otherwise, there is no limit to his religious folly. chapter xxxvi. swearing. "thou shalt not take the name of the lord, thy god in vain." a name is a sign, and respect for god himself, as prescribed by the first commandment through faith, hope, charity, prayer and religion, naturally implies respect for the name that stands for and signifies god. your name may, of itself, be nothing more than mere sound; but used in relation to what it represents, it is as sacred, and means as much to you, as your very person, for whatever is addressed to your name, whether of praise or blame, is intended to reach, and does effectively reach, yourself, to your honor or dishonor. you exact therefore of men, as a right, the same respect for your name as for your person; and that is what god does in the second commandment. the name of god represents all that he is. he who profanes that name profanes a sacred thing, and is guilty of what is, in reality, a sacrilege. to use it with respect and piety is an act of religion which honors god. men use and abuse this holy name, and first of all, by swearing, that is, by taking oaths. in the early history of mankind, we are told, swearing was unknown. men were honest, could trust each other and take each other's word. but when duplicity, fraud and deception rose out of the corrupt heart of man, when sincerity disappeared, then confidence disappeared also, no man's word was any longer good. then it was that, in order to put an end to their differences, they called upon god by name to witness the truth of what they affirmed. they substituted god's unquestioned veracity for their own questioned veracity, and incidentally paid homage to his truth; god went security for man. necessity therefore made man swear; oaths became a substitute for honesty. a reverent use of the name of god, for a lawful purpose, cannot be wrong; on the contrary, it is good, being a public recognition of the greatest of god's attributes--truth. but like all good things it is liable to be abused. a too frequent use of the oath will easily lead to irreverence, and thence to perjury. it is against this danger, rather than against the fact itself of swearing, that christ warns us in a text that seems at first blush to condemn the oath as evil. the common sense of mankind has always given this interpretation to the words of christ. an oath, therefore, is a calling upon god to witness the truth of what we say, and it means that we put our veracity on a par with his and make him shoulder the responsibility of truthfulness. to take an oath we must swear by god. to swear by all the saints in the calendar would not make an oath. properly speaking, it is not even sufficient to simply say: "i swear," we must use the name of god. in this matter, we first consider the words. do they signify a swearing, by god, either in their natural sense or in their general acceptation? or is there an intention of giving them this signification? in conscience and before god, it is only when there is such an intention that there is a formal oath and one is held to the conditions and responsibilities thereof. bear in mind that we are here dealing for the moment solely with lawful swearing. there are such things as imprecation, blasphemy, and general profanity, of which there will be question later, and which have this in common with the oath, that they call on the name of god; the difference is the same that exists between bad and good, right and wrong. these must therefore be clearly distinguished from religious and legal swearing. there is also a difference between a religious and a legal oath. the religious oath is content with searching the conscience in order to verify the sincerity or insincerity of the swearer. if one really intends to swear by god to a certain statement, and employs certain words to express his intention, he is considered religiously to have taken an oath. if he pronounces a formula that expresses an oath, without the intention of swearing, then he has sworn to nothing. he has certainly committed a sin, but there is no oath. again, if a man does not believe in god, he cannot swear by him; and in countries where god is repudiated, all attempts at administering oaths are vain and empty. you cannot call, to attest the truth of your words, a being that does not exist, and for him who does not believe in god, he does not exist. the purely legal oath considers the fact and supposes the intention. if you swear without deliberation, then, with you lies the burden of proving it; since the law will allow it only on evidence and will hold you bound until such evidence is shown. when a person is engaged in a serious affair, he is charitably supposed to know what he is talking about; if it happens that he does not, then so much the worse for him. in the case of people who protest beforehand that they are infidels or agnostics, or who being sworn on the new testament, disclaim all belief in christ, there is nothing to be done, except it be to allow them to attest by the blood of a rooster or by the great horn spoon. then, whatever way they swear, there is no harm done. chapter xxxvii. oaths. the first quality of an oath is that it be true. it is evident that every statement we make, whether simple or sworn, must be true. if we affirm what we know to be false we lie, if we swear to what we know to be false, we perjure ourselves. perjury is a sacrilegious falsehood, and the first sin against the second commandment. if, while firmly believing it to be true, what we swear to happens to be false, we are not guilty of perjury, for the simple reason that our moral certitude places us in good faith, and good faith guarantees us against offending. the truth we proclaim under oath is relative not absolute, subjective rather than objective, that is to say, the statement we make is true as far as we are in a position to know. all this holds good before the bar of conscience, but it may be otherwise in the courts where something more than personal convictions, something more akin to scientific knowledge, is required. he who swears without sufficient certitude, without a prudent examination of the facts of the question, through ignorance that must be imputed to his guilt, that one takes a rash oath--a sin great or small according to the gravity of the circumstances. it is not infrequently grievous. some oaths, instead of being statements, are promises, sworn promises. that of which we call god to witness the truth is not something that is, but something that will be. if one promises under oath, and has no intention of redeeming his pledge; or if he afterwards revokes such an intention without serious reasons, and fails to make good his sworn promise, he sins grievously, for he makes a fool and a liar of almighty god who acts as sponsor of a false pledge. concerning temperance pledges, it may here be said that they are simple promises made to god, but not being sworn to, are not oaths in any sense of the word. then, again, to be lawful, an oath must be necessary or useful, demanded by the glory of god, our own or our neighbor's good; and it must be possible to fulfil the promise within the given time. otherwise, we trifle with a sacred thing, we are guilty of taking vain and unnecessary oaths. there can be no doubt but that this is highly offensive to god, who is thus made little of in his holy name. this is the most frequent offense against the second commandment, the sin of profane swearing, the calling upon god to witness the truth of every second word we utter. it betrays in a man a very weak sense of his own honesty when he cannot let his words stand for themselves. it betokens a blasphemous disrespect for god himself, represented by that name which is made a convenient tool to further every vulgar end. it is therefore criminal and degrading, and the guilt thereby incurred cannot be palliated by the plea of habit. a sin is none the less a sin because it is one of a great many. vice is criminal. the victim of a vice can be considered less guilty only on condition of seriously combating that vice. failing in this, he must bear the full burden of his guilt. are we bound to keep our oaths? if valid, we certainly are. an oath is valid when the matter thereof is not forbidden or illicit. the matter is illicit when the statement or promise we make is contrary to right. he who binds himself under oath to do evil, not only does not sin in fulfiling his pledge, but would sin if he did redeem it. the sin he thus commits may be mortal or venial according to the gravity of the matter of the oath. he sinned in taking the oath; he sins more grievously in keeping it. the binding force of an oath is also destroyed by fraud and deception. fear may have a kindred effect, if it renders one incapable of a human act. likewise a former oath may annul a subsequent oath under certain conditions. again, no man in taking an oath intends to bind himself to anything physically or morally impossible, or forbidden by his superiors; he expects that his promise will be accepted by the other party, that all things will remain unchanged, that the other party will keep faith, and that there will be no grave reason for him to change his mind. in the event of any of these conditions failing of fulfilment his intention is not to be held by his sworn word, and his oath is considered invalidated. he is to be favored in all doubts and is held only to the strict words of his promise. the least therefore we have to do with oaths, the better. they are things too sacred to trifle with. when necessity demands it, let our swearing honor the almighty by the respect we show his holy name. chapter xxxviii. vows. vows are less common than oaths, and this is something to be thankful for, since being even more sacred than oaths, their abuse incidental to frequent usage would be more abominable. the fact that men so far respect the vow as to entirely leave it alone when they feel unequal to the task of keeping it inviolate, is a good sign--creditable to themselves and honorable to god. people have become accustomed to looking upon vows as the exclusive monopoly of the catholic church and her religious men and women. such things are rarely met with outside monasteries and convents, except in the case of secular priests. 'tis true, one hears tell occasionally of a stray unfortunate who has broken away from a state voluntarily, deliberately, chosen and entered upon, and who struggles through life with a violated vow saddled upon him. but one does not associate the sacred and heroic character of the vow with such pitiable specimens of moral worth. the besom of protestant reform thought to sweep all vows off the face of the earth, as immoral, unlawful, unnatural or, at least, useless things. the first coryphei broke theirs; and having learned from experience what troublesome things they are, instiled into their followers a salutary distaste for these solemn engagements that one can get along so well without. from disliking them in themselves, they came to dislike them in others, and it has come to this that the church has been obliged to defend against the change of immorality an institution that alone makes perfection possible. strange, this! more sad than strange. first of all, what is a vow? it is a deliberate promise made to god by which we bind ourselves to do something good that is more pleasing to him than its omission would be. it differs from a promissory oath in this, that an oath makes god a witness of a promise made to a third party, while in a vow there is no third party, the promise being made directly to god. in a violated oath, we break faith with man; in a broken vow, we are faithless to god. the vow is more intimate than the oath, and although sometimes the words are taken one for the other, in meaning they are widely different. resolutions or purposes, such as we make in confession never to sin again, or in moments of fervor to perform works of virtue, are not vows. a promise made to the blessed virgin or the saints is not a vow; it must be made directly to god himself. a promise made to god to avoid mortal sin is not a vow, in the strict sense of the word; or rather such a promise is outside the ordinary province of the vow, which naturally embraces works of supererogation and counsel. it is unnecessary and highly imprudent to make such promises under vow. a promise to commit sin is a blasphemous outrage. if what we promise to do is something indifferent, vain and useless, opposed to evangelical counsels or generally less agreeable to god than the contrary, our promise is null and void as far as the having the character of a vow is concerned. of course, in taking a vow we must know what we are doing and be free to act or not to act. if then the object of the vow is matter on which a vow may validly be taken, we are bound in conscience to keep our solemn engagement. what we forbid ourselves to do may be perfectly lawful and innocent, but by that vow we forfeit the right we had to do it, and for us it has become sinful. the peculiar position in which a vow places a man in relation to his fellow-men concerning what is right and wrong, is the characteristic of the vow that makes it the object of much attention. but it requires something lacking in the outfit of an intelligent man to perceive therein anything that savors of the unnatural, the unlawful or the immoral. concerning those whom a vow has constituted in a profession, we shall have a word to say later. right here the folly, to say nothing stronger, of those who contract vows without thinking, must be apparent to all. no one should dare take upon himself or herself such a burden of his or her own initiative. it is an affair that imperiously demands the services of an outside, disinterested, experienced party, whose prudence will well weigh the conditions and the necessity of such a step. without this, there is no end to the possible misery and dangers the taking of a vow may lead to. if through an act of unthinking foolishness or rash presumption, you find yourself weighed down with the incubus of a vow not made for your shoulders, the only way out is to make a clean breast of the matter to your confessor, and follow his directions. chapter xxxix. the professional vows. the professional vow is a triple one, and embraces the three great evangelical counsels of perfect chastity, poverty and obedience. the cloister is necessary for the observance of such engagements as these, and it were easier for a lily to flourish on the banks of the dead sea, or amid the fiery blasts of the sahara, than for these delicate flowers of spirituality to thrive in the midst of the temptations, seductions and passions of the every day world of this life. necessity makes a practice of these virtues a profession. it is good to be chaste, good to be obedient, good to be voluntarily poor. what folly, then, to say that it is unlawful to bind oneself by promises of this kind, since it is lawful to be good--the only thing that is lawful! it is not unlawful, if you will, to possess riches, to enjoy one's independence, to wed; but there is virtue in foregoing these pleasures, and virtue is better than its defect, and it is no more unlawful to do better than to do good. if it is lawful to contract a solemn engagement with man, why not with god? if it is lawful for a short time, why not for a long time? if it is lawful for two years, why not for ten, and a lifetime! the engagement is no more unlawful itself than that to which we engage ourselves. the zealous guardians of the rights of man protest that, nevertheless, vows destroy man's liberty, and should therefore be forbidden, and the profession suppressed. it is along this line that the governmental machine is being run in france at present. if the vow destroys liberty, these fanatics are doing what appears dangerously near being the same thing. there is a decided advantage in being your own slave-master over having another perform that service for you. if i do something which before god and my conscience i have a perfect right to do, if i do it with deliberate choice and affection, it is difficult to see wherein my liberty suffers. again, if i decide not to marry--a right that every man certainly has--and in this situation engage myself by vow to observe perfect chastity--which i must do to retain the friendship of god--i do not see how i forfeit my liberty by swearing away a right i never had. in all cases, the more difficult an enterprise a man enters upon and pursues to a final issue, the more fully he exercises his faculty of free will. and since the triple vow supposes nothing short of heroism in those who take it, it follows that they must use the very plenitude of their liberty to make the thing possible. the "cui bono" is the next formidable opponent the vow has to contend with. what's the good of it? where is the advantage in leading such an impossible existence when a person can save his soul without it? all are not damned who refuse to take vows. is it not sufficient to be honest men and women? that depends upon what you mean by an honest man. a great saint once said that an honest man would certainly not be hanged, but that it was by no means equally certain that he would not be damned. a man may do sundry wicked and crooked things and not forfeit his title to be called honest. the majority of satan's subjects were probably honest people in their day. the quality of being an honest man, according to many people, consists in having the privilege of doing a certain amount of wickedness without prejudice to his eternal salvation. the philosophy of this class of people is summed up in these words: "do little and get much; make a success of life from the standpoint of your own selfishness, and then sneak into heaven almost by stealth and fraud." that is one way of doing business with the lord. but, there are greater things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, horatio. human natures differ as much as pebbles on the sea shore. one man's meat has often proven poison to another. in the religion of jesus christ there is something more than the commandments given to moses. love of god has degrees of intensity and perfection. such words as sacrifice, mortification, self-denial have a meaning as they have always had. god gives more to some, less to others; he demands corresponding returns. these are things horatio ignores. yet they are real, real as his own empty and conceited wisdom. chapter xl. the profession. one of the advantages of the monastic life, created by vows, is that it is wholly in keeping with human nature such as god created it. men differ in their spiritual complexion more widely even than they do in mental caliber and physical make-up. all are not fitted by character and general condition for the same 'career; we are "cut out" for our peculiar tasks. it is the calling of one to be a soldier, of another to be a statesman, because each is best fitted by nature for this particular walk of life. the born poet, if set to put together a machine, will, in the majority of cases, make a sorry mess of the job, and a bricklayer will usually prove to be an indifferent story-writer. so also one is called to be a good christian, while his brother may be destined for a more perfect life. if there are vocations in the natural life, why should there not be in the supernatural, which is just as truly a life? if variety of aptitudes and likes determine difference of calling, why should this not hold good for the soul as well as for the body and mind? if one should always follow the bent of one's legitimately natural inclinations, no fault can reasonably be found if another hearkens to the voice of his soul's aspirations and elect a career in harmony with his nature. there are two roads on which all men must travel to their destiny. one is called the way of precept, the other the way of counsel. in each the advantages and inconveniences are about equally balanced. the former is wide and level with many joys and pleasures along the way; but there are many pitfalls and stumbling blocks, while on one side is a high, steep precipice over which men fall to their eternal doom. those destined by providence to go over this road are spiritually shod for the travel; if they slip and tumble, it is through their own neglect. some there are to whom it has been shown by experience--very little sometimes suffices--that they have, for reasons known alone to god, been denied the shoe that does not slip; and that if they do not wish to go over the brink, they must get off the highway and follow a path removed from this danger, a path not less difficult but more secure for them. their salvation depends on it. this inside path, while it insures safety for these, might lead the others astray. each in his respective place will be saved; if they exchange places, they are lost. then again, if you will look at it from another standpoint, there remains still on earth such a thing as love of god, pure love of god. and this love can be translated into acts and life. love, as all well know, has its degrees of intensity and perfection. all well-born children love their parents, but they do not all love them in the same degree. some are by nature more affectionate, some appreciate favors better, some receive more and know that more is expected of them. in like manner, we who are all children of the great father are not all equally loving and generous. what therefore is more natural than that some should choose to give themselves up heart, soul and body to the exclusive service of god? what is there abnormal in the fact that they renounce the world and all its joys and legitimate pleasures, fast, pray and keep vigil, through pure love of god? there is only one thing they fear, and that is to offend god. by their vows they put this misfortune without the pale of possibility, as far as such a thing can be done by a creature endowed with free will. of course there are those for whom all this is unmitigated twaddle and bosh. to mention abnegation, sacrifice, etc., to such people is to speak in a language no more intelligible than sanskrit. naturally one of these will expect his children to appreciate the sacrifices he makes for their happiness, but with god they think it must be different. there was once a young man who was rich. he had never broken the commandments of god. wondering if he had done enough to be saved, he came to the messiah and put the question to him. the answer he received was, that, if he were sinless, he had done well, but that there was a sanctity, not negative but positive, which if he would acquire, would betoken in him a charity becoming a follower of a crucified god. christ called the young man to a life of perfection. "if thou wilt be perfect, go, sell what thou hast, give to the poor, then come, and follow me." it is not known whether this invitation was accepted by the young man; but ever since then it has been the joy of men and women in the catholic church to accept it, and to give up all in order to serve the maker. scoffers and revilers of monasticism are a necessary evil. being given the course of nature that sometimes runs to freaks, they must exist. living, they must talk, and talking they must utter ineptitudes. people always do when they discourse on things they do not comprehend. but let this be our consolation: monks are immortal. they were, they are, they ever shall be. all else is grass. chapter xli. the religious. owing to the disturbance over things religious in france, vows and those who exemplify them in their lives are receiving of late a large share of public attention. on this topic, it seems, every one is qualified to speak; all sorts of opinions have been ventilated in the religious, the non-religious, and the irreligious press, for the benefit of those who are interested in this pitiful spasm of gallic madness against the almighty and his church. the measure of unparalleled tyranny and injustice, in which antipathy to religious orders has found expression, is being favorably and unfavorably commented upon. but since monks, friars and nuns seldom find favor with the non catholic world, the general verdict is that the religious, like the anarchist, must go; society is afraid of both and is safe from neither. to catholics who understand human nature and have read history, this condition of things is not surprising; it is, we might venture to say, the normal state of mind in relation to things so intensely catholic is religious vows. antagonism against monasticism was born the day luther decided to take a wife; and as long as that same spirit lingers on earth we shall expect this antagonism to thrive and prosper. not only that, but we shall never expect the religious to get a fair hearing for their cause. the hater, open or covert, of the habit and cowl is whole-souled or nothing in his convictions. and he believes the devil should be fought with his own weapons. we do not expect all men to think as we do concerning the merits of the religious profession. to approve it without restriction would be to approve the church. to find no wrong in it would be indicative of a dangerous romish tendency. and we are not prepared to assert that any such symptoms exist to an alarming extent in those who expatiate on religious topics these latter days. there will be differences of opinion on this score, as on many others, and one fellow's opinion is as good, to himself, as another's. there are even objections, to many an honest man, serious objections, that may be brought up and become legitimate matter for discussion. we take it for granted that intelligent men do not oppose an institution as venerable as monasticism without reasons. contention between people who respect intelligence is always based on what has at least a semblance of truth, and has for its object to detect reality and label it as distinct from appearance. we go farther, and admit that there have been abuses in this system of perfection, abuses that we were the first to detect, the first to deplore and feel the shame of it. but before we believed it, we investigated and made sure it was so. we found out very often that the accusations were false. scandalmongers and dishonest critics noted the charges, but forgot to publish the verdict, and naturally with the public these charges stand. no wonder then that such tales breed antipathy and hatred among those who are not in position to control facts. a queer feature about this is that people do not give religious credit for being human. that they are flesh and blood, all agree; that they should err, is preposterous. a hue-and-cry goes up when it becomes known that one of these children of adam has paid the penalty of being human. one would think an angel had fallen from heaven. we notice in this attitude an unconscious recognition of the sanctity of the religious state; but we see behind it a pharisaic spirit that exaggerates evil at the expense of justice. now, if the principle that abuse destroys use is applied to all things, nothing will remain standing, and the best will go first. corruptio optimi pessima. everything human is liable to abuse; that which is not, is divine. religious and laymen, mortals all, the only time it is beyond our power to do wrong is when we are dead, buried, and twenty-four hours underground. if in life we make mistakes, the fault lies, not in our being of this or that profession, but in being human. whatever, therefore, the excesses that religious can be proven guilty of, the institution itself must not be held responsible, unless it can be shown that there exists a relation of cause and effect. and whoever reasons otherwise, abuses the intelligence of his listeners. we desire, in the name of honesty and fairness, to see less of that spirit that espies all manner of evil beneath the habit of a religious; that discovers in convents and monasteries plotting against the state in favor of the papacy, the accumulation of untold wealth by oppression and extortion for the satisfaction of laziness and lust, iniquity of the deepest dye allied to general worthlessness. common sense goes a long way in this world. if it were only a less rare commodity, and if an effective tribunal could be erected for the suppression of mendacity, the religious would appear for the first time in history in their true colors before the world, and light would shine in darkness. chapter xlii. the vow of poverty. one objection to the vow of poverty that has a serious face on it, and certainly looks wicked, is that it does not prevent the accumulation of great wealth, as may be seen in the cases of the philippine friars and the french orders. this is one difficulty; here is another and quite different: the wealth of the religious is excessive, detrimental to the well-being of the people and a menace to the state. taken separately, it is easy to dispose of these charges and to explain them away. but if you put them together in one loose, vague, general imputation of avarice, extortion and injustice, and hurl the same at a person unable to make distinctions, the shock is apt to disconcert him for a moment. the first indictment seems to hint at a contradiction, or at least an incompatibility, between the profession of poverty and the fact of possessing wealth. we claim that the one does not affect the' other, that a religious may belong to a rich order and still keep his vow inviolate. the vow in the religious is individual and personal; the riches collective. it is the physical person that is poor; the moral being has the wealth. men may club together, put their means into a common fund, renounce all personal claim thereto, live on a meagre revenue and employ the surplus for various purposes other than their needs. the personal poverty of such as these is real. this is the case of the religious. personally they do not own the clothes on their backs. the necessaries of life are furnished them out of a common fund. what remains, goes through their hands for the glory of god and in charity to fellow-man. the employment to which these men devote their lives, such as prayer, charity, the maintenance and conducting of schools and hospitals, is not lucrative to any great extent. and since very few orders resort to begging, the revenue from capital is the only means of assuring existence. it is therefore no more repugnant for religious to depend on funded wealth than it was for the apostolic college to have a common purse. the secret reason for this condition of things is that works of zeal rarely yield abundant returns, and man cannot live on the air of heaven. as to the extent of such wealth and its dangers, it would seem that if it be neither ill gotten nor employed for illegitimate purposes, in justice and equity, there cannot be two opinions on the subject. every human being has a right to the fruit of his industry and activity. to deny this is to advocate extreme socialism and anarchy and, he who puts this doctrine into practice, destroys the principle on which society rests. the law that strikes at religious corporations whose wealth accrues from centuries of toil and labor, may to-morrow consistently confiscate the goods and finances of every other corporation in the realm. if you force the religious out of land and home, why not force morgan, rockefeller & co., out of theirs! the justice in one case is as good as in the other. it is difficult to see how the people suffer from accumulated wealth, the revenues from which are almost entirely devoted to the relief of misery and the instruction of the ignorant. the people are the sole beneficiaries. there is here none of the arrogance and selfishness that usually characterize the possession of wealth to the embitterment of misery and misfortune. the religious, by their vow and their means, can share the condition of the poor and relieve it. if there is any institution better calculated to promote the well-being of the common people, it should be put to work. when the moneyed combinations whose rights are respected, show themselves as little prejudicial to the welfare of the classes, the religious will be prepared to go out of existence. everyone is inclined to accept as true the statement, on record as official, that the wealth of the religious orders in france is at the bottom of the trouble. we are not therefore a little astonished to learn from other sources that it is rather their poverty, which is burdensome to the people. the religious are not too rich, but too poor. they cannot support themselves, and live on the enforced charity of the laborer. french parents, not being equal to the task of maintaining monasteries and supporting large families, limited the number of their children. the population fell off in consequence. the government came to the relief of the people and cast out the religious. and here we have the beautiful consistency of those who believe that any old reason is better than none at all. the religious are too poor, their poverty is a burden on the people; the religious are too rich, their riches are prejudicial to the welfare of the people. one reason is good; two are better. if they contradict, it is only a trifling matter. as for us, we don't know quite where we stand. we can hear well enough, amid the din of denunciation, the conclusion that the religious must go; but we cannot, for the life of us, catch the why and wherefore. is it because they are too poor? or because they are too rich? or because they are both? we might be justified in thinking: because they are neither, but because they are what they are-- religious, devoted to the church and champions of her cause. this reason is at least as good as the two that contradict and destroy each other. in this sense, is monastic poverty a bad and evil thing? chapter xliii. the vow of obedience. what kind of obedience is that which makes religious "unwilling to acknowledge any superior but the pope?" we have been confidently informed this is the ground given in several instances for their removal. and we confess that, if the words "acknowledge" and "superior" are used in certain of the meanings they undoubtedly have, there is good and sufficient ground for such removal. at the same time we submit that the foregoing phrase is open to different interpretations of meaning, several of which would make out this measure of repression to be one of rank injustice. the studied misrule and abuse of language serves a detestable purpose that is only too evident. a charge like the above is true and false, that is to say, it is neither true nor false; it says nothing, unless explained, or unless you make it say what you wish. it is a sure, safe, but cowardly way of destroying an enemy without being obliged to admit the guilt to oneself. now the religious, and catholic laity as well, never think of acknowledging, in the full acceptation of the word, any other spiritual superior than the pope, and there can be nothing in this deserving repression. again, no catholic may consistently with catholic principles, refuse to accept as legitimate the legally constituted authority of the country in which he resides. as to a man's views on the different forms of government, that is nobody's business but his own. but whether he approves or disapproves in theory, his life and conduct must conform with the laws justly enacted under the form of government that happens to be accepted. to depart from this rule is to go counter to catholic teaching, and no religious order does so without incurring strict censure. the vow of obedience in a religious respects caesar as well as god. it cannot validly bind one to violate the laws of state any more than to violate the law of god. this vow does not even concern itself with civil and political matters; by it the religious alone is affected, the citizen looks out for himself. but the citizen is already bound by his conscience and the laws of the church to respect and obey lawful authority. a good religious is a good citizen, and he cannot be the former, if he is not the latter. as a mere catholic, he is more liable to be always found on the side of good citizenship, because in his religion he is taught, first of all, to respect authority on which all his religious convictions are based. there is a natural tendency in a protestant, who will have nothing to do with authority in spiritual matters, to bring this state of mind over with him into temporary affairs; being self-willed in greater things, he is fore-inclined to be self-willed in lesser. the catholic and, for a greater reason, the religious knows less of this temptation; and the better catholic and religious he is, the farther removed he is from possible revolt against, or even disrespect of, authority. against but one order of all those repressed can the charge of insubordination be brought with any show of truth. the assumptionists made the mistake of thinking that they could with impunity criticise the doings of the government, just as it is done in paris every day by the boulevard press. it is generally conceded that, considering the well-known attitude of the government towards the order, this was a highly imprudent course for a religious paper to pursue. but their right to do so is founded on the privilege of free speech. it takes very little to find abuse of free speech in the utterances of the clergy or religious in france. they are safe only when they are silent. if there were less docility and more defiance in their attitude, if the french catholics relied less on god and more on man for redress, they would receive more justice than they have been receiving. the punishment meted out to the religious for their insubordination has had, we are told, a doleful effect on the temporal power of the pope, an interesting patch of which has been broken up by the new french law. it is a mystery to us how this law can affect the temporal power of the pope any more than the political status of timbuctoo. it is passably difficult to make an impression on what has ceased to exist these thirty years. we thought the temporal power was dead. this bit of news has been dinned into our ears until we have come to believe. no conference, synod or council is considered by our dissenting friends without a good strong sermon on this topic. strange that it should resurrect just in time to lose "an interesting patch" of itself! this is cruelty. why not respect the grave? we recommend the perusal of the obituary of the temporal power written in italian politics since the year . we believe the tomb is carefully guarded. chapter xliv. the vow of chastity. religious are sometimes called celibates. now, a celibate, one of the bachelor persuasion, is a person who considers himself or herself good enough company in this life, and chooses single blessedness in preference to the not unmixed joys of wedlock. this alone is sufficient to make one a celibate, and nothing more is required. religious do not wed; but, specifically, that is all there is in common between them. all celibates are not chaste; celibacy is not necessarily chastity, by a large majority. unless something other than selfishness suggests this choice of life, the word is apt to be a misnomer for profligacy. and one who takes the vow of celibacy does not break it by sinning against the sixth commandment; he is true to it until he weds. the religious vow is something more than this. again, chastity, by itself, does not properly designate the state of religious men and women. chastity is moral purity, but purity is a relative term, and admits of many degrees. it is perfect or imperfect. there is a conjugal chastity; while in single life, it may concern itself with the body, with or without reference to the mind and heart. chastity reaches its highest form when it excludes everything carnal, what is lawful as well as what is unlawful, thoughts and desires as well as deeds. this is the chastity that is proper to religious, and it is more correctly called virginity. this is the natural state of spirits who have no bodies; cultivated in the frail flesh of children of adam, it is the most delicate flower imaginable. considering the incessant struggle it supposes in those who take such a vow against the spirit within us that is so strong, the taking and keeping of it indicate a degree of fortitude little short of heroism. only the few, and that few relying wholly on the grace of god, can aspire to this state. from a spiritual point of view, there can be no question as to the superiority of this state of life over all others. the teaching of st. paul to the corinthians is too plain to need any comment, not to mention the example of christ, his blessed mother, his disciples and all those who in the course of time have loved god best and served him most generously. prescinding from all spiritual considerations and looking at things through purely human eyes, vows of this sort must appear prejudicial to the propagation of the species. in fact, they go against the law of nature which says: increase and multiply, so we are told. if that law is natural as well as positive, it is certain that it applies to man collectively, and not individually. it is manifested only in the instinct that makes this duty a pleasure. where the inclination is lacking, the obligation is not obvious. that which is repugnant is not natural, in any true sense of the word; whether this repugnance be of the intellectual or spiritual order, it matters not, for our nature is spiritual as truly as it is animal. the law of nature forces no man into a state that is not in harmony with his sympathies and affections. nevertheless, it must be admitted that to a certain extent the race suffers numerically from an institution that fosters abstention from marriage. to what extent, is an entirely different question. not all laymen marry. it is safe to say that the vast majority of religious men, vow or no vow, would never wed; so that the vow is not really to blame for their state, and the consequences thereof. as for women, statistics show it to be impossible for all to marry since their number exceeds that of men. now, marriage with the fair sex, is very often a matter of competition. talent, beauty, character, disposition and accomplishments play a very active role in the acquisition of a husband. considering that the chances of those who seek refuge under the veil are not of the poorest, since they are the fairest and best endowed of our daughters, it would seem to follow that their act is a charity extended to their less fortunate sisters who are thereby aided to success, instead of being doomed to failure by the insufficiency of their own qualifications. be this as it may, what we most strenuously object to, is that vows be held responsible for the sins of others. in some countries and sections of countries, the population is almost stationary in marked contrast to that of others. looking for the cause for this unnatural phenomenon, there are who see it in the spread of monasticism, with its vow of chastity. they fail to remark that not numerous, but large families are the best sign of vigor in a nation. impurity, not chastity, is the enemy of the race. instead of warring against those whose lives are pure, why not destroy that monster that is gnawing at the very vitals of the race, sapping its strength at the very font of life, that modern moloch, to whom fashionable society offers sacrifice more abominable than the hecatombs of carthage. this iniquity, rampant wherever the sense of god is absent, and none other, is the cause which some people do not see because they have good reasons for not wanting to see. it is very convenient to have someone handy to accuse of one's own faults. it is too bad that the now almost extinct race of puritans did not have a few monks around to blame for the phenomenon of their failure to keep abreast of the race. if celibacy, therefore, means untrammeled vice, and marriage degenerates into new englandism, the world will get along better with less of both. vows, if they have no other merit, respect at least the law of god, and this world is run according to that law. chapter xlv. blasphemy. to blaspheme is to speak ill of god; blasphemy is an utterance derogatory to the respect and honor due to god. primarily, it is a sin of the tongue; but, like all other sins, it draws its malice from the heart. thus, a thought may be blasphemous, even though the blasphemy remain unexpressed; and a gesture, oftentimes more expressive than a word, may contain all the malice of blasphemy. this impiety therefore may be committed in thought, in word and in deed. blasphemy addresses itself directly to god, to his attributes and perfections which are denied, or ridiculed; to jesus christ and the blessed sacrament; indirectly, through his mother and his saints, through holy scripture and religion, through the church and her ministers in their quality of ministers,--all of which, being intimately and inseparably connected with the idea of god, cannot be vilified without the honor of god being affected; and, consequently, all contempt and irreverence addressed to them, takes on the nature of blasphemy. an indirect sin of blasphemy is less enormous than a direct offense, but the difference is in degree, not in kind. all error that affects god directly, or indirectly through sacred things, is blasphemy whether the error consist in a denial of what is true, or an attribution of what is false. contempt, ridicule, scoffing and sneering, where are concerned the holy and things holy, are blasphemous. he also blasphemes who attributes to a creature what belongs to god alone, or can be said only of holy things, who drags down the sacred to the level of the profane. revilings against god are happily rare; when met with, they are invariably the mouthings of self-styled atheists or infidels whose sanity is not always a patent fact. heretics are usually blasphemous when they treat of anything outside jesus christ and the bible; and not even christ and scripture escape, for often their ideas and utterances concerning both are as injurious to god as they are false and erroneous. finally, despair and anger not infrequently find satisfaction in abusing god and all that pertains to him. nothing more abominable can be conceived than this evil, since it attacks, and is in opposition to, god himself. and nothing shows up its malice so much as the fact that blasphemy is the natural product and offspring of hate; it goes to the limit of human power in revolt against the maker. it is, however, a consolation to know that, in the majority of cases, blasphemy is found where faith is wanting or responsibility absent, for it may charitably be taken for granted that if the blasphemer really knew what he was saying, he would rather cut out his tongue than repeat it. so true is it that the salvation of many depends almost as much on their own ignorance as on the grace of god. there is a species of blasphemy, not without its degree of malice, found sometimes in people who are otherwise god-fearing and religious. when he visits them with affliction and adversity, their self-conscious righteousness goes out and seeks comparison with prosperous ungodliness, and forthwith comments on strange fact of the deserving suffering while the undeserving are spared. they remark to themselves that the wicked always succeed, and entertain a strong suspicion that if they were as bad as others certain things would not happen. all this smacks dangerously of revolt against the providence of god. job's problem is one that can be solved only by faith and a strong spiritual sense. he who has it not is liable to get on the wrong side in the discussion; and it is difficult to go very far on that side without finding providence at fault and thus becoming guilty of blasphemy. for, to mention partiality in the same breath with god's care of the universe, is to deny him. the daily papers, a few years ago, gave public notoriety to two instances of blasphemy, and their very remarkable punishment, for it is impossible not to see the hand of god in what followed so close upon the offending. a desperate gambler called upon the almighty to strike him dumb, if in the next deal a certain card turned up. it did turn up, and at the last accounts the man had not yet spoken. another cast from his door a vendor of images and crucifixes with a curse and the remark that he would rather have the devil in his house than a crucifix. the very next day, he became the father of what came as near being the devil as anything the doctors of that vicinity ever saw. these are not sunday-school stories invented to frighten children; the facts occurred, and were heralded broadcast throughout the land. despair urged the first unfortunate to defy the almighty. in the other 'twas hatred for the church that honors the image of christ crucified as one honors the portrait of a mother. the blasphemy in the second case reached god as effectively as in the first, and the outrage contained in both is of an order that human language is incapable of qualifying. chapter xlvi. cursing. to bless one is not merely to wish that one well, but also to invoke good fortune upon his head, to recommend him to the giver of all goods. so, too, cursing, damning, imprecation, malediction--synonymous terms-- is stronger than evil wishing and desiring. he who acts thus invokes a spirit of evil, asks god to visit his wrath upon the object cursed, to inflict death, damnation, or other ills. there is consequently in such language at least an implicit calling upon god, for the evil invoked is invoked of god, either directly or indirectly. and that is why the second commandment concerns itself with cursing. thus it will be seen that this abuse of language offends against religion and charity as well. to the malice of calling down evil upon a brother's head is added the impiety of calling upon god to do it, to curse when he should be prayed to bless. of course all depends on what is the object of our imprecations. one species of this vice contains blasphemy pure and simple, that is, a curse which attains something that refers to god in an especial manner, and as such is cursed. the idea of god cannot be separated from that of the soul, of faith, of the church, etc. malediction addressed to them reaches god, and contains all the malice of blasphemy. when the malediction falls on creatures, without any reference to their relationship to god, we have cursing in its proper form with a special malice of its own. directly, charity alone is violated, but charity has obligations which are binding under pain of mortal sin. no man can sin against himself or against his neighbor without offending god. a curse may be, and frequently is, emphasized with a vow or an oath. one may solemnly promise god in certain contingencies that he will damn another to hell; or he may call upon god to witness his execrations. the malice of two specific sins is here accumulated, the offense is double in this one abominable utterance; nothing can be conceived more horrible, unless it be the indifferent frequency with which it is perpetrated. the guilt incurred by those who thus curse and damn, leaving aside the scandal which is thereby nearly always given, is naturally measured by the degree of advertence possessed by such persons. supposing full deliberation, to curse a fellow-man or self, if the evil invoked be of a serious nature, is a mortal sin. passion or habit may excuse, if the movement is what is called "a first movement," that is, a mechanical utterance without reflection or volition; also, if the habit has been retracted and is in process of reform. if neither damnation nor death nor infamy nor any major evil is invoked, the sin may be less grievous, but sin it always is. if the object anathematized is an animal, a thing, a vice, etc., there may be a slight sin or no sin at all. some things deserved to be cursed. in damning others, there may be disorder enough to constitute a venial sin, without any greater malice. considering the case of a man who, far removed from human hearing, should discover too late, his forgetfulness to leave the way clear between a block and a fast-descending and ponderous ax, and, in a fit of acute discomfort and uncontrollable feeling consequential to such forgetfulness, should consign block, ax, and various objects in the immediate vicinity to the nethermost depths of stygian darkness: in such a case, we do not think there would be sin. on the other hand, they in whose favor such attenuating circumstances do not militate, do the office of the demons. these latter can do nothing but curse and heap maledictions upon all who do not share their lot. to damn is the office of the damned. it is therefore fitting that those who cease not to damn while on earth be condemned to damn eternally and be damned in the next life. and if it is true that "the mouth speaks out of the abundance of the heart," to what but to hell can be compared the inner soul of him whose delight consists in vomiting forth curses and imprecations upon his fellow-men? chapter xlvii. profanity. profanity is not a specific sin. under this general head come all blasphemy, false, rash, unjust and unnecessary oaths, rash and violated vows, and cursing:--called profanity, because in each case the name of god is profaned, that is to say, is made less holy, by its application to unworthy objects and in unbecoming circumstances; profanity, because it has to do with the holy name, and not profanation, which looks to sacred things. although language lends itself to many devices and is well nigh inexhaustible in its resources, this category of sins of profanity embraces about all modes of offending against the holy name, and consequently against the second commandment. we have already examined the different species of profanity. but it is not always easy to classify certain utterances and expressions that savour of profanity, to determine the specific nature of their malice, especially the guilt incurred by the speaker. first of all, the terms used are often distorted from their original signification, or require that words left understood be supplied; as they stand, they are often as meaningless to the speaker as to the general uninitiated public. to get at the formal malice of such utterances is still more difficult, for it becomes necessary to interpret the intentions of the speaker. thus, in one case, words that contain no evident insult to god may be used with all the vehemence of profanity, to which guilt is certainly attached; in another, the most unholy language may be employed in ignorance of its meaning, with no evil intent, the only danger of malice being from habit, passion or scandal. this brings us to consider certain ejaculatory or exclamatory expressions such as: god! good god! lord! etc., employed by persons of very different spiritual complexion. evidently, these words may be employed in good and in evil part; whether in one or the other, depends on the circumstances of their using. they may proceed from piety and true devotion of the heart, out of the abundance of which the mouth speaks. far from being wrong, this is positively good and meritorious. if this is done through force of habit, or is the result of levity, without the least interior devotion or affection, it is a mitigated form of profanity. to say the least, no honor accrues to god from such language and such use of his name; and where he is concerned, not to honor him is dangerously near dishonoring him. if contempt of god or scandal result from such language, the offense may easily be mortal. finally, excited feelings of passion or wrath vent themselves in this manner, and here it is still more easy to make it a grievous offending. about the only thing that can excuse from fault is absolute indeliberation. again, without implying any malediction, prescinding altogether from the supernatural character of what they represent, as ejaculations only, we come across the use of such words as hell, devil, damnation, etc. good ethics condemn such terms in conversation; hearing them used people may be scandalized, especially the young; if one uses them with the mistaken idea that they contain blasphemy, then that one is formally guilty of blasphemy; finally, it is vulgar, coarse and unmannerly to do so. but all this being admitted, we do not see any more moral iniquity in the mention of these words than of their equivalents: eternal fire, satan, perdition, etc. we do not advise or encourage the use of such terms, but it sometimes jars one's sense of propriety to see people hold up their hands in holy horror at the sound of these words, as if their mention were something unspeakably wicked, while they themselves would look fornication, for instance, straight in the face without a shudder or a blush. profanity is certainly a sin, sometimes a grievous sin; but in our humble opinion, the fiat of self-righteous pharisaism to the contrary notwithstanding, it is a few hundred times oftener no sin at all, or a very white sin, than the awful crime some people see in it. if a fellow could quote classical "mehercule," and shakespearean cuss-words, he would not perhaps be so vulgar as to say "hell." but not having such language at his command, and being filled with strong feelings that clamor for a good substantial expression, if he looks around and finds these the strongest and only available ones, and uses them,--it is necessity and human nature, we wot, more than sacrilegious profanity. it were better if his speech were aye, aye and nay, nay; but it does not make it look any better to convict him of the blackest sin on the calendar just because he mentioned a place that really exists, if it is hot, and which it is well to have ever before our eyes against the temptations of life. chapter xlviii. third commandment the law of rest. the last of the three commandments that refer directly to god, prescribes a rest from toil, and profane works; and in commemoration of the mystical repose of the lord after the six days' creation, designates the sabbath or seventh day as a day that shall be set apart and made sacred to god. the peculiarity of the commandment is that it interferes with the occupations of man, intrudes upon his individual affairs and claims a worship of works. the others do not go thus far, and are satisfied with a worship of the heart and tongue, of affections and language. leaving aside for the moment the special designation of a day devoted to this worship, the law of rest itself deserves attention. whether the saturday or sunday be observed, whether the rest be long or brief, a day or an hour, depends entirely on the positive will of god. more than this must be said of the command of rest; that law grows out of our relations with god, is founded in nature, is according to the natural order of things. this repose means abstention from bodily activity.. the law does not go so far as to prescribe stagnation and sloth, but it is satisfied with such abstention as is compatible with the reasonable needs of man. of its nature, it constitutes an exterior, public act of religion. the question is: does the nature of our relations with god demand this sort of worship? evidently, yes. else god, who created the whole man, would not receive a perfect worship. if god made man, man belongs to him; if from that possession flows a natural obligation to worship with heart and tongue, why not also of the body? god has a maker's right over us, and without some acknowledgment on the part of the body of this right, there would be no evidence that such a right existed. there is no doubt but that the law of our being requires of us an interior worship. now, if that spirit of homage within us is sincere, it will naturally seek to exteriorize itself; if it is to be preserved, it must "out." we are not here speaking of certain peculiarly ordered individuals, but of the bulk of common humanity. experience teaches that what does not come out either never existed or is not assured of a prolonged existence. just as the mind must go out of itself for the substance of its thoughts, so must the heart go out to get relief from the pressure of its feelings. god commanded this external worship because it alone could preserve internal affections. again, there are many things which the ordinary man ignores concerning god, which it is necessary for him to know, and which do not come by intuition. in other words, he must be taught a host of truths that he is incapable of finding out by himself. education and instruction in religious matters are outside the sphere of his usual occupations. where will he ever get this necessary information, if he is not taught? and how can he be taught, if he does not lay aside occupations that are incompatible with the acquisition of intellectual truths? he is therefore forced by the law of his being, and the obligation he owes his maker, to rest from his every-day labors, once in awhile, in order to learn his full duty, if for nothing else. pagans, who never knew the law of moses, serve neither saturday nor sunday; neither do they give an entire day, at fixed intervals to the exterior worship of the deity, as we do. but a case will not be found where they did not on certain occasions rest from work in order to offer the homage of their fidelity to their gods, and to listen, to instruction and exhortation from their holy men. these pagans follow the natural law written in their souls, and it is there they discover the obligation they are under to honor god by rest from labor and to make holy unto him a certain space of time. chapter xlix. the day of rest. the third article of the mosaic code not only enunciates the law of rest, but says just how much time shall be given to its observance; it prescribes neither a week nor a few hours, but one day in seven. if you have a taste for such things and look well, you will find several reasons put forth as justifying this special designation of one day in seven. the number seven the jews regarded as a sacred number; the romans, as the symbol of perfection. students of antiquity have discovered that among nearly all peoples this number in some way or other refers to the deity. science finds that nature prefers this number; light under analysis reveals seven colors, and all colors refer to the seven orders of the solar spectrum; the human voice has seven tones that constitute the scale of sound; the human body is renewed every seven years. authorities on hygiene and physiology teach that one day in six is too much, one day in eight is too little, but that one day in seven is sufficient and necessary for the physical needs of man. these considerations may or may not carry conviction to the average mind. on the face of it, they confirm rather than prove. they do not reveal the necessity of a day of rest so much as show its reasonableness and how it harmonizes with nature in its periodicity, its symmetry and its exact proportion to the strength of man. as for real substantial reasons, there is but one,--a good and sufficient,-- and that is the positive will of god. he said: keep this day holy; such is his command; no man should need a better reason. the god-given law of moses says saturday, christians say sunday. protestants and catholics alike say sunday, and sunday it is. but this is not a trifling change; it calls for an explanation. why was it made? what is there to justify it? on what authority was it done? can the will of god, unmistakably manifested, be thus disregarded and put aside by his creatures? this is a serious question. one of the most interesting things in the world would be to hear a protestant christian, on protestant grounds, justify his observance of the sunday instead of the sabbath, and give reasons for his conduct. "search the scriptures." aye, search from genesis to revelations, the mosaic prescriptions will hold good in spite of all your researches. instead of justification you will find condemnation. "the bible, the bible alone" theory hardly fits in here. are papists the only ones to add to the holy writings, or to go counter to them? suppose this change cannot be justified on scriptural grounds, what then? and the fact is, it cannot. it is hardly satisfactory to remark that this is a disciplinary injunction, and christ abrogated the jewish ceremonial. but if it is nothing more than this, how came it to get on the table of the law? its embodiment in the decalogue makes it somewhat different from all other ceremonial prescriptions; as it stands, it is on a par with the veto to kill or to steal. christ abolished the purely jewish law, but he left the decalogue intact. christ rose from the dead on sunday, 'tis true; but nowhere in writing can it be found that his resurrection on that day meant a change in the third commandment. in the nature of the event, there is absolutely no relation between it and the observance of sunday. where will our friend find a loop-hole to escape? oh! as usual, for the sunday as for the bible, he will have to fall back on the old church. what in the world could he do without her? he will find there an authority, and he is obliged to recognize it, even if he does on ordinary occasions declaim against and condemn it. incidentally, if his eyes are open, he will discover that his individually interpreted bible has failed most woefully to do its work; it condemns the protestant sunday. this day was changed on the sole authority of the holy roman catholic church, as the representative of god on earth, to whose keeping was confided the interpretation of god's word, and in whose bosom is found that other criterion of truth, called tradition. tradition it is that justifies the change she made. deny this, and there is no justification possible, and you must go back to the mosaic sabbath. admit it, and if you are a protestant you will find yourself in somewhat of a mess. a logical protestant must be a very uneasy being. if the church is right in this, why should she not be right in defining the immaculate conception? and if she errs here, what assurance is there that she does not err there? how can he say she is right on one occasion, and wrong on another? what kind of nonsense is it that makes her truthful or erring according to one's fancy and taste? truly, the reformer blundered when he did not treat the sunday as he treated the pope and all church authority, for it is papistical to a degree. chapter l. keeping the lord's day holy. the third commandment bids us sanctify the lord's day; but in what that sanctification shall consist, it does not say. it is certain, however, that it is only by worship, of one kind or another, that the day can be properly kept holy to the lord; and since interior worship is prescribed by the first commandment, exterior and public worship must be what is called for. then, there are many modes of worship; there is no end to the means man may devise of offering homage to the creator. the first element of worship is abstention from profane labor; rest is the first condition of keeping the sabbath. the word sabbath itself means cessation of work. you cannot do two things at the same time, you cannot serve god and mammon. our everyday occupations are not, of their nature, a public homage of fidelity to god. if any homage is to be offered, as a preliminary, work must cease. this interruption of the ordinary business of life alone makes it possible to enter seriously into the more important business of god's service, and in this sense it is a negative worship. yet, there is also something positive about it, for the simple fact of desisting from toil contains an element of direct homage. six days are ours for ourselves. what accrues from our activity on those days is our profit. to god we sacrifice one day and all it might bring to us, we pay to him a tithe of our time, labor and earnings. by directing aright our intentions, therefore, our rest assumes the higher dignity of explicit, emphatic religion and reverence, and in a fuller manner sanctifies the day that is the lord's. we should, however, guard ourselves against the mistaken notion that sloth and idleness are synonymous of rest. it is not all activity, but the ordinary activity of common life, that is forbidden. it were a sacrilegious mockery to make god the author of a law that fosters laziness and favors the sluggard. another extreme that common sense condemns is that the physical man should suffer martyrdom while the soul thus communes with god, that promenades and recreation should be abolished, and social amenities ignored, that dryness, gloom, moroseness and severity are the proper conditions of sabbatical observance. in this respect, our puritan ancestors were the true children of pharisaism, and their blue laws more properly belong in the talmud than in the constitution of an american commonwealth. god loves a cheerful giver, and would you not judge from appearances that religion was painful to these pious witch-burners and everything for god most grudgingly done? sighs, grimaces, groans and wails, this is the homage the devils in hell offer to the justice of god; there is no more place for them in the religion of earth than in the religion of heaven. correlative with the obligation of rest is that of purely positive worship, and here is the difficulty of deciding just what is the correct thing in religious worship. the jews had their institutions, but christ abolished them. the pagans had their way--sacrifice; protestants have their preaching and hymn-singing. catholics offer a sacrifice, too, but an unbloody one. later on, we shall hear the church speak out on the subject. she exercised the right to change the day itself; she claims naturally the right to say how it should be observed, because the day belongs to her. and she will impose upon her children the obligation to attend mass. but here the precepts of the church are out of the question. the obligation, however, to participate in some act of worship is plain. the first commandment charges every man to offer an exterior homage of one kind or another, at some time or another. the third sets aside a day for the worship of the divinity. thus the general command of the first precept is specified. this is the time, or there is no time. with the third commandment before him, man cannot arbitrarily choose for himself the time for his worship, he must do it on sunday. public worship being established in all christian communities, every christian who cannot improve upon what is offered and who is convinced that a certain mode of worship is the best and true, is bound by the law to participate therein. the obligation may be greater if he ignores the principles of religion and cannot get information and instruction outside the temple of religion. for catholics, there is only one true mode of public worship, and that is the sacrifice of the mass. no layman is sufficient unto himself to provide such an act of religion. he has, therefore, no choice, he must assist at that sacrifice if he would fulfil the obligation he is under of sunday worship. chapter li. worship of sacrifice. we catholics contend, and our contention is based on a law of nature that we glean from the history of man, that sacrifice is the soul of religion, that there never was a universally and permanently accepted religion--and that there cannot be any such religion--without an altar, a victim, a priest, and a sacrifice. we claim that reason and experience would bear us out in this contention, even without the example and teaching and express commands of jesus christ, who, in founding a new and the only true religion, himself offered sacrifice and left a sacrifice to be perpetually offered in his religion; and that sacrifice constitutes the high worship we owe to the creator. it is our conviction that, when man came into the presence of the almighty, his first impulse was to speak to him, and his first word was an act of adoration. but human language is a feeble medium of communication with the almighty. man talks to man. to talk with god, he sought out another language; and, as in the case of adam's sons, he discovered in sacrifice a better and stronger mode of expressing his religious feelings. he therefore offered sacrifice, and sacrifice became the language of man in his relations with the deity. in its simplest definition, sacrifice is the offering to god of a victim, by one authorized for that task. it supposes essentially the destruction of the victim; and the act is an eloquent acknowledgment, in language that is as plain as it possibly can be made, that god is the supreme lord of life and death, that all things that exist come from him, and revert to him as to their natural end. the philosophy of sacrifice is that man, in some manner or other, had incurred the wrath of the almighty. the pagan could not tell hi just what his offense consisted; but there is nothing plainer than the fact that he considered himself under the ban of god's displeasure, and that sin had something to do with it; and he feared the deity accordingly. we know that original sin was the curse under which he labored. whatever the offense was, it was in the flesh, the result of weakness rather than malice. there was something in his nature that inclined to evil and was responsible for sin. the better part tried to serve, but the inferior man revolted. flesh, therefore, was wicked and sinful; and since all offense must be atoned for, the flesh should pay the penalty of evil. the wrath of god could be appeased, and sacrifice was the thing that could do it. another thing most remarkable among those who worshiped by sacrifice in the early times, is that they believed firmly in the reversibility of merit, that is, that the innocent could atone for the wicked. somehow, they acquired the notion that stainless victims were more agreeable to god than others. god sanctioned this belief among the jews, and most strikingly on the hill of calvary. this being the case, man being guilty and not having the right to inflict the supreme penalty upon himself, the natural thing to do was to substitute a victim for himself, to put the flesh of another in the place of his own and to visit upon it the punishment that was due to himself. and he offered to god this vicarious atonement. his action spoke in this wise: "my god, i am a sinner and deserve thy wrath. but look upon this victim as though it were myself. my sins and offenses i lay upon its shoulders, this knife shall be the bolt of thy vengeance, and it shall make atonement in blood." this is the language of sacrifice. as we have said, it supposes the necessity of atonement and belief in the reversibility of merit. now, if we find in history, as we certainly do find,--that all peoples offered sacrifice of this kind, we do not think we would be far from the truth if we deduced therefrom a law of nature; and if it is a law of nature, it is a law of god. if there is no religion of antiquity that did not offer sacrifice, then it would seem that the almighty had traced a path along which man naturally trod and which his natural instinct showed him. we believe in the axiom of st. augustine: "securus judicet orbis terrarum, a universally accepted judgment can be safely followed." especially do we feel secure with the history of the chosen people of god before us arid its sacrifice ordained by the law; with the sanction of christ's sacrifice in our mind, and the practice of the divinely inspired church which makes sacrifice the soul of her worship. the victim we have is jesus christ himself, and none other than he. he gave us his flesh and blood to consume, with the command to consume. our sacrifice, therefore, consists in the offering up of this victim to god and the consuming of it. upon the victim of the altar, as upon the victim of the cross, we lay our sins and offenses, and, in one case as in the other, the sacred blood, in god's eyes, washes our iniquity away. of course, it requires faith to believe, but religion is nothing if it is not whole and entire a matter of faith. the less faith you have, the more you try to simplify matters. waning faith began by eliminating authority and sacrifice and the unwritten word. now the written word is going the same way. pretty soon we shall hear of the decalogue's being subjected to this same eliminating process. after all, when one gets started in that direction, what reason is there that he should ever stop! chapter lii. worship of rest. participation in public worship is the positive obligation flowing from the third commandment; abstention from labor is what is negatively enjoined. now, works differ as widely in their nature as differ in form and dimension the pebbles on the sea-shore. there are works of god and works of the devil, and works which, as regards spirituality, are totally indifferent, profane works, as distinguished from sacred and sinful works. and these latter may be corporal or intellectual or both. work or labor or toil, in itself, is a spending of energy, an exercise of activity; it covers a deal of ground. and since the law simply says to abstain from work, it falls to us to determine just what works are meant, for it is certain that all works, that is, all that come under the general head of work, do not profane the lord's day. the legislation of the church, which is the custodian of the sunday, on this head commends itself to all thoughtful men; while, for those who recognize the church as the true one, that legislation is authority. the church distinguishes three kinds of profane works, that is, works that are neither sacred nor iniquitous of their nature. there is one kind which requires labor of the mind rather than of the body. these works tend directly to the culture or exercise of the mind, and are called liberal works, because under the romans, freemen or "liberi" almost exclusively were engaged therein. such are reading, writing, studying, music, drawing--in general, mental occupations in whole, or more mental than corporal. these works the church does not consider the law includes in its prohibition, and they are consequently not forbidden. it is impossible here to enumerate all that enters into this class of works; custom has something to say in determining what is liberal in our works; and in investigating, we must apply to each case the general principle. the labor in question may be gratuitous or well paid; it may cause fatigue or afford recreation: all this is not to the point. the question is, outside the danger of omitting divine service, scandal or circumstances that might lead to the annoyances and distraction of others--the question is: does this work call for exercise of the mind more than that of the body? if the answer is affirmative, then the work is liberal, and as such it is not forbidden on sunday, it is not considered a profanation of the lord's day. on the other extreme are what go by the name of servile works, which call forth principally bodily effort and tend directly to the advantage of the body. they are known also as works of manual labor. before the days of christianity, slaves alone were thus employed, and from the word "servi" or slaves these are called servile works. here again it is the nature of the work that makes it servile. it may be remunerative or not, recreative or not, fatiguing or not; it may be a regular occupation, or just taken up for the moment; it may be, outside cases of necessity, for the glory of god or for the good of the neighbor. if it is true that the body has more part therein than the mind, then it is a servile work and it is forbidden. of course there are serious reasons that dispense us from our obligation to this law, but we are not talking about that just at present. the reason of the proscription is, not that such works are evil, but that they interfere with the intention we should give to the worship we owe to god, and that, without this cessation of labor, our bodily health would be impaired: these are the two motives of the law. but even if it happened, in an individual case, that these inconveniences were removed, that neither god's reverence nor one's own health suffered from such occupations as the law condemns, the obligation would still remain to abstain therefrom, for it is general and absolute, and when there is question of obeying a law, the subject has a right to examine the law, but not the motives of the law. we shall later see that there are other works, called common, which require activity of the mind and of the body in about an equal measure or which enter into the common necessities of life. these are not forbidden in themselves, although in certain contingencies they may be adjudged unlawful; but, in the matter of servile works, nothing but necessity, the greater glory of god, or the good of the neighbor, can allow us to consider the law non-binding. to break it is a sin, slight or grievous, according to the nature of the offense. chapter liii. servile works. but, if servile works are prohibited on the lord's day, it must be remembered that "the sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath," that, for certain good and sufficient reasons, the law ceases to oblige; and, in these circumstances, works of a purely servile nature are no longer unlawful. this is a truth christ made very clear to the straight-laced pharisees of the old dispensation who interpreted too rigorously the divine prohibition; and certain pharisees of the new dispensation, who are supposed assiduously to read the bible, should jog their memories on the point in order to save themselves from the ridicule that surrounds the memory of their ancestors of blue-law fame. the church enters into the spirit of her divine founder and recognizes cases in which labor on sunday may be, and is, more agreeable to god, and more meritorious to ourselves, than rest from labor. the law certainly does not intend to forbid a kind of works, specifically servile in themselves, connected with divine worship, required by the necessities of public religion, or needed to give to that worship all the solemnity and pomp which it deserves; provided, of course, such things could not well be done on another day. all god's laws are for his greater glory, and to assert that works necessary for the honoring of god are forbidden by his law is to be guilty of a contradiction in terms. all things therefore needed for the preparation and becoming celebration of the rites of religion, even though of a servile nature, are lawful and do not come under the head of this prohibition. the law ceases likewise to bind when its observance would prevent an act of charity towards the neighbor in distress, necessity, or pressing need. if the necessity is real and true charity demands it, in matters not what work, not intrinsically evil, is to be done, on what day or for how long a time it is to be done; charity overrides every law, for it is itself the first law of god. thus, if the neighbor is in danger of suffering, or actually suffers, any injury, damage or ill, god requires that we give our services to that neighbor rather than to himself. as a matter of fact, in thus serving the neighbor, we serve god in the best possible way. finally, necessity, public as well as personal, dispenses from obligation to the law. in time of war, all things required for its carrying on are licit. it is lawful to fight the elements when they threaten destruction, to save crops in an interval of fine weather when delay would mean a risk; to cater to public conveniences which custom adjudges necessary,--and by custom we mean that which has at least the implicit sanction of authority,--such as public conveyances, pharmacies, hotels, etc. certain industries run by steam power require that their fires should not be put out altogether, and the labor necessary to keep them going is not considered illicit. in general, all servile work that is necessary to insure against serious loss is lawful. as for the individual, it is easier to allow him to toil on sunday, that is, a less serious reason is required, if he assists at divine worship, than in the contrary event. one can be justified in omitting both obligations only in the event of inability otherwise to provide for self and family. he whose occupation demands sunday labor need not consider himself guilty so long as he is unable to secure a position with something like the same emoluments; but it is his duty to regret the necessity that prevents him from fulfiling the law, and to make efforts to better his condition from a spiritual point of view, even if the change does not to any appreciable extent better it financially; a pursuit equally available should be preferred. neglect in seeking out such an amelioration of situation would cause the necessity of it to cease and make the delinquent responsible for habitual breach of the law. if it is always a sin to engage without necessity in servile works on sunday, it is not equally sinful to labor little or labor much. common sense tells us that all our failings are not in the same measure offensive to god, for they do not all contain the same amount of malice and contempt of authority. a person who resolves to break the law and persists in working all day long, is of a certainty more guilty than he who after attending divine service fails so far as to labor an hour. the question therefore is, how long must one work on sunday to be guilty of a mortal sin. the answer to this question is: a notable time; but that does not throw a very great abundance of light on the subject. but surely a fourth of the whole is a notable part. now, considering that a day's work is, not twenty-four hours, but ten hours, very rarely twelve, frequently only eight, it will be seen to follow that two hours' work would be considered a notable breach of the law of rest. and this is the decision of competent authority. not but that less might make us grievously guilty, but we may take it as certain that he who works during two full hours, at a labor considered servile, without sufficient reason, commits a mortal sin. chapter liv. common works. there is a third sort of works to be considered in relation to sunday observance, which, being of their nature neither liberal nor servile, go by the specific name of common works. this class embraces works of two kinds, viz., those which enter into the common, daily, inevitable necessities of life, and those in which the mind and body are exerted in an equal measure. the former are not considered servile because they are necessary, not in certain circumstances, but at all times, for all persons, in all conditions of life. activity of this kind, so universally and imperiously demanded, does not require dispensation from the law, as in the case of necessary servile works properly so-called; but it stands outside all legislation and is a law unto itself. these works are usually domestic occupations, as cooking and the preparation of victuals, the keeping of the house in becoming tidiness, the proper care of children, of beasts of burden and domestic animals. people must eat, the body must be fed, life requires attention on sunday as well as on the other six days; and in no circumstances can this labor be dispensed with. sometimes eatables for sunday consumption may be prepared on the previous day; if this is not done, whether through forgetfulness, neglect or indifference, it is lawful on sunday to prepare a good table, even one more sumptuous than on ordinary days. for sunday is a day of festival, and without enthusing over the fact, we must concede that the words feast and festival are synonymous in human language, that the ordinary and favorite place for human rejoicing is the table, and in this man differs not from the other animals of creation. this may not be aesthetic but it is true. in walking, riding, games, etc., the physical and mental forces of man are called into play in about equal proportion, or at least, these occupations can be called neither liberal arts nor manual labor; all manners of persons engage therein without respect to condition or profession. these are also called common works; and to them may be added hunting and fishing, when custom, rightly understood, does not forbid them, and in this region custom most uniformly does so forbid. these occupations are looked upon as innocent pastime, affording relief to the body and mind, and in this respect should be likened to the taking of food. for it is certain that sanitary conditions often as imperiously demand recreation as nourishment. especially is this the case with persons given to sedentary pursuits, confined during the week to shops, factories and stores, and whose only opportunity this is to shake off the dull monotony of work and to give the bodies and minds necessary relaxation and distraction. it is not physical rest that such people require so much as healthy movement of a pleasing kind, and activity that will draw their attention from habitual channels and thus break the strain that fatigues them. under these conditions, common works are not only allowed, but they are to be encouraged. but it must not be lost sight of that these pursuits are permitted as long as they remain common works, that is, as long as they do not accidentally become servile works, or go contrary to the end for which they are allowed. this may occur in three different manners, and when it does occur, the works known as common are forbidden as servile works. . they must not expose us to the danger of omitting divine service. the obligation to positively sanctify the day remains intact. sin may be committed, slight or grievous, according as the danger to which we expose ourselves, by indulging in these pursuits, of missing public worship, is more or less remote, more or less probable. . these works become illicit when they are excessive, when too much time is given to them, when the body receives too large a share of the exercise, when accompanied by overmuch application, show or fatigue. in these cases, the purpose of the law is defeated, the works are considered no longer common and fall under the veto that affects servile works. an aggravating circumstance is that of working for the sole purpose of gain, as in the case of professional baseball, etc. . lastly, there are exterior circumstances that make these occupations a desecration of the lord's day, and as such evidently they cannot be tolerated. they must not be boisterous to the extent of disturbing the neighbor's rest and quiet, or detracting from the reverence due the sabbath; they must not entice others away from a respectful observance of the lord's day or offer an opportunity or occasion for sin, cursing, blasphemy and foul language, contention and drunkenness; they must not be a scandal for the community. outside these contingencies of disorder, the sabbath rest is not broken by indulgence in works classified as common works. such activity, in all common sense and reason, is compatible with the reverence that god claims as his due on his day. chapter lv. parental dignity. we have done with the three commandments that refer directly to god. the second table of the law contains seven precepts that concern themselves with our relations to god, indirectly, through the creature; they treat of our duties and obligations toward the neighbor. as god may be honored, so he may be dishonored, through the works of his hand; one may offend as effectively by disregard for the law that binds us to god's creatures as for that which binds us to the creator himself. since parents are those of god's creatures that stand nearest to us, the fourth commandment immediately orders us to honor them as the authors of our being and the representatives of divine authority, and it prescribes the homage we owe them in their capacity of parents. but that which applies to fathers and mothers, applies in a certain degree to all who have any right or authority to command; consequently, this law also regulates the duties of superiors and inferiors in general to one another. the honor we owe to our parents consists in four things: respect for their dignity, love for their beneficence, obedience to their authority and assistance in their needs. whoever fails in one of these requirements, breaks the law, offends god and sins. his sin may be mortal, if the quality of the offense and the malice of the offender be such as to constitute i serious breach of the law. 'tis the great fault of our age to underrate parental dignity. in the easy-going world, preference is given to profligate celibacy over honorable wedlock; marriage itself is degraded to the level of a purely natural contract, its bond has lost its character of indissolubility and its obligations are shirked to meet the demands of fashion and convenience. when parents, unworthy ones, do not appreciate their own dignity, how will others, their children, appreciate it? and parenthood will never be esteemed while its true nature and sanctity are ignored and contemned; there is no dignity where the idea of god is excluded. after god had created man, he left him to work out his destiny in a natural way; and immediately man assumed towards his offspring the relation that god first held towards himself--he assumed the prerogatives of paternity and of authority. all paternity belongs to god, and to him alone; yet man is delegated to that lofty, quasi-divine function. god alone can create; yet so near does the parental office approach to the power of creation that we call it pro-creation. tis true, this privilege man holds in common with the rest of animated nature, but with this difference: that the fruit of his loins is a child of god, with an immortal soul, an heir to heaven where its destiny is to glorify the eternal during all eternity. and thus, man, in his function of parent, is as far differentiated from the rest of animal nature as the act by which god created man is superior to all his other creative acts. if the tempter, when working out his plan for the fall of our first parents, had simply and unconditionally said: "ye shall be as gods," his utterance would have in it more truth than he intended, for the mantle of parenthood that was soon to fall upon them made them like unto god. the children that romped around them, looked up to them even, almost, as they were accustomed to look up to the creator. and little the wonder, since to their parents they owed their very existence. as depositaries of authority, there is no human station, however exalted, comparable to theirs. children are not merely subjects, they belong to their parents. church and state, under god, may see to it that that authority is not abused; but within the bounds of right, they are held to respect it; and their acts that go contrary to the exercise of parental authority are, by the fact of such opposition, null and void. before the state or church, the family was; its natural rights transcend theirs, and this bowing, as it were, of all constituted human authority before the dominion of parents is evidence enough of their dignity. "god could not be everywhere, therefore he made parents--fathers and mothers"--that is how the pagans used to put it. however theologically unsound this proposition may appear, it is a beautiful attempt at a great truth, viz., that parents towards us stand in god's stead. in consequence of this eminent dignity that is theirs, they deserve our respect. they not only deserve it, but god so ordains it. chapter lvi. filial respect. worthy of honor are they whom the lord sees fit to honor. in the exalted station to which they have been called and in the express command made by the lord to honor them, we see evidence of the dignity of parents; and the honor we owe them for this dignity is the honor of respect. by respect, we mean the recognition of their superiority, the reverence, veneration and awe all well-born men instinctively feel for natural worth that transcends their own, the deference in tone, manner and deportment that naturally belongs to such worth. it is much easier to say in what respect does not consist than to define the term itself. if it really exists in the heart--and there it must exist, to be at all--it will find expression in a thousand different ways, and will never be at a loss to express itself. books will give you the laws of etiquette and will tell you how to be polite; but the laws that govern respect are graven on the heart, and he whose heart is in the right place never fails to read and interpret them correctly. towards all, at all times and in all places, he will conform the details of his life with the suggestions of his inner consciousness--this is respect. respect has no substitute; neither assistance nor obedience nor love can supply it or take its place it may happen that children are no longer obliged to help their parents; they may be justified in not obeying them; the circumstances may be such that they no longer have love or affection for them; but respect can never be wanting without serious guilt. the reason is simple: because it is due in justice, because it is founded on natural rights that can never be forfeited, even when parents themselves lose the sense of their own dignity. sinful, wicked and scandalous parents there have been, are, and will be. but just as they do not owe the excellence to any deed of their own, but to the free choice of the almighty, so it depends not on themselves to forfeit it. god made them parents without respect for their personal worth. he is the custodian of their dignity. good or bad, they are parents and remain parents. woe unto those who despise the authors of their days! respect overlooks an innocent joke at the expense of a parent, when absolutely no malice is intended, when on both sides it is looked upon as a matter of good-natured pleasantry. it brooks humor. not all familiarity breeds contempt. but contempt, which is directly opposed to respect, is a sin that is never anything but mortal. it refuses honor, belittles dignity and considers parents beneath esteem. it is contempt to laugh at, to mock, to gibe and insult parents; it is contempt to call them vile, opprobrious names, to tell of their faults; it is contempt, and the height of contempt, to defy them, to curse them or to strike them. it is bad enough when this sort of thing is directed against an equal; but when parents are made the objects of contempt, it acquires a dignity that is infernal. the malediction of heaven, the almighty wrath of god follows him or her who despises a parent. we are repeatedly told in holy writ that such offenders "shall die the death." scorn of parents is looked upon as a crime almost on a par with hatred of god. pagans frequently punished it with death. among christians it is left to the avenging wrath of god who is pledged to defend the dignity of his delegated paternity. it is not a rare occurrence to see just retribution visited upon parents who in their day were undutiful, unworthy and unnatural children. the justice of heaven often permits it to be done unto us as we do unto others. our children will treat us as we shall have treated our parents; their hands will be raised against us and will smite us on the cheek to avenge the grandsire's dishonor and tears, and to make us atone in shame for our sins against our parents. if we respect others, they will respect us; if we respect our parents, our children will respect us. chapter lvii. filial love. he who has a heart, and has it properly located, will not fail to love that which is good; he will have no difficulty in so doing, it will require neither command nor persuasion to make him do so. if he proves refractory to this law of nature, it is because he is not like the rest of mortals, because he is inhuman; and his abnormal condition is due, not to nature's mistakes, but to his own. and no consideration under heaven will be equal to the task of instilling affection into a stone or a chunk of putty. that is good which is desirable, or which is the source of what is desirable. god alone is absolutely good, that is to say, good in himself and the cause of all good. created things are good in the proportion of their furnishing us with things desirable, and are for that reason called relatively good. they confer benefits on one and not perhaps on another. when i say: this or that is good, i mean that it is useful to me, and is productive of comfort, happiness and other desirable things. because we are naturally selfish, our appreciation of what is good depends on what we get out of it. therefore, it is that a child's first, best and strongest love should be for its parents, for the greatest good it enjoys, the thing of all others to be desired, the essential condition of all else, namely its existence, it owes to its parents. life is the boon we receive from them; not only the giving, but the saving in more than one instance, the fostering and preserving and sustaining during long years of helplessness, and the adorning of it with all the advantages we possess. nor does this take into account the intimate cost, the sufferings and labors, the cares and anxieties, the trouble and worriment that are the lot of devoted parenthood. it is life spent and given for life. flesh and blood, substance, health and comfort, strength of body and peace of soul, lavished with unstinted generosity out of the fulness of parental affection--these are things that can never be repaid in kind, they are repaid with the coin of filial piety and love, or they remain dead debts. failure to meet these obligations brands one a reprobate. there is not, in all creation, bird or beast, but feels and shows instinctive affection towards those to whom it owes its being. he, therefore, who closes his heart to the promptings of filial love, has the consolation of knowing that, not only he does not belong to the order of human beings, but he places himself outside the pale of animal nature itself, and exists in a world of his own creation, which no human language is able to properly qualify. the love we owe to our parents is next in quality to that which we owe to god and to ourselves. love has a way of identifying its object and its subject; the lover and the beloved become one, their interests are common, their purpose alike. the dutiful child, therefore, looks upon its parent as another self, and remains indifferent to nothing that for weal or for woe affects that parent. love consists in this community of feeling, concern and interest. when the demon of selfishness drives gratitude out of the heart and the ties of natural sympathy become strained, and love begins to wane; when they are snapped asunder, love is dead. the love of god, of course, primes all other love. "he who loves father or mother more than me," says the saviour, "is not worthy of me." filial love, therefore, must not conflict with that which we owe to god; it must yield, for it draws its force from the latter and has no meaning without it. in normal conditions, this conflict never occurs; it can occur only in the event of parents overriding the law that governs their station in life. to make divine love wait on the human is criminal. it may, and no doubt does, happen that parents become unlovable beings through disregard for the moral law. and because love is not a commodity that is made to order, children may be found who justify on these grounds their absence of affection or even their positive hatred for such parents. a drunken parent, one who attacks the life, virtue or reputation of his offspring, a low brute who has neither honor nor affection, and whose office it is to make home a living hell, such a one can hardly be loved. but pity is a form of love; and just as we may never despise a fallen parent, just so do we owe him or her, even in the depths of his or her degradation, a meed of pity and commiseration. there is no erring soul but may be reclaimed; every soul is worth the price of its redemption, and there is no unfortunate, be he ever so low, but deserves, for the sake of his soul, a tribute of sympathy and a prayer for his betterment. and the child that refuses this, however just the cause of his aversion, offends against the law of nature, of charity and of god. chapter lviii. authority and obedience. authority means the right to command; to command is to exact obedience, and obedience is submission of one's will to that of another, will is a faculty that adores its own independence, is ambitious of rule and dominion, and can hardly bear to serve. it is made free, and may not bend; it is proud, and hates to bend; some will add, it is the dominant faculty in man, and therefore should not bend. every man for himself; we are born free; all men are equal, and no one has the right to impose his will upon another; we are directly responsible to god, and "go-betweens" are repudiated by the common sense of mankind,--this is good protestant theory and it is most convenient and acceptable to the unregenerate heart of man. we naturally like that kind of talk; it appeals to us instinctively. it is a theory that possesses many merits besides that of being true in a sense in which only one takes it out of fifty who advocate it. but these advocates are careful--and the reason of their solicitude is anything but clear--to keep within the religious lines, and they never dare to carry their theory into the domain of political society; their hard common sense forbids. and they are likewise careful to prevent their children from practicing the doctrine within the realm of paternal authority, that is, if they have any children. society calls it anarchy, and parents call it "unnatural cussedness;" in religion it is "freedom of the children of god!" if there is authority, there must be obedience; if one has the right to command, there arises in others the correlative duty and obligation to submit. there is no question of how this will suit us; it simply does not, and will not, suit us; it is hard, painful and humiliating, but it is a fact, and that is sufficient. likewise, it is a fact that if authority was ever given by god to man, it was given to the parent; all men, protestants and anarchists alike, admit this. the social being and the religious being may reject and repudiate all law, but the child is subject to its parents, it must obey. failing in this, it sins. disobedience is always a sin, if it is disobedience, that is, a refusal to submit in things that are just, to the express command of paternal authority. the sin may be slight or grievous, the quality of its malice depending on the character of the refusal, of the things commanded and of the command itself. in order that the offense may be mortal, the refusal must be deliberate, containing an element of contempt, as all malicious disobedience does. the command must be express, peremptory, absolute. and nothing must be commanded done that may not reasonably be accomplished or is not within the sphere of parental jurisdiction or is contrary to the law of god. an order that is unreasonable or unlawful is invalid. not only it may, but it should be, disregarded. it is not sufficient for a parent, wishing to oblige under pain of grievous sin, that he ask a thing done, that he express his mind on the matter; he must order it and leave no room to doubt that he means what he says. there may be disobedience without this peremptoriness of command, but it cannot be a serious fault. it is well also to make certain allowance for the levity and thoughtlessness of youth, especially in matters whose importance is beyond their comprehension. it is generally admitted that parental authority, exercised in things that concern good morals and the salvation of the soul, can scarcely ever be ignored without mortal offending. this means that besides the sin committed--if the prohibition touches matters of sin--there is a sin specifically different and a grievous one, of disobedience; by reason of the parental prohibition, there are two sins, instead of one. this should be remembered by those who, against the express command of their parents, frequent bad companions, remain on the street at night, neglect their religious duty, etc. parents have nothing to say in the choice their children make of a state in life, that is, they may suggest, but must not coerce. this is a matter that depends on personal tastes and the inner voicings of the spirit; having come to the age of manhood or womanhood, the party interested knows best what walk of life will make him or her happy and salvation easier. it is therefore for them to choose, and their choice must be respected. in this they are not bound to obey the will of their parents, and if disinclined to do so, should not. chapter lix. should we help our parents? there are few things more evident to natural reason than the obligation children are under to assist their parents when necessity knocks at their door, and finding them unable to meet its harsh demands, presses them with the goad of misery and want. old age is weak and has to lean on strength and youth for support; like childhood, it is helpless. accidentally, misfortune may render a parent dependent and needy. in such contingencies, it is not for neighbors, friends or relatives to come in and lend a helping hand; this duty devolves on the offspring, on them first and on them alone. charity is not alone to prescribe this office of piety. a stronger law than charity has a claim in the matter, and that is the law of justice. justice demands a "quid pro quo," it exacts a just compensation for services rendered. even though there be no agreement between parents and offspring, and the former gave without a thought of return, nature records a contract, by the terms of which parents in want are entitled to the same support from their children as the latter received from them in the days of their helplessness. those who do not live up to the terms of this natural contract stand amenable to the justice of heaven. the obligation follows them during life, wherever they go; and they can no more shirk it than they can efface the characters that declare it, graven on their hearts. nothing but sheer impossibility can dispense them. so sacred and inviolable is this obligation that it passes before that of assisting wife and children, the necessity being equal; for filial obligations enjoy the distinction of priority. not even engagements contracted before god hold against the duty of relieving parental distress and want, for vows are of counsel and must yield to the dictates of natural and divine law. of course, the gravity of this obligation is proportionate to the stress of necessity under which parents labor. to constitute a mortal sin of neglect, it is not necessary that a parent be in the extreme of privation and beggary. it is not easy to draw the line between slight and grievous offending in this matter, but if some young men and women examined their conscience as carefully as they do their new spring suits and hats, they would find material for confession the avowal of which might be necessary to confessional integrity. it has become the fashion with certain of the rising generation, after draining the family exchequer for some sixteen or eighteen years, to emancipate themselves as soon as their wages cover the cost of living, with a little surplus. they pay their board, that is to say, they stand towards their parents as a stranger would, and forgetting the debt their younger years have piled up against them, they hand over a miserable pittance just enough to cover the expenses of bed and board. this might, and possibly does, make them "feel big," but that feeling is a false one, and the "bigness" experienced is certainly not in their moral worth, in many cases such conduct is a prevarication against the law of god. this applies with equal force to young women whose vanity overrides the claims of charity and justice, and who are said to "put all their earnings on their backs," while they eat the bread that another earns. frequently children leave home and leave all their obligations to their parents behind them at home. if their letters are rare, enclosed checks are still rarer. they like to keep the old folks informed of the fact that it costs a good deal to live away from home. they sometimes come home on a visit; but these are visits; and visitors, even if they do stay quite a while, do not pay board. but pecuniary assistance is not all; it is occasionally care and attention an aged parent requires, the presence of a daughter who prefers the gaiety of the city to the quiet of the old homestead that is imperiously demanded. if the parent be feeble or sick, the undutiful child is criminally negligent; the crime is still greater if there be danger through that absence of the parent's dying without religious consolation. i have said nothing of that unnatural specimen of humanity, sometimes called a "loafer," and by still more ignoble names, who, to use a vulgar term, "grubs" on his parents, drinks what he earns and befouls the home he robs, with his loathsome presence and scandalous living. the least said of him the better. he exists: 'tis already too much said. chapter lx. disinterested love in parents. love seems to resume all the obligations of parents toward their offspring; certainly, it directs all their actions, and they fulfil these obligations ill or well according to the quality of that love. but love is not sufficient; love is of two kinds, the right and the wrong; nothing good comes of an affection that is not properly ordered. in itself, parental love is natural, instinctive; therefore it is not meritorious to any high degree. but there is much merit in the proper kind of parental affection, because it requires sacrifice. there may be too little love, to the neglect and misfortune of children. there may be too much, to their spoiling and utter perversion. again there may be affection that is partial, that singles out one for caresses and favors to the exclusion of the others; hence discord and dissensions in the family. the first two forms of inordinate affection are equally bad, while the last combines both and contains the double evil thereof. it is hard to say which is the worse off, the child that receives too much or the one that receives too little of that love which to be correct should avoid extremes. parents are apt, under the sway of natural affection, to overlook the fact that god has rights over the children, and that the welfare and interests of the children must not be left outside all consideration: herein lies the root of all the evil that befalls the family through degenerate love. what is commonly, but improperly, called love is either pagan fondness or simon-pure egotism and self-love. when a vain person looks into a mirror, she (if it be a "she") will immediately fall in love with the image, because it is an image of herself. and a selfish parent sees in his child, not another being, but himself, and he loves it for himself. his affection is not an act of generosity, as it should be, but an act of self-indulgence. he does not seek to please another, he seeks to please himself. his love, therefore, is nothing but concentrated vanity--and that is the wrong kind. such a parent will neglect a less favored child, and he will so far dote on the corporal and physical object of his devotion as to forget there is a soul within. he will account all things good that flatter his conceit, and all things evil that disturb the voluptuousness of his attachment. he owns that child, and he is going to make it the object of his eternal delights, god's rights and the child's own interests to the contrary notwithstanding. this fellow is not a parent; he is a pure animal, and the cub will, one day make good returns for services rendered. a parent with a growing-up family, carefully reared and expensively educated, will often lay clever plans and dream elaborate dreams of a golden future from which it would almost be cruelty to awake him. he sees his pains and toils requited a thousand fold, his disbursements yielding a high rate of interest and the name his children bear--his name--respected and honored. in all this there is scarcely anything blameworthy; but the trouble comes when the views of the almighty fail to square with the parental views. symptoms of the malady then reveal themselves. misfortunes are met with complaints and murmurings against providence and the manner in which it runs the cosmic machine. being usually self-righteous, such parents bring up the old discussion as to the justice of the divine plan by which the good suffer and the wicked prosper in this world. sorrow in bereavement is legitimate and sacred, but when wounded love vents its wrath on the almighty, the limit is passed, and then we say: "such love is love only in name, love must respect the rights of god; if it does not, it is something else." the almighty never intended children to be a paying investment; it belongs to him to call children to himself as well as parents themselves, when he feels like it. parents who ignore this do not give their children the love the latter have a right to expect. intelligent and christian parents, therefore, need to understand the true status of the offspring, and should make careful allowance for children's own interests, both material and spiritual, and for the all-supreme rights of god in the premises. since true love seeks to do good, in parents it should first never lose sight of the child's soul and the means to help him save it. without this all else is labor lost. god frowns on such unchristian affection, and he usually sees to it that even in this world the reaping be according to the sowing. the rearing of a child is the making or unmaking of a man or woman. love is the motive power behind this enterprise. that is why we insist on the disinterestedness of parental love, before touching on the all-important question of education. chapter lxi. educate the children. before reaching the age of reason, the child's needs are purely animal; it requires to be fed, clothed and provided with the general necessities of life. every child has a natural right that its young life be fostered and protected; the giver must preserve his gift, otherwise his gift is vain. to neglect this duty is a sin, not precisely against the fourth, but rather against the fifth, commandment which treats of killing and kindred acts. when the mind begins to open and the reasoning faculties to develop, the duty of educating the child becomes incumbent on the parent. as its physical, so its intellectual, being must be trained and nourished. and by education is here meant the training of the young mind, the bringing out of its mental powers and the acquisition of useful knowledge, without reference to anything moral or religious. this latter feature-- the most important of all deserves especial attention. concerning the culture of the mind, it is a fact, recognized by all, that in this era of popular rights and liberties, no man can expect to make anything but a meagre success of life, if he does that much, without at least a modicum of knowledge and intellectual training. this is an age in which brains are at a high premium; and although brains are by no means the monopoly of the cultured class, they must be considered as non-existent if they are not brought out by education. knowledge is what counts nowadays. even in the most common walks of life advancement is impossible without it. this is one reason why parents, who have at heart the future success and well-being of their children, should strive to give them as good an education as their means allow. their happiness here is also concerned. if he be ignorant and untaught, a man will be frowned at, laughed at, and be made in many ways, in contact with his fellow-men, to feel the overwhelming inferiority of his position. he will be made unhappy, unless he chooses to keep out of the way of those who know something and associate with those who know nothing--in which case he is very liable to feel lonesome. he is moreover deprived of the positive comforts and happiness that education affords. neither books nor public questions will interest him; his leisure moments will be a time of idleness and unbearable tedium; a whole world--the world of the mind--will be closed to him, with its joys, pleasures and comforts which are many. add to this the fact that the maker never intended that the noble faculty of the intelligence should remain an inert element in the life of his creature, that this precious talent should remain buried in the flesh of animal nature. intelligence alone distinguishes us from the brute; we are under obligation to perfect our humanity. and since education is a means of doing this, we owe it to our nature that we educate ourselves and have educated those who are under our care. how long should the child be kept at school? the law provides that every child attend school until it reaches the age of fourteen. this law appears to be reasonable and just, and we think that in ordinary circumstances it has the power to bind in conscience. the parent therefore who neglects to keep children at school we account guilty of sin, and of grievous sin, if the neglect be notable. outside this provision of the law, we think children should be kept at school as long as it is possible and prudent to do so. this depends, of course, on the means and resources of the parents. they are under no obligation to give to their children an education above what their means allow. then, the aptitudes, physical and mental, of the child are a factor to be considered. poor health or inherited weakness may forbid a too close application to studies, while it may be a pure waste of time and money to keep at school a child that will not profit by the advantage offered. it is better to put such a child at work as soon as possible. as says the philosopher of archey road: "you may lead a young man to the university, but you cannot make him learn." outside these contingencies, we think every child has a right to a common school education, such as is given in our system under the high school, whether it be fourteen years of age or over. reading and writing, grammar and arithmetic, history and geography, these are the fundamental and essential elements of a common school education; and in our time and country, a modicum of information on these subjects is necessary for the future well-being, success and happiness of our children. and since parents are bound to care for the future of their children, we consider them likewise bound to give them such an education as will insure these blessings. chapter lxii. educational extravagance. our public educational system is made up of a grammar and a high school course, the latter consisting of a four years term of studies, devoted in part, to a more thorough grounding in the essentials of education; the other part--by far the more considerable, according to the consensus of opinion--is expended on educational frills and vanities. these "trimmings" are given gratis, the public bearing the burden of expense, which foots up to a very respectable total. for a certain class of people--the people of means--this sort of a thing has not many disadvantages; it is in a line with the future occupation or profession of their offspring. but for the bulk of the children who attend our free schools and on whose parents educational taxes are levied, it has serious inconveniences, is not in line with their future occupation or profession, is not only superfluous, but detrimental. it is for them so much time lost--precious time, that were better spent learning a trade or otherwise fitting themselves for their life work. herein therefore we discover a double extravagance: that of parents who provide unwisely for their children's future and that of the municipality which offers as popular an education that is anything but popular, since only the few can enjoy it while all must bear the burden alike. there is much in getting a start in life, in beginning early; a delay is often a handicap hard to overcome. with very few exceptions, our children gain their livelihood with their hands and eyes and ears, and not solely with their brains; they therefore require title most practical education imaginable. they need intellectual tools to work with, and not a smattering of science, botany, drawing and political philosophy to forget as soon as possible. pure culture studies are not a practical gain for them, while the time consumed in pursuing these is so much taken away from a thorough training in the essentials. lectures on science, elementary experiments in chemistry, kindergarten instructions in water color painting, these are as much in their place in the education of the average child as an ivory-handled gold pen in the hand that wields the pick-ax. a boy is better off learning a trade than cramming his head full of culture fads; he is then doing something useful and profitable on which the happiness and success of his life will depend. by the time his companions have done dabbling in science and have come to the conclusion that they are simply being shown how ignorant they are--not a very consoling conclusion after all--he will have already laid the foundation of his career and be earning enough to settle down in life. he may not be able to talk on an infinity of subjects about which he knows nothing at all, but he will be able to earn his own living, which is something worth while. if the free high school were more of a business school, people would get better returns for their money. true, some would then be obliged to pay for the expensive fads that would be done away with; but since they alone enjoy these things, why should others be made to pay for them who cannot enjoy them? why should the poor be taxed to educate the rich? why not give the poor full value for their share of the burden? why not provide them with intellectual tools that suit their condition, just as the rich are being provided for in the present system? the parochial high school has, in several places we know of, been made to serve as a protest against such evils and as an example that has already been followed in more than one instance by the public schools. intelligent and energetic pastors, knowing full well the conditions and needs of their people, offer the children a course in business methods as being more suitable, more profitable and less extravagant than four years spent in acquiring a smattering of what they will never possess thoroughly and never need in their callings in life. it is better to fill young minds with the useful than with the agreeable, when it is impossible to furnish both. results already bespeak the wisdom of this plan and reflect no small honor on its originators. parents therefore should see to it that their children get the kind of education they need, the kind that will serve them best in after life. they should not allow the precious time of youth to be whiled' away in trifles and vanities. children have a right: to be educated in a manner in keeping with their conditions in life, and it is criminal in parents to neglect the real needs of their children while trying: to fit them for positions they will never occupy. in the meantime, let them protest against the extravagance of educational enthusiasts and excessive state paternalism. let them ask that the burden of culture studies be put where it belongs, that is, on the shoulders of those who are the sole beneficiaries; and that free popular education be made popular, that is, for all, and not for an elite of society. the public school system was called into existence to do one work, namely, to educate the masses: it was never intended to furnish a college education for the benefit of the rich men's sons at the expense of the poor. as it stands to-day, it is an unadulterated extravagance. chapter lxiii. godless education. the other defect, respecting education as found in the public schools of the land, is that it leaves the soul out of all consideration and relegates the idea of god to a background of silent contempt. on this subject we can do no better than quote wisdom from the fathers of the third plenary council of baltimore. "few, if any, will deny that a sound civilization must depend upon sound popular education." but education, in order to be sound and to produce "beneficial results, must develop what is best in man, and make him not only clever, but good. a one-sided education will develop a one-sided life; and such a life will surely topple over, and so will every social system that is built up of such lives. true civilization requires that not only the physical and intellectual, but also the moral and religious, well-being of the people should be improved, and at least with equal care. "it cannot be desirable or advantageous that religion should be excluded from the school. on the contrary, it ought to be there one of the chief agencies for moulding the young life to all that is true and virtuous, and holy. to shut religion out of the school, and keep it for home and the church, is, logically, to train up a generation that will consider religion good for home and the church, but not for the practical business of real life. a life is not dwarfed, but ennobled, by being lived in the presence of god. "the avowed enemies of christianity in some european countries are banishing religion from the schools (they have done it since) in order to eliminate it gradually from among the people. in this they are logical. take away religion from the school, and you take it away from the people. take it away from the people, and morality will soon follow; morality gone, even their physical condition will ere long degenerate into corruption which breeds decrepitude, while their intellectual attainments would only serve as a light to guide them to deeper depths of vice and ruin. a civilization without religion would be a civilization of 'the struggle for existence, and the survival of the fittest,' in which cunning and strength would become the substitutes for principle, virtue, conscience and duty." one of the things the catholic church fears least in this country is protestantism. she considers it harmless, moribund, in the throes of disintegration. it never has, cannot and never will thrive long where it has to depend on something other than wealth and political power. it has unchurched millions, is still unchurching at a tremendous rate, and will end by unchurching itself. the godless school has done its work for protestantism, and done it well. its dearest enemy could not wish for better results. popular education comes more and more to mean popularized irreligion. the future struggles of the church will be with agnosticism and infidelity--the product of the godless public school. and without pretending to be prophets or sons of prophets, we catholics can foresee the day when godless education, after making bad christians, will make bad citizens. and because no civilization worthy of the name has ever subsisted, or can subsist, without religion, the maintenance of this system of popular and free government will devolve on the product of christian education, and its perpetuity will depend upon the generations turned out of the religious school. the most substantial protest the catholic church offers against godless education is the system of her parochial schools; and this alone is sufficient to give an idea of the importance of this question. from headquarters comes the order to erect catholic schools in every parish in this land as soon as the thing can be done. this means a tremendous amount of work, and a tremendous expense. it means a competition on educational grounds with the greatest, richest and most powerful nation in the world. the game must be worth the candle; there must be some proportion between the end and the means. the catholic church has the wisdom of ages to learn from; and when she embarks on an enterprise of this kind, even her bitterest enemies can afford to take it for granted that there is something behind it. and there is. there is her very life, which depends on the fidelity of her children. and her children are lost to her and to god unless she fosters religion in her young. let parents share this solicitude of the church for the little ones, and beware of the dangers of the godless school. chapter lxiv. catholic schools. the catholic school system all over this land has been erected and stands dedicated to the principle that no child can be properly, thoroughly and profitably--for itself--educated, whose soul is not fed with religion and morality while its intelligence is being stocked with learning and knowledge. it is intended, and made, to avoid the two defects under which our public school system labors--the one accidental, the other fundamental--namely, extravagance and godlessness. the child is taught the things that are necessary for it to know; catechism and religion take the place of fads and costly frills. the catholic school does not lay claim to superiority over another on purely secular lines, although in many cases its superiority is a very patent fact; it repudiates and denies charges to the effect that it is inferior, although this may be found in some cases to be true. it contends that it is equal to, as good as, any other; and there is no evidence why this should not be so. but it does pretend to give a more thorough education in the true sense of the word, if education really means a bringing out of that which is best in our nature. neither do we hold that such a training as our schools provide will assure the faith and salvation of the children confided to our care. neither church, nor religion, nor prayer, nor grace, nor god himself will do this alone. the child's fidelity to god and its ultimate reward depends on that child's efforts and will, which nothing can supply. but what we do guarantee is that the child will be furnished with what is necessary to keep the faith and save its soul, that there will be no one to blame but itself if it fails, and that such security it will not find outside the catholic school. it is for just such work that the school is equipped, that is the only reason for its existence, and we are not by any means prepared to confess that our system is a failure in that feature which is its essential one. that every catholic child has an inherent right to such a training, it is not for one moment permitted to doubt; there is nothing outside the very bread that keeps its body and soul together to which it has a better right. intellectual training is a very secondary matter when the immortal soul is concerned. and if the child has this right, there is a corresponding duty in the parent to provide it with such; and since that right is inalienable, that duty is of the gravest. hence it follows that parents who neglect the opportunity they enjoy of providing their offspring with a sound religious and moral training in youth, and expose them, unprepared, to the attacks, covert and open, of modern indifferentism, while pursuing secular studies, display a woeful ignorance of their obligations and responsibilities. this natural right of the child to a religious education, and the authority of the church which speaks in no uncertain accents on the subject go to make a general law that imposes a moral obligation upon parents to send their children to catholic schools. parents who fail in this simply do wrong, and in many cases cannot be excused from mortal offending. and it requires, according to the general opinion, a very serious reason to justify non-compliance with this law. exaggeration, of course, never serves any purpose; but when we consider the personal rights of children to have their spiritual life well nurtured, and the general evils against which this system of education has been judged necessary to make the church secure, it will be easily seen that there is little fear of over-estimating the importance of the question and the gravity of the obligations under which parents are placed. moreover, disregard for this general law on the part of parents involves contempt of authority, which contempt, by reason of its being public, cannot escape the malice of scandal. even when the early religious education of the child is safeguarded by excellent home training and example and no evil effects of purely secular education are to be feared, the fact of open resistance to the direction of church authority is an evil in itself; and may be the cause of leading others in the same path of revolt--others who have not like circumstances in their favor. about the only person i know who might be justified in not sending his children to catholic schools is the "crank," that creature of mulish propensities, who balks and kicks and will not be persuaded to move by any method of reasoning so far discovered. he usually knows all that is to be learned on the school question--which is a lie; and having compared the parochial and the public school systems in an intelligent and disinterested manner--which is another--he finds that the catholic school is not the place for his children. if his children are like himself, his conclusion is wisely formed, albeit drawn from false premises. in him, three things are on a par; his conceit, his ignorance and his determination. from these three ingredients results a high quality of asininity which in moral theology is called invincible ignorance and is said to render one immune in matters of sin. may his tribe decrease! chapter lxv. some weak points in the catholic school system. some parents claim that their children do not learn anything in the catholic school. it is good policy always to accept this statement as true in all its parts; it may be true, and it is never good to deny the truth. all are not equally endowed with brains in this world. if a child has it dinned into his ears that the school he attends is inferior, he will come to be convinced of the fact; and being convinced, he will set to work verifying it, in his case, at least. heredity may have something to do with it; children are sometimes "chips of the old block,"--a great misfortune in many cases, handicapping them in the race of life. it is well, therefore, not to claim too much for our schools. we concede the point. another parent thinks that because he went through the public schools and kept the faith in his day, his children may be trusted to do the same. this objection has a serious front to it. it does seem strange that children should not walk in the footsteps of their worthy parents; but the fact is, and facts are stubborn things, the fact is that they do not always act thus. and they might tell you, to justify their unseemly conduct, that the conditions that obtained in life in olden days are not the same as at present; that there were no parochial schools then to offer a choice in matters of education and that kind providence might have taken this into consideration: that it was the custom in those days for children to imitate the rugged virtues of their parents struggling against necessity on one hand and bigotry on the other; but that through the powerful influence of money, the progeny of the persecuted may now hobnob with the progeny of the bigot, and the association is not always the best thing in the world for the faith and religious convictions of the former, unless these convictions are well grounded in youth. the parent therefore who kept the faith with less had a very considerable advantage over his child who apparently has more privileges, but also more temptations and dangers. the objection does not look so serious now. of course there is the question of social standing--a very important matter with some parents of the "nouveau riche" type. a fop will gauge a man's worth by the size of his purse or the style and cut of the coat he wears. there are parents who would not mind their children's sitting beside a little darkey, but who do object most strenuously to their occupying the same bench with a dirty little irish child. a calico dress or a coat frayed at the edges are certainly not badges of high social standing, but they are not incompatible with honesty, purity, industry and respect for god, which things create a wholesome atmosphere to live in and make the world better in every sense of the word. there is no refinement in these little ones, to speak of, not even the refinement of vice. there is something in the air they breathe that kills the germ of vice. the discipline considers sin a worse evil than ignorance of social amenities, and virtue and goodness as far superior to etiquette and distinction of manners. if a different appreciation of things is entertained, we grant the inferiority of our schools. "but then, it is so very un-american, you know, to maintain separate schools in opposition to an institution so intensely american as our public school system. this state of affairs fosters creed prejudices that it is the duty of every true american to help destroy. the age of religious differences is past, and the parochial school is a perpetual reminder of things of the past that were best forgotten." we deny that the system that stands for no religious or moral training is intensely american. this is a christian land. if our denial cannot be sustained, we consider such a system radically wrong and detrimental to the best interests of the country; and we protest against it, just as some of us protest against imperialism, high tariff and monometalism. it is wrong, bad, therefore un-american. we also claim that the protestant propaganda that is being carried on under the guise of non-sectarian education is unspeakably unjust and outrageous. protestantism is not a state institution in this country. a stranger might think so by the way public shekels are made to serve the purposes of proselytism; but to make the claim, in theory, or in practise, is to go counter to the laws of this land, and is un-american to a degree. that is another un-americanism we protest against. we teach truth, not creed prejudices; we train our children to have and always maintain a strong prejudice for religious truth, and that kind of prejudice is the rock-bed of all that is good and holy and worth living for. we teach dogma. we do not believe in religion without dogma, any more than religion without truth. "that kind of religion has not been invented, but it will come in when we have good men without convictions, parties without principles and geometry without theories." if there is anything un-american in all this, it is because the term is misunderstood and misapplied. we are sorry if others find us at odds on religious grounds. the fact of our existence will always be a reminder of our differences with them in the past. but we are not willing to cease to exist on that account. chapter lxvi. correction. among the many things that are good for children and that parents are in duty bound to supply is--the rod! this may sound old-fashioned, and it unfortunately is; there is a new school of home discipline in vogue nowadays. slippers have outgrown their usefulness as implements of persuasion, being now employed exclusively as foot-gear. the lissom birch thrives ungarnered in the thicket, where grace and gentleness supply the whilom vigor of its sway. the unyielding barrel-stave, that formerly occupied a place of honor and convenience in the household, is now relegated, a harmless thing, to a forgotten corner of the cellar, and no longer points a moral but adorns a wood-pile. disciplinary applications of the old type have fallen into innocuous desuetude; the penny now tempts, the sugar candy soothes and sugar-coated promises entice when the rod should quell and blister. meanwhile the refractory urchin, with no fear to stimulate his sluggish conscience, chuckles, rejoices and is glad, and bethinks himself of some uninvented methods of devilment. yes, it is old-fashioned in these days to smite with the rattan as did the mighty of yore. the custom certainly lived a long time. the author of the proverbs spoke of the practise to the parents of his generation, and there is no mistaking the meaning of his words. he spoke with authority, too; if we mistake not, it was the holy ghost that inspired his utterances. here are a few of his old-fashioned sayings: "spare the rod and spoil the child; he who loves his child spares not the rod; correction gives judgment to the child who ordinarily is incapable of reflection; if the child be not chastised, it will bring down shame and disgrace upon the head of its parent." it is our opinion that authority of this sort should redeem the defect of antiquity under which the teaching itself labors. there are some things "ever ancient, ever new;" this is one of them. the philosophy of correction may be found in the doctrine of original sin. every child of adam has a nature that is corrupted; it is a soil in which pride in all its forms and with all its cortege of vices takes strong and ready root. this growth crops out into stubbornness, selfishness, a horror of restraint, effort and self-denial; mischief, and a spirit of rebellion and destruction. in its native state, untouched by the rod of discipline, the child is wild. now, you must force a crooked tree to grow straight; you must break a wild colt to domesticate it, and you must whip a wild boy to make him fit for the company of civilized people. being self-willed, he will seek to follow the bent of his own inclinations; without intelligence or experience and by nature prone to evil, he will follow the wrong path; and the habits acquired in youth, the faults developed he will carry through life to his own and the misery of others. he therefore requires training and a substitute for judgment; and according to the holy ghost, the rod furnishes both. in the majority of cases nothing can supply it. this theory has held good in all the ages of the world, and unless the species has "evolved" by extraordinary leaps and bounds within the last fifty years, it holds good to-day, modern nursery milk-and-honey discipline to the contrary notwithstanding. it may be hard on the youngster--it was hard on us!--but the difficulty is only temporary; and difficulty, some genius has said, is the nurse of greatness, a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster-children into strength and athletic proportions. the great point is that this treatment be given in time, when it is possible to administer it with success and fruit. the ordinary child does not need oft-repeated doses; a firm hand and a vigorous application go a long way, in most cases. half-hearted, milk-and-water castigation, like physic, should be thrown to the dogs. long threatenings spoil the operation; they betray weakness which the child is the first to discover. and without being brutal, it is well that the chastisement be such as will linger somewhat longer in the memory than in the sensibility. the defects that deserve this corrective especially are insubordination, sulkiness and sullenness; it is good to stir up the lazy; it is necessary to instil in the child's mind a saving sense of its own inferiority and to inculcate lessons of humility, self-effacement and self-denial. it should scourge dishonesty and lying. the bear licks its cub into shape; let the parent go to the bear, inquire of its ways and be wise. his children will then have a moral shape and a form of character that will stand them in good stead in after life; and they will give thanks in proportion to the pain inflicted during the process of formation. chapter lxvii. justice and rights. justice is a virtue by which we render unto every man that which to him is due. among equals, it is called commutative justice, the which alone is here in question. it protects us in the enjoyment of our own rights, and imposes upon us the obligation of respecting the rights of our fellow-men. this, of course, supposes that we have certain rights and that we know what a right is. but what is a right? the word itself may be clearer in the minds of many than its definition; few ignore what a right is, and fewer still perhaps could say clearly and correctly what they mean by the word. a right is not something that you can see and feel and smell: it is a moral faculty, that is, a recognized, inviolable power or liberty to do something, to hold or obtain possession of something. where the right of property is concerned, it supposes a certain relation or connection between a person and an object; this may be a relation of natural possession, as in the case of life or reputation, a relation of lawful acquisition, as that of the goods of life, etc. out of this relation springs a title, just and proper, by which i may call that object "mine," or you, "yours;" ownership is thereby established of the object and conceded to the party in question. this party is therefore said to have a right to the object; and the right is good, whether he is in possession or not thereof. justice respects this right, respects the just claims and titles of the owner, and forbids every act injurious thereto. all this pre-supposes the idea of god, and without that idea, there can be no justice and no rights, properly so-called. justice is based on the conformity of all things with the will of god. the will of god is that we attain to everlasting happiness in the next world through the means of an established order of things in this life. this world is so ruled, and our nature is such, that certain means are either absolutely or relatively necessary for the attaining of that end; for example, life, reputation, liberty, the pursuit of happiness in the measure of our lawful capacity. the obligation therefore to reach that end gives us the right to use these means; and god places in every soul the virtue of justice so that this right may be respected. but it must be understood that the rights of god towards us transcend all other rights that we may have towards our fellow-men; ours we enjoy under the high dominion of him who grants all rights. consequently, in the pursuit of justice for ourselves, our rights cease the moment they come into antagonism with the superior rights of god as found in his law. no man has a right to do what is evil, not even to preserve that most inalienable and sacred of all rights, his right to life. to deny this is to destroy the very notion of justice; the restrictions of our rights are more sacred than those rights themselves. violation of rights among equals is called injustice. this sin has a triple malice; it attacks the liberty of fellow-men and destroys it; it attacks the order of the world and the basis of society; it attacks the decree and mandate of the almighty who wills that this world shall be run on the plan of justice. injustice is therefore directly a sin against man, and indirectly a crime against god. so jealous is god of the rights of his creatures that he never remains satisfied until full justice is done for every act of injustice. charity may be wounded, and the fault condoned; but only reparation in kind will satisfy justice. whatever is mine is mine, and mine it will ever remain, wherever in this world another may have betaken himself with it. as long as it exists it will appeal to me as to its master and owner; if justice is not done in this world, then it will appeal to the justice of heaven for vengeance. the six last commandments treat of the rights of man and condemn injustice. we are told to respect the life, the virtue, the goods and the reputation of our fellow-men; we are commanded to do so not only in act, but also in thought and desire. life is protected by the fifth, virtue by the sixth and ninth, property by the seventh and tenth, and reputation by the eighth. to sin against any of these commandments is to sin against justice in one form or another. the claims, however, of violated justice are not such as to exact the impossible in order to repair an injury done. a dead man cannot be brought back to life, a penniless thief cannot make restitution unless he steals from somebody else, etc., etc. but he who finds himself thus physically incapable of undoing the wrongs committed must have at least the will and intention of so doing: to revoke such intention would be to commit a fresh sin of injustice. the alternative is to do penance, either willingly in this life, or forcibly in the purging flames of the suffering church in the next. in that way, some time or other, justice, according to the plan of god, will be done; but he will never be satisfied until it is done. chapter lxviii. homicide. to kill is to take life, human or animal. it was once thought by a sect of crazy fanatics, that the fifth commandment applied to the killing of animals as well as of men. when a man slays a man, he slays an equal; when he kills an animal, he kills a creature made to serve him and to be his food; and raw meat is not always palatable, and to cook is to kill. "everything that moves and lives," says holy writ, "shall be unto you as food." the killing therefore herein question is the taking of human life, or homicide. there can be no doubt but that life is man's best and most precious possession, and that he has an inborn right to live as long as nature's laws operate in his favor. but man is not master of that gift of life, either in himself or in others. god, who alone can give, alone may take it away. sole master of life, he deals it out to his creatures as it pleases him; and whoever tampers with human life intrudes upon the domain of the divinity, violating at the some time the first right of his fellow-man. we have an instinctive horror of blood, human blood. for the ordinary individual the mosaic enactment that forbids murder is almost superfluous, so deeply has nature graven on our hearts the letter of that law. murder is abominable, for the very reason that life is precious; and no reasonable being, civilized or savage, dealing death unjustly unto a fellow-man, can have any other conviction in his soul than that he is committing a crime and incurring the almighty wrath of the deity. if such killing is done by a responsible agent, and against the right of the victim, the crime committed is murder or unjustifiable homicide. which supposes that there is a kind of homicide that is justifiable, in seeming contradiction of the general law of god and nature, which specifies no exception. but there is a question here less of exception than of distinction. the law is a general one, of vast comprehension. is all killing prohibited? evidently no. it is limited to human beings, in the first place; to responsible agents, in the next; and thirdly, it involves a question of injustice. what is forbidden is the voluntary and unjust killing of a human being. having thus specified according to the rules of right reasoning, we find we have a considerable margin left for the taking of life that is justifiable. and the records of divine revelation will approve the findings of right reason. we find god in the old law, while upholding his fifth precept, commanding capital punishment and sanctioning the slaughter of war; he not only approved the slaying of certain persons, but there are instances of his giving authority to kill. by so doing he delegated his supreme right over life to his creatures. "whoever sheds human blood, let his blood be shed." in the new testament the officer of the law is called the minister of god and is said not without cause to carry the sword; and the sword is the symbol of the power to inflict death. the presence of such laws as that of capital punishment, of war and of self-defense, in all the written codes of civilized peoples, as well as in the unwritten codes of savage tribes, can be accounted for only by a direct or indirect commission from the deity. a legal tradition so universal and so constant is a natural law, and consequently a divine law. in a matter of such importance all mankind could not have erred; if it has, it is perfectly safe to be with it in its error. these exceptions, if we may call them exceptions, suppose the victim to have forfeited his right to live, to have placed himself in a position of unjust aggression, which aggression gives to the party attacked the right to repel it, to protect his own life even at the cost of the life of the unjust aggressor. this is an individual privilege in only one instance, that of self-defence; in all others it is invested in the body politic or society which alone can declare war and inflict death on a capital offender. of course it may be said that in moral matters, like does not cure like, that to permit killing is a strange manner of discouraging the same. but this measure acts as a deterrent; it is not a cure for the offender, or rather it is, and a radical one; it is intended to instil a salutary dread into the hearts of those who may be inclined to play too freely with human life. this is the only argument assassins understand; it is therefore the only one we can use against them. chapter lxix. is suicide a sin? most people no doubt remember how, a short time previous to his death, col. robert ingersoli, the agnostic lecturer, gave out a thesis with the above title, offering a negative conclusion. some discussion ensued in public print; the question was debated hotly, and whole columns of pros and cons were inflicted on the suffering public by the theologues who had taken the matter seriously. we recall, too, how, in the height of the discussion, a poor devil of an unfortunate was found in one of the parks of the metropolis with an empty pistol in his clinched fist, a bullet in his head and in his pocket a copy of the thesis: is suicide a sin? to a christian, this theorizing and speculation was laughable enough; but when one was brought face to face with the reality of the thing, a grim humor was added to the situation. comedy is dangerous that leads to tragedy. the witty part of the matter was this: ingersoli spoke of sin. now, what kind of an intelligible thing could sin be in the mind of a blasphemous agnostic? what meaning could it have for any man who professes not to know, or to care, who or what god is? if there is no legislator, there is no law; if no law, then no violation of the law. if god does not exist, there can be no offending him. eliminate the notion of god, and there is no such thing as sin. sin, therefore, had no meaning for ingersoli; his thesis had no meaning, nothing he said had any meaning. yet, people took him seriously! and at least one poor wretch was willing to test the truth of the assertion and run his chances. some people, less speculative, contend that the fact of suicide is sufficient evidence of irresponsibility, as no man in his right senses would take his own life. this position is both charitable and consoling; unfortunately, certain facts of premeditation and clear mindedness militate so strongly against such a general theory that one can easily afford to doubt its soundness. that this is true in many cases, perhaps in the majority of cases, all will admit; in all cases, few will admit it. however, the question here is one of principle, and not of fact. the prime evil at the bottom of all killing is that of injustice; but in self-destruction where the culprit and the victim are one and the same person, there can be no question of injustice. akin to, and a substitute for, the law of justice is that of charity, by which we are bound to love ourselves and do ourselves no harm or injury. the saying "charity begins at home" means that we ourselves are the first objects of our charity. if therefore we must respect the life of our neighbor, the obligation is still greater to respect our own. then there is the supreme law of justice that reposes in god. we should remember that god is the supreme and sole master of life. man has a lease of life, but it does not belong to him to destroy at his own will. he did not give it to himself; and he cannot take it away. destruction supposes an authority and dominion that does not belong to any man where life is concerned. and he who assumes such a prerogative commits an act of unquestionable injustice against him whose authority is usurped. by indirect killing we mean the placing of an act, good or at least morally indifferent, from which may result a benefit that is intended, but also an evil--death--which is not intended but simply suffered to occur. in this event there is no sin, provided there be sufficient reason for permitting said evil effect. the act may be an operation, the benefit intended, a cure; the evil risked, death. the misery of ill health is a sufficient reason for risking the evil of death in the hope of regaining strength and health. to escape sure death, to escape from grave danger or ills, to preserve one's virtue, to save another's life, to assure a great public benefit, etc., these are reasons proportionate to the evil of risking life; and in these and similar cases, if death results, it is indirect suicide, and is in nowise criminal. the same cannot be said of death that results from abuses or excesses of any kind, such as dissipation or debauchery; from risks that are taken in a spirit of bravado or with a view to winning fame or lucre. for a still better reason this cannot be said of those who undergo criminal operations: it is never permitted to do what is intrinsically evil that good may come therefrom. all this applies to self-mutilation as well as to self-destruction; as parts of the whole, one's limbs should be the objects of one's charity, and god's law demands that we preserve them as well as the body itself. it is lawful to submit to the maiming process only when the utility of the whole body demands it; otherwise it is criminal. one word more. what about those who call upon, and desire death? to desire evil is sinful. yes, but death is a moral evil when its mode is contrary to the laws of god and of nature. thus, with perfect acquiescence to order of divine providence, if one desire death in order to be at rest with god, that one desires a good and meritorious thing and with perfect regularity; it is less meritorious to desire death with the sole view of escaping the ills and troubles of life; it would even be difficult to convict one of mortal offending if he desired death for a slight and futile reason, if there be due respect for the will of god. the sin of such desires consists in rebellion against the divine will and opposition to the providence of god; in such cases the sin is never anything but grievous. chapter lxx. self-defense. the thought is a terrible one--and the act is desperate in itself--of a man, however justified his conduct may be, slaying with his own hand a fellow being and sending his soul, unprepared perhaps, before its maker. but it is a still more desperate thing, because it strikes us nearer home, to yield up one's life into the hands of an agent of injustice. there is here an alternative of two very great evils; it is a question of two lives, his and mine; i must slay or i must die without having done anything to forfeit my life. but the law of charity, founded in nature, makes my life more precious to me than his, for charity begins at home. then, to save his life, i must give mine; and he risks his to take mine! i do not desire to kill my unjust aggressor, but i do intend, as i have a perfect right, to protect my own life. if he, without cause, places his existence as an obstacle to my enjoyment of life, then i shall remove that obstacle, and to do it, i shall kill. again, a desperate remedy, but the situation is most terribly desperate. being given law of my being, i can not help the inevitable result of conditions of which i am nowise responsible. the man who attacks my life places his own beyond the possibility of my saving it. this, of course, supposes a man using the full measure of his rights. but is he bound to do this, morally? not if his charity for another be greater than that which he bears towards himself, if he go beyond the divine injunction to love his neighbor as himself and love him better than himself; if he feel that he is better prepared to meet his god than the other, if he have no one dependent on him for maintenance and support. even did he happen to be in the state of mortal sin, there is every reason to believe that such charity as will sacrifice life for another, greater than which no man has, would wash away that sin and open the way of mercy; while great indeed must be the necessity of the dependent ones to require absolutely the death of another. the aggression that justifies killing must be unjust. this would not be the case of a criminal being brought to justice or resisting arrest. justice cannot conflict with itself and can do nothing unjust in carrying out its own mandates. the culprit therefore has no grounds to stand upon for his defense. neither is killing justifiable, if wounding or mutilation would effect the purpose. but here the code of morals allows much latitude on account of the difficulty of judging to a nicety the intentions of the aggressor, that is, whether he means to kill or not; and of so directing the protecting blow as to inflict just enough, and no more disability than the occasion requires. virtue in woman is rightly considered a boon greater than life; and for that matter, so is the state of god's friendship in the soul of any creature. then, here too applies the principle of self-defense. if i may kill to save my life, may for a better reason kill to save my soul and to avoid mortal offense. true, the loss of bodily integrity does not necessarily imply a staining of the soul; but human nature is such as to make the one an almost fatal consequence of the other. the person therefore who kills to escape unjust contamination acts within his or her rights and before god is justified in the doing. we would venture to say the same thing of a man who resorts to this extreme in order to protect his rightly gotten goods, on these two conditions, however: that there be some kind of proportion between the loss and the remedy he employs to protect himself against it; and that he have well grounded hope that the remedy will be effective, that it will prevent said loss, and not transform itself into revenge. and here a last remark is in order. the killing that is permitted to save, is not permitted to avenge loss sustained; the law sanctions self-defense, but not vengeance. if a man, on the principle of self-defense, has the right to kill to save his brother, and fails to do so, his further right to kill ceases; the object is past saving and vengeance is criminal. if a woman has been wronged, once the wrong effected, there can be no lawful recourse to slaying, for what is lost is beyond redemption, and no reason for such action exists except revenge. in these cases killing is murder, pure and simple, and there is nothing under heaven to justify it. remembering the injunction to love our neighbor as ourself, we add that we have the same right to defend our neighbor's life as we have to defend our own, even to protect his or her innocence and virtue and possessions. a husband may defend the honor of his wife, which is his own, even though the wife be a party to the crime and consent to the defilement; but the right is only to prevent, and ceases on the event of accomplishment, even at the incipient stage. chapter lxxi. murder often sanctioned. all injury done to another in order to repair an insult is criminal, and if said injury result in death, it is murder. here we consider an insult as an attack on one's reputation or character, a charge or accusation, a slurring remark, etc., without reference to the truth or falsity thereof. it may be objected that whereas reputation, like chastity and considerable possessions, is often valued as high as life itself, the same right exists to defend it even at the cost of another's life. but it must be remembered that the loss of character sustained in consequence of an insult of this kind is something very ephemeral and unsubstantial; and only to a mind abnormally sensitive can any proportion be perceived between the loss and the remedy. this is especially true when the attack is in words and goes no farther than words: for "sticks and stones will break your bones, but names will never hurt you," as we used to say when we were boys. then, words are such fleeting things that the harm is done, whatever harm there is, before any remedy can be brought to bear upon it; which fact leaves no room for self-defense. in such a case, the only redress that can be had is from the courts of justice, established to undo wrongs as far as the thing can be done. the power to do this belongs to the state alone, and is vested in no private individual. to assume the prerogative of privately doing oneself justice, when recourse can be had to the tribunals of justice, is to sin, and every act committed in this pursuit of justice is unlawful and criminal. this applies likewise to all the other cases of self-defense wherein life, virtue and wealth are concerned, if the harm is already done, or if legal measures can prevent the evil, or undo it. it may be that the justice dealt out by the tribunal, in case of injury being done to u's, prove inferior to that which we might have obtained ourselves by private methods. but this is not a reason for one to take the law into one's own hands. such loss is accidental and must be ascribed to the inevitable course of human things. duelling is a form of murder and suicide combined, for which there can possibly be no justification. the code of honor that requires the reparation of an insult at the point of the sword or the muzzle of a pistol has no existence outside the befogged intelligence of godless men. the duel repairs nothing and aggravates the evil it seeks to remedy. the justice it appeals to is a creature dependent on skill and luck; such justice is not only blind, but crazy as well. that is why the church anathematizes duelling. the duel she condemns is a hand-to-hand combat prearranged as to weapons, time and place, and it is immaterial whether it be to the death or only to the letting of first blood. she fulminates her major excommunication against duellists, even in the event of their failing to keep their agreement. her sentence affects seconds and all those who advise or favor or abet, and even those whose simple presence is an incentive and encouragement. she refuses christian burial to the one who falls, unless before dying he shows certain dispositions of repentance. prize fighting, however brutal and degrading, must not be put in the category of duelling. its object is not to wipe out an insult, but to furnish sport and to reap the incidental profits. in normal conditions there is no danger to life or limb. sharkey might stop with the point of his chin a blow that would send many another into kingdom come; but so long as sharkey does the stopping the danger remains non-existent. if, however, hate instead of lucre bring the men together, that motive would be sufficient to make the game one of blood if not of death. lynching, is another kind of murder, and a cowardly, brutal kind, at that. no crime, no abomination on the part of the victim, however great, can justify such an inhuman proceeding. it brands with the crime of wilful murder every man or woman who has a hand in it. to defend the theory of lynching-is as bad as to carry it out in practice. and it is greatly to be feared that the almighty will one day call this land to account for the outrageous performances of unbridled license and heartless cruelty that occur so frequently in our midst. the only plea on which to ground an excuse for such exhibitions of brutality and disrespect for order and justice would be the inability of established government to mete out justice to the guilty; but this is not even the case, for government is defied and lawful authority capable and willing to punish is spurned; the culprit is taken from the hands of the law and delivered over to the vengeance of a mob. however popular the doctrine of judge lynch may be in certain sections of the land, it is nevertheless reprobated by the law of god and stands condemned at the bar of his justice. chapter lxxii. on the ethics of war. in these days, since we have evolved into a fighting nation, our young men feel within them the instinct of battle, which, like job's steed, "when it heareth the trumpet, saith: 'ha, ha'; that smelleth the battle afar off, the encouraging of the captains, the shouting of the army." military trappings are no longer looked upon as stage furniture, good only for fourth-of-july parades and sham manoeuvers. war with us has become a stern reality, and promises to continue such, for people do not yield up willingly their independence, even to a world-power with a providential "destiny" to fulfil. and since war is slaughter, it might be apropos to remark on the morality of such killing as is done on the field of battle and of war in general. in every war there is a right side and a wrong side; sometimes, perhaps, more frequently, there is right and wrong on both sides, due to bungling diplomacy and the blindness of prejudice. but in every case justice demands the triumph of one cause and the defeat of the other. to determine in any particular case the side of right and justice is a very difficult matter. and perhaps it is just as well that it is so; for could this be done with truth and accuracy, frightful responsibilities would have to be placed on the shoulders of somebody; and we shrink instinctively from the thought of any one individual or body of individuals standing before god with the crime of war on his or their souls. therefore it is that grave men are of the opinion that such a tremendous event as war is not wholly of man's making, but rather an act of god, like earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and the like; which things he uses as flails to chastise his people, or to bring them to a sense of their own insignificance in his sight. be this as it may, it is nevertheless true that a private individual is rarely, if ever, competent to judge rightly by himself of the morality of any given cause, until such time at least as history has probed the matter and brought every evidence to light. in case, therefore, of doubt, every presumption should favor the cause of one's own country. if, in my private opinion, the cause of my country is doubtfully wrong, then that doubt should yield to the weight of higher authoritative opinion. official or popular judgment will be authority for me; on that authority i may form a strong probable opinion, at least; and this will assure the morality of my taking up my country's cause, even though it be doubtful from my personal point of view. if this cannot be done and one's conscience positively reprove such a cause, then that one cannot, until a contrary conviction is acquired, take any part therein. but he is in no wise bound to defend with arms the other side, for his convictions are subjective and general laws do not take these into account. who are bound to serve? that depends on the quality of danger to which the commonwealth is exposed. first, the obligation is for those who can do so easily; young men, strong, unmarried, with a taste for such adventure as war affords. the greater the general peril, the less private needs should be considered. the situation may be such as to call forth every able-bodied man, irrespective of family necessities. to shirk this duty when it is plainly a duty--a rare circumstance, indeed--is without doubt a sin. obedience to orders is the alpha and omega of army discipline; without it a cause is lost from the beginning. numbers are nothing compared to order; a mob is not a fighting machine; it is only a fair target. the issue of a battle, or even of a whole war, may depend on obedience to orders. army men know this so well that death is not infrequently the penalty of disobedience. consequently, a violation of discipline is usually a serious offense; it may easily be a mortal sin. war being slaughter, the soldier's business is to kill or rather to disable, as many of the enemy as possible on the field of battle. this disabling process means, of course, and necessarily, the maiming unto death of many. such killing is not only lawful, but obligatory. war, like the surgeon's knife, must often lop off much in order to save the whole. the best soldier is he who inflicts most damage on the enemy. but the desire and intention of the soldier should not be primarily to kill, but only to put the enemy beyond the possibility of doing further harm. death will be the result of his efforts in many cases, and this he suffers to occur rather than desires and intends. he has no right to slay outside of battle or without the express command of a superior officer; if he does so, he is guilty of murder. neither must there be hate behind the aim that singles out a foe for destruction; the general hatred which he bestows on the opposing cause must respect the individual enemy. it is not lawful to wantonly torture or maim an enemy, whoever or whatever he may be, however great his crime. not even the express command of a superior officer can justify such doings, because it is barbarity, pure and unmitigated. in war these things are morally just what they would be if they were perpetrated in the heart of peace and civilization by a gang of thugs. these are abominations that, not only disgrace the flag under which they are committed, but even cry to heaven for vengeance. chapter lxxiii. the massacre of the innocents. herod, the bloody, slew all under two. a modern moloch, a creature of lust and blood, disguised often under the cloak of respectability, stalks through a christian land denying the babe the right to be born at all, demanding that it be crushed as soon as conceived. there is murder and murder; but this is the most heartless, cowardly and brutal on the catalogue of crime. it is bad enough to cut down an enemy, to shoot him in the back; but when it comes to slaying a victim as helpless as a babe, incapable of entering a protest, innocent of all wrong save that of existing; when even baptism is denied it, and thereby the sight of god for all eternity; when finally the victim is one's own flesh and blood, the language of hell alone is capable of qualifying such deeds. do not say there is no injustice. every innocent human being, at every stage of its existence, from the first to the last, born or unborn, has a natural and inalienable right to live, as long as nature's laws operate in its favor. being innocent it cannot forfeit that right. god is no exceptor of persons; a soul is a soul, whether it be the soul of a pontiff, a king or a sage, or the soul of the unborn babe of the last woman of the people. in every case, the right to live is exactly the same. the circumstances, regular or irregular, of its coming into life, not being of its own making, do not affect the right in the least. it obeyed the law by which every man is created; it could not disobey, for the law is fatal. its presence therefore, cannot be morally obnoxious, a crime on its part. whether its presence is a joy or a shame, that depends solely on the free act of others than itself; and it is for them to enjoy the privilege or bear the disgrace and burden. that presence may occasion poverty, suffering, it may even endanger life; what if it does! has a person in misfortune the right to strike down another who has had no part in making that misfortune? life does not begin at birth, but precedes it; prenatal life is truly life. that which is conceived, is; being, it lives as essentially as a full-grown man in the prime of life. being the fruit of humanity it is human at every instant of its career; being human, it is a creature of god, has an immortal soul with the image of the maker stamped thereon. and the veto of god, "thou shalt not kill," protects that life, or it has no meaning at all. the psychological moment of incipient life, the instant marked by the infusion of soul into body, may furnish a problem of speculation for the savant; but even when certitude ends and doubt begins, the law of god fails not to protect. no man who doubts seriously that the act he is about to perform is a crime, and is free to act or not to act, is anything but a criminal, if he goes ahead notwithstanding and does the deed. if i send a bullet into a man's head doubting whether or not he be dead, i commit murder by that act, and it matters not at all in point of fact whether said person were really dead or not before i made sure. in the matter, therefore, which concerns us here, doubt will not make killing justifiable. the law is: when in doubt, do not act. then, again, as far as guilt is concerned, it makes not a particle of difference whether results follow or not. sin, you know, is an act of the will; the exterior deed completes, but does not make, the crime. if i do all in my power to effect a wrong and fail in the attempt through no fault of my own, i am just as guilty before god as if i perpetrated the crime in deed. it is more than a desire to commit sin, which is sinful; it is a specific sin in itself, and in this matter, it is murder pure and simple. this applies with equal force to the agent who does the deed, to the principal who has it done or consents to its being done, to those who advise, encourage, urge or co-operate in any way therein, as well as to those who having authority to prevent, neglect to use it. the stain of blood is on the soul of every person to whom any degree of responsibility or complicity can be attached. if every murderer in this enlightened christian land of ours received the rope which is his or her due, according to the letter of the law, business would be brisk for quite a spell. it is a small town that has not its professional babe-slaughterer, who succeeds in evading the law even when he contrives to kill two at one time. he does not like to do it, but there is money in it, you know; and he pockets his unholy blood money without a squirm. don't prosecute him; if you do, he will make revelations that will startle the town. as for the unnatural mother, it is best to leave her to listen in the dead of night to the appealing voice of her murdered babes before the tribunal of god's infinite justice. their blood calls for vengeance. chapter lxxiv. enmity. killing is not the only thing forbidden by the fifth commandment: thereby are prescribed all forms of enmity, of which killing is one, that attack either directly or indirectly, in thought or desire, as well as in deed, the life, limbs or health of the neighbor. the fifth precept protects the physical man; everything therefore that partakes of the nature of a design on the body of another is an offense against this commandment. all such offenses are not equally grievous, but each contains a malice of its own, which is prescribed under the head of killing. enmity that takes the form of fighting, assault and battery, is clearly a breach of the law of god. it is lawful to wound, maim and otherwise disable an assailant, on the principle of self-defense, when there is no other means of protecting oneself against attack. but outside this contingency, such conduct is ruffianism before man, and sin before god. the state alone has the right to inflict penalties and avenge wrongs; to turn this right over to every individual would be destructive of society. if this sort of a thing is unlawful and criminal when there might be some kind of an excuse for it on the ground of injury received, the malice thereof is aggravated considerably by the fact of there being no excuse at all, or only imaginary ones. there is another form of enmity or hatred that runs not to blows but to words. herein is evil, not because of any bodily injury wrought, of which there is none, but because of the diabolical spirit that manifests itself, a spirit reproved by god and which, in given circumstances, is ready to resort to physical injury and even to the letting of blood. there can be no doubt that hatred in itself is forbidden by this commandment, for "whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer," according to st. john. it matters little, therefore, whether such hatred be in deeds or in words; the malice is there and the sin is consummated. a person, too weak to do an enemy bodily harm, may often use his or her tongue to better effect than another could his fists, and the verbal outrage thus committed may be worse than a physical one. it is not even necessary that the spirit of enmity show itself at all on the outside for the incurring of such guilt as attends the violation of this commandment. it is sufficient that it possess the soul and go no farther than a desire to do harm. this is the spirit of revenge, and it is none the less sinful in the eyes of god because it lacks the complement of exterior acts. it is immoral to nourish a grudge against a fellow-man. such a spirit only awaits an occasion to deal a blow, and, when that occasion shows itself, will be ready, willing and anxious to strike. the lord refuses the gifts and offerings and prayers of such people as these; they are told to go and become reconciled with their brother and lay low the spirit that holds them; then, and only then, will their offerings be acceptable. even less than this suffices to constitute a breach of the fifth commandment. it is the quality of such passions as envy and jealousy to sometimes be content with the mere thought of injury done to their object, without, even going so far as to desire to work the evil themselves. these passions are often held in check for a time; but, in the event of misfortune befalling the hated rival, there follows a sense of complacency and satisfaction which, if entertained, has all the malice of mortal sin. if, on the contrary, the prosperity of another inspire us with a feeling of regret and sadness, which is deliberately countenanced and consented to, there can be no doubt as to the grievous malice of such a failing. finally recklessness may be the cause of our harming another. it is a sound principle of morals that one is responsible for his acts in the measure of his foreseeing, and consenting to, the results and consequences. but there is still another sound principle according to which every man is accountable, at least indirectly, for the evil consequences of his actions, even though they be unforeseen and involuntary, in the measure of the want of ordinary human prudence shown in his conduct. a man with a loaded revolver in his hand may not have any design on the lives of his neighbors; but if he blazes away right and left, and happens to fill this or that one with lead, he is guilty, if he is in his right mind; and a sin, a mortal sin, is still a sin, even if it is committed indirectly. negligence is often culpable, and ignorance frequently a sin. naturally, just as the soul is superior to the body, so evil example, scandal, the killing of the soul of another is a crime of a far greater enormity than the working of injury unto the body. scandal comes properly under the head of murder; but it is less blood than lust that furnishes it with working material. it will therefore be treated in its place and time. chapter lxxv. our enemies. what is an enemy? a personal, an individual enemy is he who has done us a personal injury. the enemy, in a general or collective sense, are they--a people, a class or party--who are opposed to our interests, whose presence, doings or sayings are obnoxious to us for many natural reasons. concerning these latter, it might be said that it is natural, oftentimes necessary and proper, to oppose them by all legitimate means. this opposition, however lawful, is scarcely ever compatible with any high degree of charity or affection. but whatever of aversion, antipathy or even hatred is thereby engendered, it is not of a personal nature; it does not attain the individual, but embraces a category of beings as a whole, who become identified with the cause they sustain and thereby fall under the common enmity. the law that binds us unto love of our enemy operates only in favor of the units, and not of the group as a group. hatred, aversion, antipathy, such as divides peoples, races and communities, is one, though not the highest, characteristic of patriotism; it may be called the defect of a quality. when a man is whole-souled in a cause, he will brook with difficulty any system of ideas opposed to, and destructive of, his own. anxious for the triumph of what he believes the cause of right and justice, he will rejoice over the discomfiture of his rivals and the defeat of their cause. wars leave behind an inheritance of hatred; persecution makes wounds that take a long time to heal. the descendants of the defeated, conquered or persecuted will-look upon the generations of their fathers' foes as typifying oppression, tyranny and injustice, will wish them all manner of evil and gloat over their downfall. such feelings die hard. they spring from convictions. the wounds made by injustice, fancied or real, will smart; and just as naturally will men retain in their hearts aversion for all that which, for them, stands for such injustice. this is criminal only when it fails to respect the individual and become personal hate. him who has done us a personal injury we must forgive. pardon drives hatred out of the heart. love of god is incompatible with personal enmity; therefore such enmity must be quelched. he who says he loves god and hates his brother is a liar, according to divine testimony. what takes the place of this hate? love, a love that is called common love, to distinguish it from that special sort of affection that we have for friends. this is a general kind of love that embraces all men, and excludes none individually. it forbids all uncharity towards a man as a unit, and it supposes a disposition of the soul that would not refuse to give a full measure of love and assistance, if necessity required it. this sort of love leaves no room for hatred of a personal nature in the heart. is it enough to forgive sincerely from the heart? it is not enough; we must manifest our forgiveness, and this for three good reasons: first, in order to secure us against self-illusion and to test the sincerity of our dispositions; secondly, in order to put an end to discord by showing the other party that we hold no grudge; lastly, in order to remove whatever scandal may have been given by our breach of friendship. the disorder of enmity can be thoroughly cured and healed only by an open renewal of the ties of friendship; and this is done by the offering and acknowledgment of the signs of friendship. the signs of friendship are of two sorts, the one common, the other special. common tokens of friendship are those signs which are current among people of the same condition of life; such as saluting, answering a question, dealing in business affairs, etc. these are commonly regarded as sufficient to take away any reasonable suspicion of hatred, although, in matter of fact, the inference may be false. but the refusal to give such tokens of pardon usually argues the presence of an uncharitable feeling that is sinful; it is nearly always evidence of an unforgiving spirit. there are certain cases wherein the offense received being of a peculiar nature, justifies one in deferring such evidence of forgiveness; but these cases are rare. if we are obliged to show by unmistakable signs that we forgive a wrong that has been done, we are in nowise bound to make a particular friend of the person who has been guilty of the wrong. we need not go out of our way to meet him, receive or visit him or treat him as a long lost brother. he would not expect it, and we fulfil our obligations toward him by the ordinary civilities we show him in the business of life. if we have offended, we must take the first step toward reconciliation and apologize; that is the only way we have of repairing the injury done, and to this we are held in conscience. if there is equal blame on both sides, then both are bound to the same duty of offering an apology. to refuse such advances on the part of one who has wronged us is to commit an offense that might very easily be grievous. all this, of course, is apart from the question of indemnification in case of real damage being sustained. we may condone an offense and at the same time require that the loss suffered be repaired. and in case the delinquent refuse to settle amicably, we are justified in pursuing him before the courts. justice is not necessarily opposed to charity. chapter lxxvi. immorality. the natural order of things brings us to a consideration of the sixth commandment, and at the same time, of the ninth, as treating of the same matter--a matter so highly immoral as to deserve the specific appellation of immorality. people, as a rule, are tolerably well informed on this subject. it is a knowledge acquired by instinct, the depraved instinct of our fallen nature, and supplemented by the experiences weaned from the daily sayings and doings of common life. finally, that sort of journalism known as the "yellow," and literature called pornographic, serve to round off this education and give it the finishing touches. but, on the other hand, if one considers the innocent, the young and inexperienced, who are not a few; and likewise the morbidly curious of sensual tendencies, who are many, this matter must appear as a high explosive, capable of doing any amount of damage, if not handled with the utmost care and caution. much, therefore, must be left unsaid, or half-said; suggestion and insinuation must be trusted to go far enough, in order that, while the knowing understand, the ignorant may be secure in the bliss of their ignorance and be not prematurely informed. they, for whom such language is insufficient, know where to go for fuller information. parents are the natural teachers; the boy's father and the girl's mother know what to say, how and when to say it; or at least should know. and if parents were only more careful, in their own way, to acquaint their children with certain facts when the time comes for it, much evil would be avoided, both moral and physical. but there are secrets too sacred even for parents' ears, that are confided only to god, through his appointed minister. catholics know this man is the confessor, and the place for such information and counsel, the holy tribunal of penance. these two channels of knowledge are safe; the same cannot be said of others. as a preliminary, we would remark that sins, of the sort here in question as well as all kinds of sin, are not limited to deeds. exterior acts consummate the malice of evil, but they do not constitute such malice; evil is generated in the heart. one who desires to do wrong offends god as effectively as another who does the wrong in deed. not only that, but he who makes evil the food of his mind and ponders complacently on the seductive beauty of vice is no less guilty than he who goes beyond theory into practice. this is something we frequently forget, or would fain forget, the greed of passion blinding us more or less voluntarily to the real moral value of our acts. as a consequence of this self-illusion many a one finds himself far beyond his depth in the sea of immorality before he fully realizes his position. it is small beginnings that lead to lasting results; it is by repeated acts that habits are formed; and evil grows on us faster than most of us are willing to acknowledge. all manner of good and evil originates in thought; and that is where the little monster of uncleanness must be strangled before it is full-grown, if we would be free from its unspeakable thralldom. again, this is a matter the malice and evil of which very, very rarely, if ever, escapes us. he who commits a sin of impurity and says he did not know it was wrong, lies deliberately, or else he is not in his right frame of mind. the maker has left in our souls enough of natural virtue and grace to enable us to distinguish right and wrong, clean and unclean; even the child with no definite knowledge of the matter, meeting it for the first time, instinctively blushes and recoils from the moral hideousness of its aspect. conscience here speaks in no uncertain accents; he alone does not hear who does not wish to hear. catholic theologians are even more rigid concerning the matter itself, prescinding altogether from our perception of it. they say that here no levity of matter is allowed, that is to say, every violation, however slight, of either of these two commandments, is a sin. you cannot even touch this pitch of moral defilement without being yourself defiled. it is useless therefore to argue the matter and enter a plea of triviality and inconsequence; nothing is trivial that is of a nature to offend god and damn a soul. weakness has the same value as an excuse as it has elsewhere in moral matters. few sins are of pure malice; weakness is responsible for the damnation of all, or nearly all, the lost. that very weakness is the sin, for virtue is strength. to make this plea therefore is to make no plea at all, for we are all weak, desperately weak, especially against the demon of the flesh, and we become weaker by yielding. and we are responsible for the degree of moral debility under which we labor just as we are for the degree of guilt we have incurred. finally, as god, is no exceptor of persons, he does not distinguish between souls, and sex makes no difference with him. in this his judgment differs from that of the world which absolves the man and condemns the woman. there is no evident reason why the violation of a divine precept should be less criminal in one human creature than in another. and if the reprobation of society does not follow both equally, the wrath of god does, and he will render unto every one according to his and her works. chapter lxxvii. the sink of iniquity. the malice of lust consists in the abuse of a natural, a quasi-divine faculty, which is prostituted to ignoble purposes foreign to the ends by the creator established. the lines along which this faculty may be legitimately exercised, are laid down by natural and divine laws, destined to preserve god's rights, to maintain order in society and to protect man against himself. the laws result in the foundation of a state, called matrimony, within which the exercise of this human prerogative, delegated to man by the creator, receives the sanction of divine authority, and becomes invested with a sacred character, as sacred as its abuse is abominable and odious. to disregard and ignore this condition of things and to seek satisfaction for one's passions outside the domain of lawful wedlock, is to revolt against this order of creative wisdom and to violate the letter of the law. but the intrinsic malice of the evil appears in the nature of this violation. this abuse touches life; not life in its being, but in its source, in the principle that makes all vitality possible, which is still more serious. immorality is therefore a moral poisoning of the wells of life. it profanes and desecrates a faculty and prerogative so sacred that it is likened to the almighty power of the creator. a manifold malice may attach to a single act in violation of the law of moral purity. the burden of a vow in either party incurring guilt, whether that vow be matrimonial or religious, is a circumstance that adds injustice or sacrilege to the crime, according to the nature of that vow; and the double guilt is on both parties. if the vow exists in one and the other delinquent, then the offense is still further multiplied and the guilt aggravated. blood-relationship adds a specific malice of its own, slight or grievous according to the intimacy of said relationship. fornication, adultery, sacrilege and incest--these, to give to things their proper names, are terms that specify various degrees of malice and guilt in this matter; and although they do not sound well or look well in print, they have a meaning which sensible folks should not ignore. a lapse from virtue is bad; the habit or vice, voluntarily entertained, is infinitely worse. if the one argues weakness, even culpable, the other betrays a studied contempt for god and the law, an utter perversion of the moral sense that does not even esteem virtue in itself; an appalling thralldom of the spirit to the flesh, an appetite that is all ungodly, a gluttony that is bestial. very often it supposes a victim held fast in the clutches of unfeeling hoggishness, fascinated or subjugated, made to serve, while serviceable; and then cast off without a shred of respectability for another. it is an ordinary occurrence for one of these victims to swallow a deadly potion on being shown her folly and left to its consequences; and the human ogre rides triumphantly home in his red automobile. but the positions may be reversed; the victim may play the role of seductress, and displaying charms that excite the passions, ensnare the youth whose feet are not guided by the lamp of experience, wisdom and religion. this is the human spider, soulless and shameless, using splendid gifts of god to form a web with which to inveigle and entrap a too willing prey. and the dead flies, who will count them! the climax of infamy is reached when this sort of a thing is made, not a pastime, but a business, when virtue is put on the market with its fixed value attached and bartered for a price. there is no outrage on human feeling greater than this. we are all born of woman; and the sight of womanhood thus degraded and profaned would give us more of a shock if it were less common. the curse of god is on such wretches as ply this unnatural trade and live by infamy; not only on them, but on those also who make such traffic possible and lucrative. considering all things, more guilty the latter than the former, perhaps. active co-operation in evil makes one a joint partner in guilt; to encourage infamy is not only to sin, but also to share all the odium thereof; while he who contributes to the perpetuation of an iniquity of this nature is, in a sense, worse than the unfortunates themselves. the civil law which seeks to eliminate the social evil of prostitution by enactment and process, gives rise, by enactment and process, to another evil almost as widespread. divorce is a creature of the law, and divorce opens the door to concubinage, legalized if you will, but concubinage just the same. the marriage tie is intact after as well as before the decree of divorce; no human power can break that bond. the permission therefore to re-marry is permission to live in adultery, and that permission is, of its very nature, null and void. they who avail themselves of such a permission and live in sin, may count on the protection of the law, but the law will not protect them against the wrath of the almighty who condemns their immoral living. chapter lxxviii. wherein nature is opposed. certain excesses, such as we have already alluded to, however base and abominable in themselves and their effects, have nevertheless this to their credit that, while violating the positive law of god, they respect at least the fundamental laws of nature, according to which the universe is constructed and ordered. to satisfy one's depraved appetites along forbidden but natural lines, is certainly criminal; but an unnatural and beastly instinct is sometimes not-satisfied with such abuse and excess; the passion becomes so blinded as to ignore the difference of sex, runs even lower, to the inferior order of brutes. this is the very acme of ungodliness. there are laws on the statute books against abominations of this sort; and be it said to the shame of a christian community, said laws find an only too frequent application. severe as are the penalties, they are less an adequate punishment than a public expression of the common horror inspired by the very mention of crimes they are destined to chastise. to attain this depth of infamy is at one and the same time to sin and to receive the penalty of sin. here culminates repeated violence to the moral law. when one is sated with ordinary lusts and is bent on sweeping the whole gamut of mundane experiences and excitations, that one invariably descends to the unnatural and extraordinary, and lives a life of protest against nature. st. paul confirms this. according to him, god, in punishment for sin delivers over people to shameful affections, to a reprobate sense; he suffers them to be a hell unto themselves. and nature seldom fails to avenge herself for the outrages suffered. she uses the flail of disease and remorse, of misery and disgust, and she scourges the culprit to the verge of the grave, often to the yawning pit of hell. people shudder at the very thought of such unmentionable things: but there are circles in society in which such sanctimonious shuddering is a mighty thin veil of hypocrisy. infinitely more common, and little, if any, less unnatural and abominable are the crimes that are killing off the old stock that once possessed the land and making the country dependent for increase of population on the floods of immigration. the old puritan families are almost extinct; boston is more irish than dublin. the phenomenon is so striking here that it is called new englandism. why are there so few large families outside the irish and canadian elements? why are there seen so few children in the fashionable districts of our large cities? why this blast of sterility with which the land is cursed? look behind the phenomenon, and you will find the cause; and the finding will make you shudder. and if only those shudder who are free from stain, the shuddering will be scarcely audible. onan and malthus as household gods are worse than the gods of rome. meanwhile, the unit deteriorates alongside the family, being given over to a reprobate sense that is centered in self, that furnishes, against all law, its own satisfactions, and reaps, in all justice, its inevitable harvest of woe. to what extent this vice is common it would serve no purpose to examine; students of criminology have more than once made known their views on the matter. the character of its malice, both moral and physical, needs no comment; nature is outraged. but it has this among its several features; the thralldom to which it subjects its victim has nothing outside itself to which it may be compared. man's self is his own greatest tyrant; there are no tortures so exquisite as those we provide for ourselves. while therefore we reprove the culprit, we commiserate with the unfortunate victim, and esteem that there is none more worthy of sympathy, conditioned, of course, on a state of mind and soul on his part that seeks relief and freedom; otherwise, it were pity wasted. we have done with this infernal category of sin and filth. yet we would remark right here that for the most part, as far as they are general and common, these excesses are the result of one cause; and that cause is everyday systematic godlessness such as our public schools are largely responsible for. this system is responsible for a want of vital christianity, of a lack of faith and religion that penetrates the human fibre and makes god and morality a factor in every deed. deprived of this, youth has nothing to fall back on when the hour of temptation comes; and when he falls, nothing to keep him from the bottom of the pit. it is impossible to put this argument in detail before the christian and catholic parent. if the parent docs not see it, it is because that parent is deficient in the most essential quality of a parent. nothing but the atmosphere of a religious school can save our youth from being victims of that maelstrom of impurity that sweeps the land. and that alone, with the rigid principles of morality there inculcated, can save the parents of to-morrow from the blight and curse of new englandism. chapter lxxix. hearts. the heart, the seat of the affections, is, after the mind whose authority and direction it is made to obey, man's noblest faculty; but it may, in the event of its contemning reason's dictates, become the source and fountain-head of inordinate lust and an instrument of much moral disaster and ruin. when the intelligence becomes powerless to command and to say what and when and how the affections shall disport themselves, then man becomes a slave to his heart and is led like an ass by the nose hither and thither; and when nature thus runs unrestrained and wild, it makes for the mudholes of lust wherein to wallow and besot itself. the heart is made to love what is good; now, good is real or apparent. love is blind, and needs reason to discern for it what is good and what is not, reason to direct its affections into their legitimate channels. but the heart may refuse to be thus controlled, swayed by the whisperings of ignorant pride and conceit; or it may be unable to receive the impulse of the reason on account of the unhealthy fumes that arise from a too exuberant animal nature unchastened by self-denial. then it is that, free to act as it lists, it accepts indiscriminately everything with an appearance of good, in which gets mixed up much of that which appeals to the inferior appetites. and in the end it gets lost. again, the heart is a power for good or evil; it may be likened to a magazine, holding within its throbbing sides an explosive deposit of untold energy and puissance, capable of all things within the range of the human. while it may lift man to the very pinnacle of goodness, it may also sink him to the lowest level of infamy. only, in one case, it is spiritualized love, in the other, it is carnal; in one case it obeys the spirit, in the other, the flesh; in one case its true name is charity, in the other, it is animal, sexual instinct, and it is only improperly called love. for god is love. love therefore is pure. that which is not pure is not love. people who trifle with the affections usually come to woe sooner or later, sooner rather than later; affairs of the heart are always morally malodorous affairs. frequently there is evil on one side at least, in intention, from the start. the devil's game is to play on the chaste attachment, and in an unguarded moment, to swing it around to his point. if the victim does not balk at the first shock and surprise, the game is won; for long experience has made him confident of being able to make the counterfeit look like the real; and it requires, as a general rule, little argument to make us look at our faults in their best light. many a pure love has degenerated and many a virtue fallen, why? because people forget who and what they are, forget they are human, forget they are creatures of flesh and blood, predisposed to sin, saturated with concupiscence and naturally frail as a reed against the seductions of the wily one. they forget this, and act as though theirs were art angelic, instead of a human, nature. they imagine themselves proof against that which counts such victims as david and solomon, which would cause the fall of a father of the desert, or even of an angel from heaven encumbered with the burden we carry, if he despised the claims of ordinary common sense. and this forgetfulness on their part, let it be remembered, is wholly voluntary and culpable, at least in its cause. they may not have been attentive at the precise moment that the flames of passion reached the mine of their affections; but they were well aware that things would come inevitably to such a pass. and when the mine went up, as it was natural, what wonder if disaster followed! who is to blame but themselves? people do not play with matches around a powder magazine; and if they do, very little consolation comes with the knowledge of their folly when they are being picked up in sections from out of the ruins. of course there are easier victims than these, such as would not recognize true inter-sexual love if they saw it through a magnifying glass; everything of the nature of a fancy or whim, of a sensation or emotion with them is love. love-sick maidens are usually soft-brained, and their languorous swains, lascivious. the latter pose as "killers;" the former wear their heart on their sleeve, and are convinced that every second man they meet who treats them gallantly is smitten with their charms and is passionately in love with them. some go in for excitement and novelty, to break the monotony of virtuous restraint. they are anxious for a little adventure and romance. a good thing, too, to have these exploits to narrate to their friends. but they do not tell all to their friends; they would be ashamed to. if said friends are wise they can supply the deficiencies. and when it is all over, it is the same old story of the man that did not know the gun was loaded. they therefore who would remain pure must of all necessity keep custody over their heart's affections, make right reason and faith their guide and make the will force obedience thereto. if wrong attachments are formed, then there is nothing to do but to eradicate them, to cut, tear and crush; they must be destroyed at any cost. a pennyweight of prudence might have prevented the evil; it will now take mortification in large and repeated doses to undo it. in this alone is there salvation. chapter lxxx. occasions. occasions of sin are persons, places or things that may easily lead us into sin: this definition of the little catechism is simple and clear and requires no comment. it is not necessary that said places or things, or even said persons, be evil in themselves; it is sufficient that contact with, or proximity to, them induce one to commit an evil. it may happen, and sometimes does, that a person without any evil design whatever become an occasion of sin for another. the blame therefore does not necessarily lie with objects, but rather with the subject. occasions are of two kinds: the remote or far and the proximate or near; they differ in the degree of facility with which they furnish temptation, and in the quality and nature of such temptation. in the former, the danger of falling is less, in the latter it is more, probable. in theory, it is impossible to draw the line and say just when an occasion ceases to be proximate and becomes remote; but in the concrete the thing is easy enough. if i have a well-grounded fear, a fear made prudent by experience, that in this or that conjuncture i shall sin, then it is a near occasion for me. if, however, i can feel with knowledge and conviction that i am strong enough to overcome the inevitable temptation arising from this other conjunction of circumstances, the occasion is only remote. thus, since danger in moral matters is nearly always relative; what is a remote occasion for one may be a proximate occasion for another. proneness to evil is not the same in us all, for we have not all the same temperament and the same virtue. two individuals may assist at a ball or a dance or a play, the one secure from sin, immune against temptation, the other a manifold victim of his or her folly. the dance or spectacle may not be bad in itself, it is not bad in fact for one, it is positively evil for the other and a near occasion of sin. remote occasions cannot always be avoided, they are so numerous and frequent; besides the evil they contain is a purely imaginative, and therefore negligible, quantity. there may be guilt however, in seeking such occasions and without reason exposing ourselves to their possible dangers; temerity is culpable; he that loves danger shall perish. with the other kind, it is different. the simple fact of embracing a proximate occasion of sin is a grievous fault, even in the event of our accidentally not succumbing to the temptation to which we are exposed. there is an evil in such rashness independent of its consequences. he therefore who persists in visiting a place where there is every facility for sinning and where he has frequently sinned, does a deed of crime by going there; and whatever afterwards occurs, or does not occur, affects that crime not in the least. the same is true of reading certain books, novels and love-stories, for people of a certain spiritual complexion. the same is true of company-keeping, street-walking, familiarity and loose conversation. nor can anything different be said of such liberties, consented to or merely tolerated, as embracing and kissing, amorous effusions and all perilous amusements of this nature. when experience shows these things to be fraught with danger, then they become sinful in themselves, and can be indulged in only in contempt of the law of god and to our own serious spiritual detriment. but suppose i cannot avoid the occasion of sin, cannot remove it. what then? if it is a clear case of proximate occasion of sin, and all means fail to change it, then the supposition of impossibility is a ridiculous one. it is paramount to asserting that sin and offense of god is sometimes necessary; and to talk thus is to talk nonsense. sin is a deliberate act of a free will; mention necessity in the same breath, and you destroy the notion of sin. there can never be an impossibility of avoiding sin; consequently, there can never be an impossibility of avoiding a near occasion of sin. it may be hard, very difficult; but that is another thing. but, as we have already said, the difficulty is rather within than without us, it arises from a lack of will power. but hard or easy, these occasions must nevertheless be removed. let the suffering entailed be what it may, the eye must be plucked out, the arm must be lopped off, to use the saviour's figurative language, if in no other way the soul can be saved from sin. better to leave your father's house, better to give up your very life, than to damn your soul for all eternity. but extremes are rarely called for; small sacrifices often cost more than great ones. a good dose of ordinary, everyday mortification and penance goes a long way toward producing the necessary effect. an ounce of self-denial will work miracles in a sluggard, cowardly soul. it would be well on occasion to remember this, especially when one in such a state is thinking seriously of going to confession: if he is not prepared to make the required effort, then he had better stay away until such a time as he is willing. for if he states his case correctly, he will not receive absolution; if his avowal is not according to fact, his confession is void, perhaps sacrilegious. have done with sin before you can expect to have your sins forgiven. chapter lxxxi. scandal. on only rare occasions do people who follow the bent of their unbridled passions bethink themselves of the double guilt that frequently attaches to their sins. seemingly satisfied with the evil they have wrought unto their own souls, they choose to ignore the wrong they may have done unto others as a consequence of their sinful doings. they believe in the principle that every soul is personally responsible for its own damnation: which is true; but they forget that many elements may enter as causes into such a calamity. we are in nowise isolated beings in this world; our lives may, and do, affect the lives of others, and influence them sometimes to an extraordinary extent. we shall have, each of us, to answer one day for results of such influence; there is no man but is, in this sense, his brother's guardian. there are, who deny this, like cain. yet we icnow that jesus christ spoke clearly his mind in regard to scandal, and the emphasis he lays on his anathemas leaves no room to doubt of his judgment on the subject. scandal, in fact, is murder; not corporal murder, which is a vengeance-crying abomination, but spiritual murder, heinous over the other in the same measure as the soul's value transcends that of the body. kill the body, and the soul may live and be saved; kill the soul and it is lost eternally. properly speaking, scandal is any word or deed, evil or even with an appearance of evil, of a nature to furnish an occasion of spiritual downfall, to lead another info sin. it does not even matter whether the results be intended or merely suffered to occur; it does not even matter if no results follow at all. it is sufficient that the stumbling-block of scandal be placed in the way of another to his spiritual peril, and designed by nature to make him fall; on him who placed it, is the guilt of scandal. the act of scandal consists in making sin easier to commit--as though it were not already easy enough to sin--for another. natural grace, of which we are not totally bereft, raises certain barriers to protect and defend the weak and feeble. conspicuous among these are ignorance and shame; evil sometimes offers difficulties, the ones physical, the others spiritual, such as innate delicacy, sense of dignity, timidity, instinctive repugnance for filth, human respect, dread of consequences, etc. these stand on guard before the soul to repel the first advances of the tempter which are the most dangerous; the devil seldom unmasks his heavy batteries until the advance-posts of the soul are taken. it is the business of scandal to break down these barriers, and for scandal this work is as easy as it is nefarious. for curiosity is a hungering appetite, virtue is often protected with a very thin veil, and vice can be made to lose its hideousness and assume charms, to untried virtue, irresistible. there is nothing doing for his satanic majesty while scandal is in the field; he looks on and smiles. there may be some truth in the darwinian theory after all, if we judge from the imitative propensities of the species, probably an inherited trait of our common ancestor, the monkey. at any rate, we are often more easily led by example than by conviction; example leads us against our convictions. asked why we did this or that, knowing we should not have done it, we answer with simian honesty, "because such a one did it, or invited us to do it." we get over a good many old-fashioned notions concerning modesty and purity, after listening to the experiences of others; we forget to be ashamed in the presence of the brazen, the unabashed and the impudent. we feel partially justified in doing what we see done by one to whom we are accustomed to look up. "if he acts thus," we say, "how can it be so very wrong in me; and if everybody--and everybody sometimes means a very few--if everybody does so, it cannot be so bad as i first imagined." thus may be seen the workings of scandal in the mind and soul of its victim. remembering our natural proneness to carnal indulgence, it is not surprising that the victims of scandal are so many. but this cannot be taken as an apology for the scandal-giver; rather the contrary, since the malice of his sin has possibilities so unbounded. scandal supposes an inducement to commit sin, which is not the case when the receiver is already all disposed to sin and is as bad as the giver. nor can scandal be said properly to be given when those who receive it are in all probability immune against the evil. some people say they are scandalized when they are only shocked; if what shocked them has nothing in it to induce them into sinning, then their received scandal is only imaginative, nor has any been given. then, the number of persons scandalized must be considered as an aggravating circumstance. finally, the guilt of scandal is greater or less according to the helplessness of the victim or intended victim, and to the sacredness of his or her right to immunity from temptation, children being most sacred in this respect. of course god is merciful and forgives us our offenses however great 'they may be. we may undo a deal of wrong committed by us in this life, and die in the state of grace, even after the most abominable crimes. theologically, therefore, the idea has little to commend itself, but it must have occurred to more than one: how does one feel in heaven, knowing that there is in hell, at that moment, one or many through his or her agency! how mysterious is the justice of god to suffer such a state of affairs! and although theoretically possible, how can anyone count on such a contingency in his or her particular case! if the scandalous would reflect seriously on this, they would be less willing to take the chances offered by a possibility of this nature. chapter lxxxii. not good to be alone. a man may come to discover that the state in which he finds himself placed, is not the one for which he was evidently intended by the maker. we do not all receive the same gifts because our callings are different; each of us is endowed in accordance and in harmony with the ends of the creator in making us. some men should marry, others may not; but the state of celibacy is for the few, and not for the many, these few depending solely on an abundant grace of god. again, one may become alive to the fact that to remain in an abnormal position means to seriously jeopardize his soul's salvation; celibacy may, as for many it does, spell out for him, clearly and plainly, eternal damnation. it is to no purpose here to examine the causes of, and reasons for, such a condition of affairs. we take the fact as it stands, plain and evident, a stern, hard fact that will not be downed, because it is supported by the living proof of habit and conduct; living and continuing to live a celibate, taking him as he is and as there is every token of his remaining without any reasonable ground for expecting a change, this man is doomed to perdition. his passions have made him their slave; he cannot, it is morally impossible for him to do so, remain continent. suppose again that the almighty has created the state of wedlock for just such emergencies, whereby a man may find a remedy for his weaknesses, an outlet for his passions, a regulator of his life here below and a security against damnation hereafter; and this is precisely the case, for the ends of marriage are not only to perpetuate the species, but also to furnish a remedy for natural concupiscence and to raise a barrier against the flood of impurity. now, the case being as stated, need a catholic, young or--a no longer young--man look long or strive hard to find his path of duty already clearly traced? and in making this application we refer to man, not to woman, for reasons that are obvious; we refer, again, to those among men whose spiritual sense is not yet wholly dead, who have not entirely lost all respect for virtue in itself: who still claim to have an immortal soul and hope to save it; but who have been caught in the maelstrom of vice and whose passions and lusts have outgrown in strength the ordinary resisting powers of natural virtue and religion incomplete and half-hearted. these can appreciate their position; it would be well for them to do so; the faculty for so doing may not always be left with them. the obligation to marry, to increase and multiply, was given to mankind in general, and applies to man as a whole, and not to the individual; that is, in the common and ordinary run of human things. but the circumstances with which we are dealing are outside the normal, sphere; they are extraordinary, that is say, they do not exist in accordance with the plan and order established by god; they constitute a disorder resulting from unlawful indulgence and wild impiety. it may therefore be, and it frequently is the case, that the general obligation to marry particularize itself and fall with its full weight on the individual, this one or that one, according to the circumstances of his life. then it is that the voice of god's authority reaches the ear of the unit and says to him in no uncertain accents: thou shalt marry. and behind that decree of god stands divine justice to vindicate the divine right. we do not deny but that, absolutely speaking, recourse to this remedy may not be imperiously demanded; but we do claim that the absolute has nothing whatever to do with the question which is one of relative facts. what a supposed man may do in this or that given circumstance does not in the least alter the position of another real, live man who will not do this or that thing in a given circumstance; he will not, because, morally speaking, he cannot; and he cannot, simply because through excesses he has forgotten how. and of other reasons to justify non-compliance with the law, there can be none; it is here a. question of saving one's soul; inconveniences and difficulties and obstacles have no meaning in such a contingency. and, mind you, the effects of profligate celibacy are farther-reaching than many of us would suppose at first blush. the culprit bears the odium of it in his soul. but what about the state of those--or rather of her, whoever she may be, known or unknown--whom he, in the order of providence, is destined to save from the precariousness of single life? if it is his duty to take a wife, whose salvation as well as his own, perhaps depends on the fulfilment of that duty, and if he shirks his duty, shall he not be held responsible for the results in her as well as in himself, since he could, and she could not, ward off the evil? it has come to such a pass nowadays that celibacy, as a general thing, is a misnomer for profligacy. making all due allowance for honorable exceptions, the unmarried male who is not well saturated with spirituality and faith is notoriously gallinaceous in his morals. in certain classes, he is expected to sow his wild oats before he is out of his teens; and by this is meant that he will begin young to tear into shreds the sixth commandment so as not to be bothered with it later in life. if he married he would be safe. finally what kind of an existence is it for any human being, with power to do otherwise, to pass through life a worthless, good-for-nothing nonentity, living for self, shirking the sacred duties of paternity, defrauding nature and god and sowing corruption where he might be laying the foundation of a race that may never die? there is no one to whom he has done good and no one owes him a tear when his barren carcass is being given over as food to the worms. he is a rotten link on the chain of life and the curse of oblivion will vindicate the claims of his unborn generations. young man, marry, marry now, and be something in the world besides an eyesore of unproductiveness and worthlessness; do something that will make somebody happy besides yourself; show that you passed, and leave something behind that will remember you and bless your name. chapter lxxxiii. a helping hand. the moralist is usually severe, and the quality of his censure is merciless, when he attempts to treat the unwholesome theme of moral deformity; and all his efforts are mere attempts, for no human language can do full justice to such a theme, or fully express the contempt such excesses deserve. it is just, then, that, when he stands in the presence of the moral leper who blushes not for his degradation, he flay with the whip of scorn and contempt, scourge with anathema and brand him with every stigma of infamy, in order that the load of opprobrium thus heaped upon his guilty head may at least deter the clean from such defilement. but, if guilt is always guilt, the quality of guilt is varied. just as all virtue is not equally meritorious, so to other sources than personal unworthiness may often be traced moral debility that strives against natural causes, necessary conditions of environment and an ever-present and ever-active influence for evil. a fall does not always betoken profound degradation nor a stain, acute perversity of the will. those therefore who wrestle manfully with the effects of regretted lapses or weaknesses, who fight down, sometimes perhaps unsuccessfully, the strong tendencies of a too exuberant animal nature, who strive to neutralize an influence that unduly oppresses them,--against these, guilty though they may have been, is not directed the moralist's unmeasured censure. his reproaches in such cases tend less to condemn than to awake to a sense of moral responsibility; earnestness in pointing out remedy and safeguards takes the place of severity against wilfulness. for he knows that not a few sentences of condemnation christ writes on the sands, as he did in a celebrated case, and many an over-zealous accuser he has confounded, like the villainous pharisees whom he challenged to show a hand white enough to be worthy to cast the first stone. evidently such pity and commiseration should not serve to make vice less unlovely and thus undo the very work it is intended to perform. it should not have the characteristics of certain books and plays that pretend to teach morality by exposing vice in all its seductiveness. over-sensitive and maudlin sympathy is as ridiculous as it is unhealthy; its tendency is principally to encourage and spoil. but a judicious, discreet and measured sympathy will lift up the fallen, strengthen the weak and help the timorous over many a difficulty. it will suggest, too, the means best calculated to insure freedom from slavery of the passions. the first of these is self-denial, which is the inseparable companion of chastity; when they are not found together, seldom does either exist. and by self-denial is here meant the destruction of that eternal r reference for self, that is at the bottom of all uncleanness, that makes all things, however sacred, subservient to one's own pleasures, that considers nothing unlawful but what goes against the grain of natural impulse and natural appetites. there may be other causes, but this self-love is a primary one. say what you will, but one does not fall from his own level; the moral world is like the physical; if you are raised aloft in disregard for the laws of truth, you are going to come down with a thud. if you imagine all the pleasures of life made for you, and become lawful because your nature craves for them, you are taking a too high estimate of yourself; you are going before a fall he who takes a correct measure of himself, gets his bearings in relation to god, comes to realize his own weak points and several deficiencies, and acknowledges the obligations such a state of affairs places upon him, that one may sin, but he will not go far. he may fall, because he is human, because strength sufficient to guard us against the assaults of impurity is not from us, but from god. the spirit of humility, therefore, which makes known to him his own insufficiency, must be fortified with the spirit of faith which makes him ask for support through prayer. it is faith that makes prayer possible, and living faith, the spirit of faith, that makes us pray aright. this kind of prayer need not express itself in words; it may be a habit, a long drawn out desire, an habitual longing for help coupled with firm confidence in god's mercy to grant our request. no state of soul however disordered can long resist such a power, and no habit of evil but in time will be annihilated by it. the man or woman who undertakes to keep himself or herself pure, or to rise out of a habit of sin without the liberal use of divine supplication has in hand a very ungrateful task, and he or she will realize it before going far. and unless that prayer is sincere and heartfelt, a prayer full of faith that will not entertain the thought of failure, every effort will be barren of results. you must speak to god as to one near you, and remember that he is near you all the time. then there are the sacraments to repair every breach and to heal every wound. penance will cleanse you, communion will adorn and equip you anew. confession will give you a better knowledge of yourself every time you go; the food of god will strengthen every fibre of your soul and steel you against the seductions that otherwise would make you a ready victim. don't go once a year, go ten, twenty times and more, if necessary, go until you feel that you own yourself, that you can command and be obeyed. then you will not have to be told to stop; you will be safe. chapter lxxxiv. thou shalt not steal. the seventh commandment is protective of the right of property which is vested in every human being enjoying the use of reason. property means that which belongs to one, that which is one's own, to have and to hold, or to dispose of, at one's pleasure, or to reclaim in the event of actual dispossession. the right of property embraces all things to which may be affixed the seal of ownership; and it holds good until the owner relinquishes his claim, or forfeits or loses his title without offense to justice. this natural faculty to possess excludes every alien right, and supposes in all others the duty and obligation to respect it. the respect that goes as far as not relieving the owner of his goods is not enough; it must safeguard him against all damage and injury to said goods; otherwise his right is non-existent. all violations of this right come under the general head of stealing. people call it theft, when it is effected with secrecy and slyness; robbery, when there is a suggestion of force or violence. the swindler is he who appropriates another's goods by methods of gross deception or false pretenses while the embezzler transfers to himself the funds entrusted to his care. petty thieving is called pilfering or filching; stealing on a large scale usually has less dishonorable qualificatives. boodling and lobbying are called politics; watering stock, squeezing out legitimate competition, is called financiering; wholesale confiscation and unjust conquest is called statesmanship. give it whatever name you like, it is all stealing; whether the culprit be liberally rewarded or liberally punished, he nevertheless stands amenable to god's justice which is outraged wherever human justice suffers. of course the sin of theft has its degrees of gravity, malice and guilt, to determine which, that is, to fix exactly the value of stolen goods sufficient to constitute a grievous fault, is not the simplest and easiest of moral problems. the extent of delinquency may be dependent upon various causes and complex conditions. on the one hand, the victim must be considered in himself, and the amount of injury sustained by him; on the other, justice is offended generally in all cases of theft, and because justice is the corner stone of society, it must be protected at all hazards. it is only by weighing judiciously all these different circumstances that we can come to enunciate an approximate general rule that will serve as a guide in the ordinary contingencies of life. thus, of two individuals deprived by theft of a same amount of worldly goods, the one may suffer thereby to a much greater extent than the other; he who suffers more is naturally more reluctant to part with his goods, and a greater injustice is done to him than to the other. the sin committed against him is therefore greater than that committed against the other. a rich man may not feel the loss of a dollar, whereas for another less prosperous the loss of less than that sum might be of the nature of a calamity. to take therefore unjustly from a person what to that person is a notable amount is a grievous sin. it is uniformly agreed that it is a notable loss for a man to be unduly deprived of what constitutes a day's sustenance. this is the minimum of grievous matter concerning theft. but this rule will evidently not hold good applied on a rising scale to more and more extensive fortunes; for a time would come when it would be possible without serious guilt to appropriate good round sums from those abundantly blessed with this world's goods. the disorders necessarily attendant on such a moral rule are only too evident; and it is plain that the law of god cannot countenance abuses of this nature. justice therefore demands that there be a certain fixed sum beyond which one may not go without incurring serious guilt; and this, independent of the fortune of the person who suffers. theologians have fixed that amount approximately, in this country, at five dollars. this means that when such a sum is taken, in all cases, the sin is mortal. it is not always necessary, it is seldom necessary, that one should steal this much in order to offend grievously; but when the thief reaches this amount, be his victim ever so wealthy, he is guilty of grave injustice. this rule applies to all cases in which the neighbor is made to suffer unjustly in his lawful possessions; and it effects all wrongdoers whether they steal or destroy another's goods or co-operate efficaciously in such deeds of sin. it matters not whether the harm be wrought directly or indirectly, since in either case there may be moral fault; and it must be remembered that gross negligence may make one responsible as well as malice aforethought. the following are said to co-operate in crime to the extent of becoming joint-partners with the principal agent in guilt: those in whose name the wrong is done, in obedience to their orders or as a result of any other means employed; those who influence the culprit by suggesting motives and reasons for his crime or by pointing out efficient means of arriving thereat; those who induce others to commit evil by playing on their weaknesses thereby subjecting them to what is known as moral force; those who harbor the thief and conceal his stolen property against their recovery; those whose silence is equivalent to approbation, permission or official consent; those finally who before, during or after the deed, abstain from performing a plain duty in preventing, deterring or bringing to justice the guilty party. such persons as the foregoing participate as abettors in crime and share all the guilt of the actual criminals; sometimes the former are even more guilty than the latter. the tenth commandment which forbids us to covet our neighbor's goods, bears the same relation to the seventh as the ninth does to the sixth. it must, however, be borne in mind that all such coveting supposes injustice in desire, that is, in the means by which we desire to obtain what is not ours. to wish for, to long ardently for something that appeals to one's like and fancy is not sinful; the wrong consists in the desire to acquire it unjustly, to steal it, and thereby work damage unto the neighbor. it is a natural weakness in man to be dissatisfied with what he has and to sigh after what he has not; very few of us are free from this failing. but so long as our cravings and hankerings are not tainted with injustice, we are innocent of evil. chapter lxxxv. petty thefts. a question may arise as to petty thefts, venial in themselves, but oft repeated and aggregating in the long run a sum of considerable value: how are we to deal with such cases? should peculations of this sort be taken singly, and their individual malice determined, without reference to the sum total of injustice caused; or should no severe judgment be passed until such a time as sufficient matter be accumulated to make the fault grievous? in other words, is there nothing but venial sin in thefts of little values, or is there only one big sin at the end? the difficulty is a practical one. if petty thefts are committed with a view to amass a notable sum, the simple fact of such an intention makes the offense a mortal one. for, as we have already remarked in treating of the human act, our deeds may be, and frequently are, vitiated by the intention we have in performing them. if we do something with evil intent and purpose, our action is evil whether the deed in itself be indifferent or even good. here the intention is to cause a grave injustice; the deed is only a petty theft, but it serves as a means to a more serious offense. the act therefore takes its malice from the purpose of the agent and becomes sinful in a high degree. as to each repeated theft, that depends again on the intention of the culprit. if in the course of his pilferings he no longer adverts to his first purpose and has no intention in stealing beyond that of helping himself to a little of his neighbor's goods, he is guilty of nothing more than a venial sin. if, however, the initial purpose is present at every act, if at every fresh peculation the intention to accumulate is renewed explicitly or implicitly, then every theft is identical with the first in malice, and the offender commits mortal sin as often as he steals. thus the state of soul of one who filches after this fashion is not sensibly affected by his arriving at a notable sum of injustice in the aggregate. the malice of his conduct has already been established; it is now completed in deed. a person who thievishly appropriates small sums, but whose pilferings have no moral reference to each other, will find himself a mortal offender the moment his accumulated injustices reach the amount we have qualified as notable, provided he be at that moment aware of the fact, or even if he only have a doubt about the matter. and this is true whether the stolen sums be taken from one or from several persons. even in the latter case, although no one person suffers serious damage or prejudice, justice however is seriously violated and the intention of the guilty party is really to perpetrate grave injustice. however, such thefts as these which in the end become accumulative, must of their nature be successive and joined together by some bond of moral union, otherwise they could never be considered a. whole. by this is meant that there must not exist between the different single thefts an interruption or space of time such as to make it impossible to consider reasonably the several deeds as forming one general action. the time generally looked upon as sufficient to prevent a moral union of this kind is two months. in the absence therefore of a specific intention to arrive at a large amount by successive thefts, it must be said that such thefts as are separated by an intervening space of two months can never be accounted as parts of one grave injustice, and a mortal sin can never be committed by one whose venial offenses are of this nature. of course if there be an evil purpose, that alone is sufficient to establish a moral union between single acts of theft however considerable the interval that separates them. several persons may conspire to purloin each a limited amount. the circumstance of conspiracy, connivance or collusion makes each co-operator in the deed responsible for the whole damage done; and if the amount thus defrauded be notable, each is guilty of mortal sin. we might here add in favor of children who take small things from their parents and of wives who sometimes relieve their husbands of small change, that it is natural that a man be less reluctant to being defrauded in small matters by his own than by total strangers. it is only reasonable therefore that more latitude be allowed such delinquents when there is question of computing the amount to be considered notable; perhaps the amount might be doubled in their favor. the same might be said in favor of those whose petty thefts are directed against several victims instead of one, since the injury sustained individually is less. the best plan is to leave what does not belong to one severely alone. in other sins there may be something gained in the long run, but here no such illusion can be entertained, for the spectre of restitution, as we shall see, follows every injustice as a shadow follows its object, and its business is to see that no man profit by his ill-gotten goods. chapter lxxxvi. an oft exploited, but specious plea. it is not an infrequent occurrence for persons given to the habit of petty thefts and fraud, to seek to justify their irregular conduct by a pretense of justice which they call secret compensation. they stand arraigned before the bar of their conscience on the charge of niching small sums, usually from their employers; they have no will to desist; they therefore plead not guilty, and have nothing so much at heart as to convince themselves that they act within their rights. they elaborate a theory of justice after their ideas, or rather, according to their own desires; they bolster it up with facts that limp all the way from half-truths to downright falsities; and thus acquit themselves of sin, and go their way in peace. a judge is always lenient when he tries his own case. secret compensation is the taking surreptitiously from another of the equivalent of what is due to one, of what has been taken and is kept against all justice, in order to indemnify oneself for losses sustained. this sort of a thing, in theory at least, has a perfectly plausible look, nor, in fact, is it contrary to justice, when all the necessary conditions are fulfilled to the letter. but the cases in which these conditions are fulfilled are so few and rare that they may hardly be said to exist at all. it is extremely difficult to find such a case, and nearly always when this practice is resorted to, the order of justice is violated. and if common sense in the case of any given individual fail to show him this truth, we here quote for his benefit an authority capable of putting all his doubts at rest. the following proposition was advanced: "domestic servants who adjudge themselves underpaid for services rendered, may appropriate to themselves by stealth a compensation." this proposition has received the full weight of papal condemnation. it cannot be denied that it applies to all who engage their services for hire. to maintain the contrary is to revolt against the highest authority in the church; to practise it is purely and simply to sin. a case is often made out on the grounds that wages are small, work very hard and the laborer therefore insufficiently remunerated. but to conclude therefrom the right to help oneself to the employer's goods, is a strange manner of reasoning, while it opens the door to all manner of injustice. where is there a man, whatever his labor and pay, who could not come to the same conclusion? who may not consider himself ill-paid? and who is there that really thinks he is not worth more than he gets? there is no limit to the value one may put on one's own services; and he who is justified to-day in taking a quarter of a dollar, would be equally justified to-morrow in appropriating the whole concern. and then what becomes of honesty, and the right of property? and what security can anyone have against the private judgment of his neighbor? and what about the contract according to the terms of which you are to give your services and to receive in return a stipulated amount? was there any clause therein by which you are entitled to change the terms of said contract without consulting the other party interested? you don't think he would mind it. you don't think anything of the kind; you know he will and does mind it. he may be generous, but he is not a fool. "but i make up for it. i work overtime, work harder, am more attentive to my work; and thereby save more for my employer than i take." here you contradict yourself. you are therefore not underpaid. and if you furnish a greater amount of labor than is expected of you, that is your business and your free choice. and the right you have to a compensation for such extra labor is entirely dependent on the free will of your employer. people usually pay for what they call for; services uncalled for are gratuitous services. to think otherwise betokens a befuddled state of mind. "but i am forced to work harder and longer than we agreed." then it is up to you to remonstrate with your employer, to state the case as it is and to ask for a raise. if he refuses, then his refusal is your cue to quit and go elsewhere. it means that your services are no longer required. it means, at any rate, that you have to stand the cut or seek to better your condition under other employers. it is hard! of course it is hard, but no harder than a great many other things we have to put up with. if my neighbor holds unjustly what belongs to me, or if he has failed to repair damages caused, to recover my losses by secret compensation has the same degree of malice and disorder. the law is instituted for just such purposes; you have recourse thereto. you may prosecute and get damages. if the courts fail to give you justice, then perhaps there may be occasion to discuss the merits of the secret compensation theory. but you had better get the advice of some competent person before you attempt to put it in practice; otherwise you are liable to get into a bigger hole than the one you are trying to get out of. sometimes the bold assertion is advanced that the employer knows perfectly that he is being systematically robbed and tolerates it. it is incumbent on this party to prove his assertion in a very simple way. let him denounce himself to his employer and allow the truth or falsity thereof hang on the result. if he does not lose his job inside of twenty-four hours after the interview, he may continue his peculations in perfect tranquillity of conscience. if he escapes prosecution through the consideration of his former employer, he must take it for granted that the toleration he spoke of was of a very general nature, the natural stand for a man to take who is being robbed and cannot help it. to justify oneself on such a principle is to put a premium on shrewd dishonesty. chapter lxxxvii. contumely. the eighth commandment concerns itself with the good name of the neighbor; in a general way, it reproves all sins of the tongue, apart from those already condemned by the second and sixth commandments, that is to say, blasphemous and impure speech. it is as a weapon against the neighbor and an instrument of untruth that the tongue is here considered. by a good name is here intended the esteem in which a person is held by his fellow-men. call it reputation, character, fame, renown, etc., a good name means that the bearer is generally considered above reproach in all matters of honesty, moral integrity and worth. it does not necessarily imply that such esteem is manifested exteriorly by what is technically known as honor, the natural concomitant of a good name; it simply stands for the knowledge entertained by others of our respectability and our title to honor. a good name is therefore one thing; honor is another. and honor consists precisely in that manifestation on the part of our fellows of the esteem and respect in which they hold us, the fruit of our good name, the homage rendered to virtue, dignity and merit. as it may therefore be easily seen, these two things--a good name and honor--differ as much as a sign differs from the thing signified. the eighth commandment protects every man's honor; it condemns contumely which is an attack upon that honor. contumely is a sign of contempt which shows itself by attempting to impair the honor one duly receives; it either strives to prevent that honor being paid to the good name that naturally deserves it, or it tries to nullify it by offering just the contrary, which is contumely, more commonly called affront, outrage, insult. now, contumely, as you will remark, does not seek primarily to deprive one of a good name; which it nearly always succeeds in doing, and this is called detraction; but its object is to prevent your good name from getting its desert of respect, your character supposedly remaining intact. the insult offered is intended to effect this purpose. again, all contumely presupposes the presence of the party affronted; the affront is thrown in one's face, and therein consists the shocking indecency of the thing and its specific malice. it must be remembered that anger, hatred, the spirit of vengeance or any other passion does not excuse one from the guilt of contumely. on the other hand, one's culpability is not lessened by the accidental fact of one's intended insults going wide of the mark and bearing no fruit of dishonor to the person assailed. to the malice of contumely may, and is often, added that of defamation, if apart from the dishonor received one's character is besmirched in the bargain. contumely against parents offends at the same time filial piety; against god and his saints, it is sacrilegious; if provoked by the practice of religion and virtue, it is impious. if perpetrated in deed, it may offend justice properly so called; if it occasion sin in others, it is scandalous; if it drive the victim to excesses of any kind, the guilt thereof is shared by the contumelious agent. sometimes insult is offered gratuitously, as in the case of the weak, the old, the cripple and other unfortunates who deserve pity rather than mockery; the quality of contumely of this sort is brutal and fiendish. others will say for justification: "but he said the same, he did the same to me. can i not defend myself?" that depends on the sort of defense you resort to. all weapons of defense are not lawful. if a man uses evil means to wrong you, there is no justification, in christian ethics, for you to employ the same means in order to get square, or even to shelter yourself from his abuse. the "eye-for-eye" principle is not recognized among civilized and christian peoples. this gross violation of personal respect may be perpetrated in many ways; any expression of contempt, offered to your face, or directed against you through a representative, is contumely. the usual way to do this is to fling vile epithets, to call opprobrious names, to make shameful charges. it is not always necessary that such names and epithets be inapplicable or such charges false, if, notwithstanding, the person in question has not thereby forfeited his right to respect. in certain circumstances, the epithet "fool" may hold all the opprobriousness of contumely: "thief" and "drunkard" and others of a fouler nature may be thus malicious for a better reason. an accusation of immorality in oneself or in one's parents is contumelious in a high degree. our mothers are a favorite target for the shafts of contumely that through them reach us. abuse is not the only vehicle of contumely; scorn, wanton ridicule, indecent mockery and caricature that cover the unfortunate victim with shame and confusion serve the purpose as well. to strike one, to spit on one and other ignoble attacks and assaults belong to the same category of crime. the malice of contumely is not, of course, equal in all cases; circumstances have a great deal to do in determining the gravity of each offense. the more conspicuous a person is in dignity and the more worthy of respect, the more serious the affront offered him; and still more grave the offense, if through him many others are attainted. if again no dishonor is intended and no offense taken, or could reasonably be taken, there is no sin at all. there may be people very low on the scale of respectability as the world judges respectability; but it can never be said of a man or woman that he or she cannot be dishonored, that he or she is beneath contempt. human nature never forfeits all respect; it always has some redeeming feature to commend it. chapter lxxxviii. defamation. defamation differs from contumely in that the one supposes the absence, the other, the presence, of the person vilified; and again, in that the former asperses the reputation of the victim while the latter attacks the honor due or paid to said reputation. a good name is, after the grace of god, mans most precious possession; wealth is mere trash compared with it. you may find people who think otherwise, but the universal sentiment of mankind stigmatizes such baseness and buries it under the weight of its opprobrium. nor is it impossible that honor be paid where a good character no longer exists; but this is accidental. in the nature of things, reputation is the basis of all honor; if you destroy character, you destroy at the same time its fruit, which is honor. thus will be seen the double malice of defamation. to defame therefore is to lessen or to annul the estimation in which a person is held by his fellow-men. this crime may be perpetrated in two different manners: by making known his secret faults, and this is simple detraction; and by ascribing to him faults of which he is innocent, and this is calumny or slander. thus it appears that a man's character may suffer from truth as well as from falsehood. truth is an adorable thing, but it has its time and place; the fact of its being truth does not prevent it from being harmful. on the other hand, a lie, which is evil in itself, becomes abominable when used to malign a fellow-man. there is one mitigating and two aggravating forms of defamation. gossip is small talk, idle and sufficiently discolored to make its subject appear in an unfavorable light. it takes a morbid pleasure in speaking of the known and public faults of another. it picks at little things, and furnishes a steady occupation for people who have more time to mind other people's business than their own. it bespeaks small-ness in intellectual make-up and general pusillanimity. that is about all the harm there is in it, and that is enough. libel supposes a wide diffusion of defamatory matter, written or spoken. its malice is great because of its power for evil and harm. tale-bearing or backbiting is what the name implies. its object is principally to spread discord, to cause enmity, to break up friendships; it may have an ulterior purpose, and these are the means it employs. no limit can be set to its capacity for evil, its malice is especially infernal. it is not necessary that what we do or say of a defamatory nature result, as a matter of fact, in bringing one's name into disfavor or disrepute; it is sufficient that it be of such a nature and have such a tendency. if by accident the venomous shaft spend itself before attaining the intended mark, no credit is due therefore to him who shot it; his guilt remains what it was when he sped it on its way. nor is there justification in the plea that no harm was meant, that the deed was done in a moment of anger, jealousy, etc., that it was the result of loquacity, indulged in for the simple pleasure of talking. these are excuses that excuse not. there are those who, speaking in disparagement of the neighbor, speak to the point, directly and plainly; others, no less guilty, do it in a covert manner, have recourse to subterfuge and insinuation. they exaggerate faults and make them appear more odious, they put an evil interpretation on the deed or intention; they keep back facts that would improve the situation; they remain silent when silence is condemnatory; they praise with a malignant praise. a mean, sarcastic smile or a significant reticence often does the work better than many words and phrases. and all this, as we have said, independently of the truth or falsehood of the impression conveyed. listeners share the guilt of the defamers on the principle that the receiver is as bad as the thief. this supposes of course that you listen, not merely hear; that you enjoy this sort of a thing and are willing and ready to receive the impression derogatory to the neighbor's esteem and good name. of course, if mere curiosity makes us listen and our pleasure and amusement are less at the expense of the neighbor's good name than excited by the style of the narrator or the singularity of the facts alleged, the fault is less; but fault there nevertheless is, since such an attitude serves to encourage the traducer and helps him drive his points home. many sin who could and should prevent excesses of this kind, but refrain from doing so; their sin is greater if, by reason of their position, they are under greater obligations of correction. although reputation is a priceless boon to all men, there are cases wherein it has an especial value on account of the peculiar circumstances of a man's position. it not infrequently happens that the whole success of a man's life depends on his good name. men in public life, in the professions, religious and others similarly placed, suffer from defamation far more than those in the ordinary walks of life; and naturally those who injure them are guilty of more grievous wrong. and it goes without saying that a man can stand an immoral aspersion better than a woman. in all cases the malice is measured by the injury done or intended. chapter lxxxix. detraction. to absolve oneself of the sin of detraction on the ground that nothing but the truth was spoken is, as we have seen, one way of getting around a difficulty that is no way at all. some excuses are better than none, others are not. it is precisely the truth of such talk that makes it detraction; if it were not true, it would not be detraction but calumny--another and a very different fault. it would be well for such people to reflect for a moment, and ask themselves if their own character would stand the strain of having their secret sins and failings subjected to public criticism and censure, their private shortcomings heralded from every housetop. would they, or would they not, consider themselves injured by such revelations? then it would be in order for them to use the same rule and measure in dealing with others. he who does moral evil offends in the sight of god and forfeits god's esteem and friendship. but it does not follow that he should also forfeit the esteem of his fellow-men. the latter evil is nothing compared with the first; but it is a great misfortune nevertheless. if a man's private iniquity is something that concerns himself and his god, to the exclusion of all others, then whosoever presumes to judge and condemn him trespasses on forbidden ground, and is open to judgment and condemnation himself before his maker. all do not live in stone mansions who throw stones. if there is a mote in the neighbor's eye, perhaps there is a very large piece of timber in your own. great zeal in belaboring the neighbor for his faults will not lessen your own, nor make you appear an angel of light before god when you are something very different. if you employed this same zeal towards yourself, you would obtain more consoling results, for charity begins at home. one learns more examining one's own conscience than dissecting and flaying others alive. it may be objected that since detraction deals with secret sins, if the facts related are of public notoriety, there is no wrong in speaking of them, for you cannot vilify one who is already vilified. this is true; and then, again, it depends. first, these faults must be of public notoriety. a judicial sentence may make them such, but the fact that some, many, or a great many know and speak of them will not do it. the public is everybody, or nearly everybody. do not take your friends for the public, when they are only a fraction thereof. if you do you will find out oftener than it is pleasant that your sins of detraction are sins of slander; for rumors are very frequently based on nothing more substantial than lies or distorted and exaggerated facts set afloat by a calumniator. even when a person has justly forfeited, and publicly, the consideration of his fellowmen, and it is not, therefore, injurious to his character to speak of his evil ways, justice may not be offended, but charity may be, and grievously. it is a sin, an uncharity, to harp on one's faults in a spirit of spite, or with the cruel desire to maintain his dishonor; to leave no stone unturned in order to thoroughly blacken his name. in doing this you sin against charity, because you do something you would not wish to have done unto you. justice itself would be violated if, even in the event of the facts related being notorious, you speak of them to people who ignore them and are not likely ever to come to a knowledge of them. if you add, after telling all you know about a poor devil, that he did penance and repaired his sin, you must not imagine that such atonement will rehabilitate him in the minds of all. men are more severe and unforgiving than god. grace may be recovered, but reputation is a thing which, once lost, is usually lost for good. something of the infamy sticks; tears and good works will not, cannot wash it away. he, therefore, who banks too much on human magnanimity is apt to err; and his erring constitutes a fault. "but i confided the secret to but one person; and that one a dear friend, who promised to keep it." yes, but the injured party has a right to the estimation of that one person, and his injury consists precisely in being deprived of it. besides, you accuse yourself openly. either what you said was void of all harm, or it was not. in the one case, why impose silence! in the other, why not begin yourself by observing the silence you impose upon others! your friend will do what you did, and the ball you set rolling will not stop until there is nothing left of your victim's character. of course there are times when to speak of another's faults is derogatory neither to justice nor to charity; both may demand that the evil be revealed. a man to defend himself may expose his accuser's crookedness; in court his lawyer may do it for him, for here again charity begins at home. in the interests of the delinquent, to effect his correction, one may reveal his shortcomings to those who have authority to correct. and it is even admitted that a person in trouble of any kind may without sin, for the purpose of obtaining advice or consolation, speak to a judicious friend of another's evil ways. zeal for the public good may not only excuse, but even require that the true character of a bad man be shown up and publicly censured. its object is to prevent or undo evil, to protect the innocent; it is intended to destroy an evil influence and to make hypocrisy fly under his own colors. immoral writers, living or dead, corrupt politicians and demagogues, unconscionable wretches who prey on public ignorance, may and should be, made known to the people, to shield them is to share their guilt. this should not be done in a spirit of vengeance, but for the sole purpose of guarding the unwary against vultures who know no law, and who thrive on the simplicity of their hearers. chapter xc. calumny. to the malice of detraction calumny adds that of falsehood. it is a lie, which is bad; it is a report prejudicial to the character of another, which is worse; it is both combined, out of which combination springs a third malice, which is abominable. all the more so, since there can exist no excuse or reason in the light of which this sin may appear as a human weakness. because slander is the fruit of deliberate criminal spite, jealousy and revenge, it has a character of diabolism. the calumniator is not only a moral assassin, but he is the most accomplished type of the coward known to man. if the devil loves a cheerful liar, he has one here to satisfy his affections. this crime is one that can never be tolerated, no matter what the circumstances; it can never be justified on any grounds whatsoever; it is intrinsically evil, a sin of injustice that admits no mitigation. when slander is sworn to before the courts, it acquires a fourth malice, that of irreligion, and is called false testimony. it is not alone perjury, for perjury does not necessarily attack the neighbor's good name; it is perjured calumny, a crime that deserves all the reprobation it receives in this world--and in the next. to lie outright, deliberately and with malice aforethought, in traducing a fellow-man, is slander in its direct form; but such conditions are not required to constitute a real fault of calumny. it is not necessary to be certain that what you allege against your neighbor be false; it is sufficient that you be uncertain if it be true. an unsubstantiated charge or accusation, a mere rumor given out as worthy of belief, a suspicion or doubt clothed so as to appear a certainty, these contain all the malice and all the elements of slander clearly characterized. charity, justice and truth alike are violated, guilt is there in unquestioned evidence. whatever subterfuge, equivocation or other crooked proceeding be resorted to, if mendacity in any form is a feature of the aspersions we cast upon the neighbor, we sin by calumny, purely and simply. some excuse themselves on the plea that what they say, they give out for what it is worth; they heard it from others, and take no responsibility as to its truth or falsehood. but here we must consider the credulity of the hearers. will they believe it, whether you do or not? are they likely to receive it as truth, either because they are looking for just such reports, or because they know no better? and whether they believe it or not, will they, on your authority, have sufficient reason for giving credence to your words? may it not happen that the very fact of your mentioning what you did is a sufficient mark of credibility for others? and by so doing, you contribute to their knowledge of what is false, or what is not proven true, concerning the reputation of a neighbor. for it must be remembered that all imprudence is not guiltless, all thoughtlessness is not innocent of wrong. it is easy to calumniate a person by qualifying him in an off-hand way as a thief, a blackleg, a fast-liver, etc. it is easy, by adding an invented detail to a statement, to give it an altogether different color and turn truth into falsehood. but the easiest way is to interpret a man's intentions according to a dislike, and, by stringing in such fancies with a lot of facts, pass them on unsuspecting credulity that takes all or none. if you do not think well of another, and the occasion demand it, speak it out; but make it known that it is your individual judgment and give your reasons for thus opining. the desperate character of calumny is that, while it must be repaired, as we shall see later, the thing is difficult, often impossible; frequently the reparation increases the evil instead of diminishing it. the slogan of unrighteousness is: "calumniate, calumniate, some of it will stick!" he who slanders, lies; he who lies once may lie again, a liar is never worthy of belief, whether he tells the truth or not, for there is no knowing when he is telling the truth. one has the right to disbelieve the calumniator when he does wrong or when he tries to undo it. and human nature is so constructed that it prefers to believe in the first instance and to disbelieve in the second. you may slander a community, a class as well as an individual. it is not necessary to charge all with crime; it is sufficient so to manipulate your words that suspicion may fall on any one of said class or community. if the charge be particularly heinous, or if the body of men be such that all its usefulness depends on its reputation, as is the case especially with religious bodies, the malice of such slander acquires a dignity far above the ordinary. the church of god has suffered more in the long centuries of her existence from the tongue of slander than from sword and flame and chains combined. in the mind of her enemies, any weapon is lawful with which to smite her, and the climax of infamy is reached when they affirm, to justify their dishonesty, that they turn rome's weapons against her. there is only one answer to this, and that is the silence of contempt. slander and dollars are the wheels on which moves the propaganda that would substitute gospel christianity for the superstitions of rome. it is slander that vilifies in convention and synod the friars who did more for pure christianity in the philippines in a hundred years than the whole nest of their revilers will do in ten thousand. it is slander that holds up to public ridicule the congregations that suffer persecution and exile in france in the name of liberty, fraternity, etc. it is slander that the long-tailed missionary with the sanctimonious face brings back from the countries of the south with which to regale the minds of those who furnish the bibles and shekels. and who will measure the slander that grows out of the dunghill of protestant ignorance of what catholics really believe! chapter xci. rash judgment. the eighth commandment is based on the natural right every fellow-man has to our good opinion, unless he forfeits it justly and publicly. it forbids all injury to his reputation, first, in the estimation of others, which is done by calumny and detraction; secondly, in our own estimation, and this is done by rash judgment, by hastily and without sufficient grounds thinking evil of him, forming a bad opinion of him. he may be, as he has a right to be, anxious to stand well in our esteem as well as in the esteem of others. a judgment, rash or otherwise, is not a. doubt, neither is it a suspicion. everybody knows what a doubt is. when i doubt if another is doing or has done wrong, the idea of his or her guilt simply enters my mind, occurs to me and i turn it over and around, from one side to another, without being satisfied to accept or reject it. i do not say: yes, it is true; neither do i say: no, it is not true. i say nothing, i pass no judgment; i suspend for the moment all judgment, i doubt. a doubt is not evil unless there be absolutely no reason for doubting, and then the doubt is born of passion and malice. and the evil, whatever there is of it, is not in the doubt's entering our mind-- something beyond our control; but in our entertaining the doubt, in our making the doubt personal, which supposes an act of the will. stronger than doubt is suspicion. when i suspect one, i do not keep the balance perfectly even between yes and no, as in the case of doubt; i lean mentally to one side, but do not go so far as to assent one way or the other. having before me a person who excites my suspicion, i am inclined to think him guilty on certain evidence, but i fear to judge lest i should be in error, because there is evidence also of innocence. if my suspicion is based on good grounds, it is natural and lawful; otherwise it is rash and sinful; it is uncharitable and unjust to the person suspected. a suspicion often hurts more than an accusation. doubt and suspicion, when rash, are sinful; but the malice thereof is not grave unless they are so utterly unfounded as to betoken deep-seated antipathy and aversion and a perverse will; or unless in peculiar circumstances the position of the person is such as to make the suspicion gravely injurious and not easily condoned. there is guilt in keeping that suspicion to oneself; to give it out in words is calumny, whether it be true or not, simply because it is unfounded. in a judgment there is neither doubt nor suspicion; i make my own the idea presented to my mind. the balance of assent, in which is weighed, the evidence for and against, is not kept even, nor is it partially inclined; it goes down with its full weight, and the party under consideration stands convicted before the tribunal of my judgment. i do not say, i wonder if he is guilty; nor he most likely is guilty; but: he is guilty--here is a deliberate judgment. henceforth my esteem ceases for such a person. translated in words such a judgment is not calumny because it is supposedly founded in reason; but it is detraction, because it is injurious. such a judgment, without any exterior expression, is sinful if it is rash. and what makes it rash? the insufficiency of motive on which it is based. and whence comes the knowledge of such sufficiency or insufficiency of motive? from the intelligence, but mostly from the conscience. that is why many unintelligent people judge rashly and sin not, because they know no better. but conscience nearly always supplies intelligence in such matters and ignorance does not always save us from guilt. an instinct, the wee voice of god in the soul, tells us to withhold our judgment even when the intelligence fails to weigh the motives aright. to contemn this voice is to sin and be guilty of rash judgment. in the language of ordinary folks, not always precise and exact in their terms, an opinion is frequently a judgment, to think this or that of another is often to judge him accordingly. the suspicions of suspicious people are at times more than suspicions and are clearly characterized judgments. to render a verdict on the neighbor's character is a judgment, by whatever other name it is called; all that is necessary is to come to a definite conclusion and to give the assent of the will to that conclusion. when the conduct of the neighbor is plainly open to interpretation, if we may not judge immediately against him, neither are we bound to give him the benefit of the doubt; we may simply suspend all judgment and await further evidence. in our exterior dealings this suspicion should not affect our conduct, for every man has a right to be treated as an honest man and does not forfeit that right on the ground of a mere probability. this, however, does not prevent us from taking a cue from our suspicion and acting guardedly towards him. this does not mean that we adjudge him dishonest, but that we deem him capable of being dishonest, which is true and in accordance with the laws of prudence. neither are we bound to overlook all evidence that points to a man's guilt through fear of judging him unfavorably. it is not wrong to judge a man according to his merits, to have a right opinion of him, even when that opinion is not to his credit. all that is necessary is that we have good reason on which to base that opinion. if a neighbor does evil in our presence or to our knowledge he forfeits, and justly, our good opinion; he is to blame, and not we. we are not obliged to close our eyes to the truth of facts, and it is on facts that our judgments are formed. chapter xcii. mendacity. to lie is to utter an untruth, with full knowledge that it is an untruth. the untruth may be expressed by any conventional sign, by word, deed, gesture, or even by silence. its malice and disorder consists in the opposition that exists between our idea and the expression we give to it; our words convey a meaning contrary to what is in our mind; we say one thing and mean another. if we unwittingly utter what is contrary to fact, that is error; if we so clumsily translate our thoughts as to give a false impression of what we mean, and we do the best we can, that is a blunder; if in a moment of listlessness and inattention we speak in a manner that conflicts with our state of mind, that is temporary mental aberration. but if we knowingly give out as truth what we know is not the truth, we lie purely and simply. in misrepresentations of this kind it is not required that there be a plainly formulated purpose of deceiving another; an implicit intention, a disposition to allow our words to run their natural course, is sufficient to give such utterances a character of mendacity. for, independently of our mental attitude, it is in the nature of a lie to deceive; an intention, or rather a pretense to the contrary, does not affect that nature. the fact of lying presupposes that we intend in some manner to practise deception; if we did not have such a purpose we would not resort to lying. if you stick a knife into a man, you may pretend what you like, but you did certainly intend to hurt him and make him feel badly. nor has any ulterior motive we may have in telling an untruth the power to change its nature; a lie is a lie, no matter what prompted it. whether it serves the purpose of amusement, as a jocose lie; or helps to gain us an advantage or get us out of trouble, as an officious lie; or injures another in any way, as a pernicious lie: mendacity is the character of our utterances, the guilt of willful falsehood is on our soul. a restriction should, however, be made in favor of the jocose lie; it ceases to be a lie when the mind of the speaker is open to all who listen and his narration or statement may be likened to those fables and myths and fairy tales in which is exemplified the charm of figurative language. when a person says what is false and is convinced that all who hear him know it is false, the contradiction between his mind and its expression is said to be material, and not formal; and in this the essence of a lie does not consist. a lie is always a sin; it is what is called an intrinsic evil and is therefore always wrong. and why is this? because speech was given us to express our thoughts; to use this faculty therefore for a contrary purpose is against its nature, against a law of our being, and this is evil. the obnoxious consequences of falsehood, as it is patent to all, constitute an evil for which falsehood is responsible. but deception, one of those consequences, is not in itself and essentially, a moral fault. deception, if not practised by lying and therefore not intended but simply suffered to occur, and if there be grave reason for resorting to this means of defense, cannot be put down as a thing offensive to god or unjustly prejudicial to the neighbor. but when deception is the effect of mendacity, it assumes a character of malice that deserves the reprobation of man as it is condemned by god. and this is another reason why lying is essentially an evil thing, and can never, under any circumstances be allowed or justified. this does not mean that lying is always a mortal sin. in fact, it is oftener venial than mortal. it becomes a serious fault only in the event of another malice being added to it. thus, if i lie to one who has a right to know the truth and for grave reasons; if the mendacious information i impart is of a nature to mislead one into injury or loss, and this thing i do maliciously; or if my lying is directly disparaging to another; in these cases there is grave malice and serious guilt. but if there is no injustice resulting from a lie, i prevaricate against right in lying, but my sin is not a serious offense. this is a vice that certainly deserves to be fought against and punished always and in all places, especially in the young who are so prone thereto, first because it is a sin; and again, because of the social evils that it gives rise to. there is no gainsaying the fact that in the code of purely human morals, lying is considered a very heinous offense that ostracizes a man when robbery on a large scale, adultery and other first-degree misdemeanors leave him perfectly honorable. this recalls an instance of a recent courtroom. a young miscreant thoroughly imbued with pharisaic morals met with a bold face, without a blush or a flinch, accusations of misconduct, robbery and murder; but when charged with being a liar, he sprang at his accuser in open court and tried to throttle him. his fine indignation got the best of him; he could not stand that. among pious-minded people two extreme errors are not infrequently met with. the one is that a lie is not wrong unless the neighbor suffers thereby; the falsity of this we have already shown. according to the other, a lie is such an evil that it should not be tolerated, not one lie, even if all the souls in hell were thereby to be liberated. to this we answer that we would like to get such a chance once; we fear we would tell a whopper. it would be wicked, of course; but we might expect leniency from the just judge under the circumstances. chapter xciii. concealing the truth. the duty always to tell the truth does not imply the obligation always to tell all you know; and falsehood does not always follow as a result of not revealing your mind to the first inquisitive person that chooses to put embarrassing questions. alongside, but not contrary to, the duty of veracity is the right every man has to personal and professional secrets. for a man's mind is not public property; there may arise at times circumstances in which he not only may, but is in duty bound to withhold information that concerns himself intimately or touches a third person; and there must be a means to protect the sacredness of such secrets against undue curiosity and inquisitiveness, without recourse to the unlawful method of lying. silence is not an effective resource, for it not infrequently gives consent one or the other way; the question may be put in such a manner that affirmation or negation will betray the truth. to what then shall one have recourse? let us remark in the first place that god has endowed human intelligence with a native wit, sharpness and cunning that has its legitimate uses, the exercise of this faculty is evil only when its methods and ends are evil. used along the lines of moral rectitude strategy and tact for profiting by circumstances are perfectly in order, especially when one acts in the defense of his natural rights. and if this talent is employed without injustice to the neighbor or violence to the law of god, it is no more immoral than the plain telling of truth; in fact it is sometimes better than telling the truth. but it must be understood that such practices must be justified by the circumstances. they suppose in him who resorts thereto a right to withhold information that overrides the right of his interrogator. if the right of the latter to know is superior, then the hiding of truth would constitute an injustice, which is sinful, and this is considered tantamount to lying. and if the means to which we resort is not lying, as we have defined it, that is, does not show a contradiction between what we say and what we mean, then there can be no fear of evil on any side. now, suppose that instead of using a term whose signification is contrary to what my mind conceives, which would be falsehood, i employ a word that has a natural double meaning, one of which is conform to my mind, the other at variance. in the first place, i do not speak against my mind; i say what i think; the word i use means what i mean. but the other fellow! that is another matter. he may take his choice of the two meanings. if he guesses aright, my artifice has failed; if he is deceived, that is his loss. i do him no injustice, for he had no right to question me. if my answer embarrasses him, that is just what i intended, and i am guilty of no evil for that; if it deceives him, that i did not intend but willingly suffer; i am not obliged to enter into explanations when i am not even bound to answer him. of the deception, he alone is the cause; i am the occasion, if you will, but the circumstances of his inquisitiveness made that occasion necessary, and i am not responsible. this artifice is called equivocation or amphibology; it consists in the use of words that have a natural double meaning; it supposes in him who resorts to it the right to conceal the truth, a right superior to that of the tormentor who questions him. when these conditions are fulfilled, recourse to this method is perfectly legitimate, but the conditions must be fulfilled. this is not a weapon for convenience, but for necessity. it is easy to deceive oneself when it is painful to tell the truth. therefore it should be used sparingly: it is not for every-day use, only emergencies of a serious nature can justify its employ. another artifice, still more delicate and dangerous, but just as legitimate when certain conditions are fulfilled, is what is known as mental restriction. this too consists in the employ of words of double meaning; but whereas in the former case, both meanings are naturally contained in the word, here the term employed has but one natural signification, the other being furnished by circumstances. its legitimate use supposes that he to whom the term is directed should either in fact know the circumstances of the case that have this peculiar significance, or that he could and should know them. if the information drawn from the answer received is insufficient, so much the better; if he is misinformed, the fault is his own, since neither genuine falsehood nor evident injustice can be attributed to the other. an example will illustrate this better than anything else. take a physician or lawyer, the custodian of a professional secret, or a priest with knowledge safeguarded by the seal of the confessional. these men either may not or should not reveal to others unconcerned in the matter the knowledge they, possess. there is no one but should be aware of this, but should know that when they are questioned, they will answer as laymen, and not as professionals. they will answer according to outside information, yes or no, whether on not such conclusion agree with the facts they obtained under promise of secrecy. they simply put out of their mind as unserviceable all professional knowledge, and respond as a man to a man. their standing as professional men puts every questioner on his guard and admonishes him that no private information need be expected, that he must take the answer given as the conclusion of outside evidence, then if he is deceived he has no one to blame but himself, since he was warned and took no heed of the warning. again we repeat, the margin between mental restriction and falsehood is a safe, but narrow one, the least bungling may merge one into the other. it requires tact and judgment to know when it is permissible to have recourse to this artifice and how to practise it safely. it is not a thing to be trifled with. in only rare circumstances can it be employed, and only few persons have the right to employ it. chapter xciv. restitution. a peculiar feature attaches to the sins we have recently treated, against the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth commandments. these offenses differ from others in that they involve an injury, an injustice to our fellow-man. now, the condition of pardon for sin is contrition; this contrition contains essentially a firm purpose that looks to the future, and removes in a measure, the liability to fall again. but with the sins here in question that firm purpose not only looks forward, but backward as well, not only guarantees against future ill-doing, but also repairs the wrong criminally effected in the past. this is called restitution, the undoing of wrong suffered by our neighbor through our own fault. the firm purpose to make restitution is just as essential to contrition as the firm purpose to sin no more; in fact, the former is only a form of the latter. it means that we will not sin any more by prolonging a culpable injustice. and the person who overlooks this feature when he seeks pardon has a moral constitution and make-up that is sadly in need of repairs; and of such persons there are not a few. justice that has failed to protect a man's right becomes restitution when the deed of wrong is done. restitution therefore that is based on the natural right every man has to have and to hold what is his, to recover it, its value or equivalent, when unduly dispossessed, supposes an act of injustice, that is, the violation of a strict right. this injustice, in turn, implies a moral fault, a moral responsibility, direct or indirect; and the fault must be grievous in order to induce a grave obligation. now, it matters not in the least what we do, or how we do it, if the neighbor suffer through a fault of ours. if any human creature sustains a loss to life or limb, damage to his or her social or financial standing, and such injury can be traced to a moral delinquency on our part, we are in conscience bound to make good the loss and repair the damage done. to do evil is bad; to perpetuate it is immeasurably worse. to refuse to remove the evil is to refuse to remove one's guilt; and as long as one persists in such a refusal, that one remains under the wrath of god. restitution concerns itself with things done or left undone, things said or left unsaid; it does not enter the domain of thought. consequently, just as an accident does not entail the necessity of repairing the injury that another sustains, neither does the deliberate thought or desire to perpetrate an injustice entail such a consequence. even if a person does all in his power to effect an evil purpose, and fails, he is not held to reparation, for there is nothing to repair. as we have said more than once, the will is the source of all malice in the sight of god; but injustice to man requires material as well as formal malice; sin must have its complement of exterior deed before it can be called human injustice. we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon the gravity of the obligation to make restitution. the balance of justice must be maintained exact and impartial in this world, or the almighty will see that it is done in the next. the idea that god does not stand for justice destroys the idea that god exists. and if the precept not to commit injustice leaves the guilty one free to repair or not to repair, that precept is self-contradictory and has no meaning at all. if a right is a right, it is not extinguished by being violated and if justice, is something more than a mere sound, it must protect all rights whether sinned against or not. it might be convenient for some people to force upon their conscience the lie that restitution is of counsel rather than of precept, under the plea that it is enough to shoulder the responsibility of sin without being burdened with the obligation of repairing it, but it is only a soul well steeped in malice that will take seriously such a contention. neither is restitution a penance imposed upon us in order to atone for our faults; it is no more penitential in its nature than are the efforts we make to avoid the faults we have fallen into in the past. it atones for nothing; it is simply a desisting from evil. when this is done and forgiveness obtained, then, and not till then, is it time to think of satisfying for the temporal punishment due to sin. naturally it is much more easy to abstain from committing injustice than to repair it after it is done. it is often very difficult and very painful to face the consequences of our evil ways, especially when all satisfaction is gone and nothing remains but the hard exigencies of duty. and duty is a thing that it costs very little to shirk when one is already hardened by a habit of injustice. that is why restitution is so little heard of in the world. it is a fact to be noted that the catholic church is the only religious body that dares to enforce strictly the law of reparation. others vaguely hold it, but rarely teach it, and then only in flagrant cases of fraud. but she allows none of her children to approach the sacraments who has not already repaired, or who does not promise in all sincerity to repair, whatever wrong he may have done to the neighbor. employers of catholic help sometimes feel the effects of this uncompromising attitude of the church; they are astonished, edified and grateful. we recall with pleasure an incident of an apostate going about warning people against the turpitudes of rome and especially against the extortions of her priests through the confessional. he explained how the benighted papist was obliged under pain of eternal damnation to confess his sins to the priest, and then was charged so much for each fault he had been guilty of. an incredulous listener wanted to know if he, the speaker, while in the toils of rome had ever been obliged thus to disgorge in the confessional, and was answered with a triumphant affirmation. at which the wag hinted that it would be a good thing not to be too outspoken in announcing the fact as his reputation for honesty would be likely to suffer thereby, for he knew, and all catholics knew, who were those whose purse the confessor pries open. chapter xcv. undoing the evil. whenever a person, through a spirit of police or grossly culpable negligence, becomes responsible for serious bodily injury sustained by another, he is bound, as far as in him lies, to undo the wrong and repair the injustice committed. the law of personal rights that forbade him to lay violent hands on another, now commands that the evil be removed by him who placed it. true, physical pain and tortures cannot be repaired in kind; physical injury and disability are not always susceptible of adequate reparation. but there is the loss incurred as a result of such disability, and this loss may affect, not one alone, but many. death, too, is of course absolutely irreparable. but the killing of the victim in nowise extinguishes the obligation of reparation. the principal object is removed; but there remain the loss of wages, the expenses necessitated by illness and death; there may be a family dependent on the daily toil of the unfortunate and made destitute by his removal. one must be blind indeed not to see that all these losses are laid at the door of the criminal, a direct result of his crime, foreseen, too, at least confusedly, since there is a moral fault; and these must be made good, as far as the thing is possible, otherwise the sin will not be forgiven. slander must be retracted. if you have lied about another and thereby done him an injury, you are bound in conscience to correct your false statement, to correct it in such a manner as to undeceive all whom you may have misled. this retraction must really retract, and not do just the contrary, make the last state of things worse than the first, which is sometimes the case. prudence and tact should suggest means to do this effectively: when, how and to what extent it should be done, in order that the best results of reparation may be obtained. but in one way or another, justice demands that the slanderer contradict his lying imputations and remove by so doing the stain that besmirches the character of his victim. of course, if it was by truth and not falsehood, by detraction and not calumny, that you assailed and injured the reputation of another, there is no gainsaying the truth; you are not justified in lying in order to make truth less damaging. the harm done here is well nigh irreparable. but there is such a thing as trying to counteract the influence of evil speech by good words, by mentioning qualities that offset defects, by setting merit against demerit; by attenuating as far as truth will allow the circumstances of the case, etc. this will place your victim in the least unfavorable light, and will, in some measure, repair the evil of detraction. scandal must be repaired, a mightily difficult task; to reclaim a soul lost to evil through fatal inducements to sin is paramount, almost, to raising from the dead. it is hard, desperately hard, to have yourself accepted as an angel of light by those for whom you have long been a demon of iniquity. good example! yes, that is about the only argument you have. you are handicapped, but if you wield that argument for good with as much strength and intensity as you did for evil, you will have done all that can be expected of you, and something may come of it. the wrong of bodily contamination is a deep one. it is a wrong, and therefore unjust, when it is effected through undue influence that either annuls consent, or wrings it from the victim by cajolery, threat, or false promise. it becomes immeasurably aggravated when the victim is abandoned to bear alone the shame and burdensome consequences of such injustice. matrimony is the ordinary remedy; the civil law will force it; conscience may make it an obligation, and does make it, unless, in rare cases, there be such absolute incompatibility as to make such a contract an ineffective and ridiculous one, an inefficient remedy, or none at all. when such is the case, a pecuniary compensation is the only alternative. a career has been blasted, a future black with despair stares the victim in the face, if she must face it unaided; a burden forced upon her that must be borne for years, entailing considerable expense. the man responsible for such a state of affairs, if he expects pardon for his crime, must shoulder the responsibility in a manner that will repair at least in part the grave injustice under which his victim labors. if both share the guilt, then both must share the burden. if one shirks, the other must assume the whole. the great victim is the child. that child must get a christian bringing-up, or some one will suffer for it; its faith must be safeguarded. if this cannot be done at home, then it must be placed where this can be done. if it is advantageous for the parent or parents that their offspring be raised in ignorance of its origin, it is far more advantageous for the child itself. let it be confided to good hands, but let the money necessary for its support be forthcoming, since this is the only way to make reparation for the evil of its birth. i would add a word in regard to the injustice, frequent enough, of too long deferring the fulfilment of marriage promises. for one party, especially, this period of waiting is precarious, fraught with danger and dangerous possibilities. her fidelity makes her sacrifice all other opportunities, and makes her future happiness depend on the fulfilment of the promise given. charms do not last forever; attractions fade with the years. if affection cools, she is helpless to stir up the embers without unmentionable sacrifice. there is the peril. the man who is responsible for it, is responsible for a good deal. he is committing an injustice; there is danger of his not being willing to repair it, danger that he may not be able to repair it. his line of duty is clear. unless for reasons of the gravest importance, he cannot in surety of conscience continue in a line of conduct that is repugnant alike to natural reason and common decency, and that smacks of moral make-up that would not bear the scrutiny of close investigation. chapter xcvi. paying back. a man who has stolen, has nothing more urgent and imperative to perform, on this side of eternity, than the duty of refunding the money or goods unjustly acquired, or the value thereof. he may possibly consider something else more important; but if he does, that man has somehow unlearned the first principles of natural honesty, ignores the fundamental law that governs the universe, and he will have a difficult time convincing the almighty that this ignorance of his is not wholly culpable. the best and only thing for him to do is to make up his mind to pay up, to disgorge his ill-gotten goods, to make good the losses sustained by his neighbor through his fault. he may, or may not, have profited to any great extent by his criminal proceedings; but there is no doubt that his victim suffered injustice; and that precisely is the root of his obligation. the stolen goods may have perished in his hands and he have nothing to show; the same must be said of the victim the moment his possessions disappeared; with this difference, however, that justice was not violated in one case, and in the other, it was. the lawful owner may be dead, or unfindable among the living; but wherever he may be, he never intended that the thief should enjoy the fruit of his crime. the latter's title, vitiated in its source, cannot be improved by any circumstance of the owner's whereabouts. no one may thrive on one's own dishonesty. you say this is hard; and in so saying, you lend testimony to the truth of the axiom that honesty is the best policy. there is no one but will agree with you; but such a statement, true though it be, helps matters very little. it is always hard to do right; blame adam and eve for it, and think of something more practicable. but must i impoverish myself? not to the extent of depriving yourself of the necessaries of life. but you must deprive yourself to the extent of settling your little account, even if you suffer something thereby. but how shall i be able to refund it all! you may never be able to refund it all; but you may start in immediately and do the best you can; resolve to keep at it; never revoke your purpose to cancel the debt. in case your lease of life expires before full justice is done, the almighty may take into consideration your motives and opportunities. they do say that hell is paved with good intentions; but these intentions are of the sort that are satisfied with never coming to a state of realization. but i shall lose my position, be disgraced, prosecuted and imprisoned. this might happen if you were to write out a brief of your crime and send the same, signed and sworn to, to your employer. but this is superfluous. you might omit the details and signature, enclose the sum and trust luck for the rest. or you might consult your spiritual adviser; he might have had some experience in this line of business. the essential is not that you be found out, but that you refund. it may happen that several are concerned in a theft. in this case, each and every participant, in the measure of his guilt, is bound to make restitution. guilt is the object, restitution is the shadow; the following is fatal. to order or advise the thing done; to influence efficaciously its doing; to assist in the deed or to profit knowingly thereby, to shield criminally the culprit, etc., this sort of co-operation adds to the guilt of sin the burden of restitution. silence or inaction, when plain duty would call for words and deeds to prevent crime, incriminates as well as active participation, and creates an obligation to repair. there is more. conspiracy in committing an injustice adds an especial feature to the burden of restitution. if the parties to the crime had formed a preconcerted plan and worked together as a whole in its accomplishment, every individual that furnished efficient energy to the success of the undertaking is liable, in conscience, not for a share of the loss, but for the sum total. this is what is called solidarity; solidarity in crime begets solidarity in reparation. it means that the injured party has a just claim for damages, for all damages sustained, against any one of the culprits, each one of whom, in the event of his making good the whole loss, has recourse against the others for their share of the obligation. it may happen, and does, that one or several abscond, and thus shirk their part of the obligation; the burden of restitution may thus be unevenly distributed. but this is one of the risks that conspirators in sin must take; the injured party must be protected first and in preference to all others. no catholic can validly receive the sacrament of penance who refuses to assume the responsibility of restitution for injustices committed, and who does not at least promise sincerely to acquit himself at the first favorable opportunity and to the extent of his capacity. this means that only on these conditions can the sin be forgiven by god. that man is not disposed sufficiently to receive absolution who continually neglects opportunities to keep his promise; who refuses to pay any, because he cannot pay all; who decides to leave the burden of restitution to his heirs, even with the wherewith to do so. it is better not to go to confession at all than to go with these dispositions; it is better to wait until you can make up your mind. chapter xcvii. getting rid of ill-gotten goods. it may happen that a person discover among his legitimately acquired possessions something that does not in reality belong to him. he may have come by it through purchase, donation, etc.; he kept it in good faith, thinking that he had a clear title to it. he now finds that there was an error somewhere, and that it is the property of some one else. of course, he is not the lawful owner, and does not become such by virtue of his good faith; although, in certain given circumstances, if the good faith, or ignorance of error, last long enough, a title may be acquired by prescription, and the possessor become the lawful owner. but we are not considering the question of prescription. it is evident, then, that our friend must dispossess himself in favor of the real owner, as soon as the latter comes upon the scene and proves his claim. but the possessor may in all innocence have alienated the goods, destroyed or consumed them; or they may have perished through accident or fatality. in the latter case, nothing remains to refund, no one is to blame, and the owner must bear the loss. even in the former case, if the holder can say in conscience that he in nowise became richer by the possession and use of the goods in question, he is not bound to make restitution. if, however, there be considerable profits, they rightly belong to the owner, and the possessor must refund the same. but the question arises as to how the holder is to be compensated for the expenditure made in the beginning and in good faith when he purchased the goods which he is now obliged to hand over to another. impartial justice demands that when the rightful owner claims his goods, the holder relinquish them, and he may take what he gets, even if it be nothing. he might claim a compensation if he purchased what he knew to be another's property, acting in the interests of that other and with the intention of returning the same to its owner. otherwise, his claim is against the one from whom he obtained the article, and not against him to whom he is obliged to turn it over. he may, if he be shrewd enough, anticipate the serving of the owner's claim and secure himself against a possible loss by selling back for a consideration the goods in question to the one from whom he bought them. but this cannot be done after the claim is presented; besides, this proceeding must not render it impossible for the owner to recover his property; and he must be notified as to the whereabouts of said property. this manoeuvre works injustice unto no one. the owner stands in the same relation to his property as formerly; the subsequent holder assumes an obligation that was always his, to refund the goods or their value, with recourse against the antecedent seller. the moment a person shirks the responsibility of refunding the possessions, by him legitimately acquired, but belonging rightfully to another, that person becomes a possessor in bad faith and stands towards the rightful owner in the position of a thief. not in a thousand years will he be able to prescribe a just title to the goods. the burden of restitution will forever remain on him; if the goods perish, no matter how, he must make good the loss to the owner. he must also disburse the sum total of profits gathered from the illegal use of said goods. if values fluctuate during the interval of criminal possession, he must compute the amount of his debt according to the values that prevailed at the time the lawful owner would have disposed of his goods, had he retained possession. finally, there may be a doubt as to whether the object i possess is rightfully mine or not. i must do my best to solve that doubt and dear the title to ownership. if i fail, i may consider the object mine and may use it as such. if the owner turn up after the prescribed time, so much the worse for the owner. an uncertainty may exist, not as to my proprietorship, but as to whom the thing does belong. if my possession began in good faith and i am unable to determine the ownership, i may consider myself the owner until further developments shed more light on the matter. it is different when the object was originally acquired in bad faith. in such a case, first, the ill-gotten goods can never be mine; then, there is no sanction in reason, conscience or law for the conduct of those who run immediately to the first charitable institution and leave there their conscience money; or who have masses said for the repose of the souls of those who have been defrauded, before they are dead at all perhaps. my first care must be to locate the victim; or, if he be certainly deceased or evidently beyond reach, the heirs of the victim of my fraud. when all means fail and i am unable to find either the owner or his heirs, then, and not till then, may i dispose of the goods in question. i must assume in such a contingency as this, that the will of the owner would be to expend the sum on the most worthy cause; and that is charity. the only choice then that remains with me is, what hospital, asylum or other enterprise of charity is to profit by my sins, since i myself cannot be a gainer in the premises. it might be well to remark here that one is not obliged to make restitution for more than the damages call for. earnestness is a good sign, but it should not blind us or drive us to an excess of zeal detrimental to our own lawful interests. when there is a reasonable and insolvable doubt as to the amount of reparation to be made, it is just that such a doubt favor us. if we are not sure if it be a little more or a little less, the value we are to refund, we may benefit by the uncertainty and make the burden we assume as light as in all reason it can be made. and even if we should happen to err on the side of mercy to ourselves, without our fault, justice is satisfied, being fallible like all things human. chapter xcviii. what excuses from restitution. those who do not obtain full justice from man in this world will obtain it in the next from god. if we do not meet our obligations this side of the tribunal of the just judge, he will see to it that our accounts are equitably balanced when the time for the final reckoning comes. this supposes, naturally, that non-fulfilment of obligations is due on our part to unwillingness--a positive refusal, or its equivalent, wilful neglect, to undo the wrongs committed. for right reason and god's mercy must recognize the existence of a state of unfeigned and hopeless disability, when it is impossible for the delinquent to furnish the wherewithal to repair the evils of which he has been guilty. when this condition is permanent, and is beyond all remedy, all claims are extinguished against the culprit, and all losses incurred must be ascribed to "an act of god," as the coroner says. for no mart can be held to what is impossible. chief among these moral, as well as legal, bankrupts is the good-for-nothing fellow who is sorry too late, who has nothing, has no hopes of ever having anything, and who therefore can give nothing. you cannot extract blood from a beet, nor shekels from an empty purse. then a man may lose all his belongings in a catastrophe, and after striving by labor and economy to pay off his debts, may see himself obliged to give up the task through sickness, misfortune or other good causes. he has given all he has, he cannot give more. even though liabilities were stacked up mountain-high against him, he cannot be held morally responsible, and his creditors must attribute their losses to the misfortune of life--a rather unsubstantial consolation, but as good a one as the poor debtor has. there are other cases where the obligations of restitution are not annulled, but only cancelled for the time being, until such a time as circumstances permit their being met without grave disaster to the debtor. the latter may be in such a position that extreme, or great, want would stare him in the face, if he parted with what he possesses to make restitution. the difficulty here is out of all proportion with the injustice committed for, after all, one must live, and charity begins at home, our first duty is toward ourselves. the creditors of this man have no just claim against him until he improves his circumstances; in the meantime, the burden of responsibility is lifted from his shoulders. the same must be said when the paying off of a debt at any particular time, be it long or short, would cripple a man's finances, wipe out his earnings to such an extent as to make him fall considerably below his present position in life. we might take a case during the late coal famine, of a man who, in order to fill his contracts of coal at six dollars a ton, would be obliged to buy it at fifteen and twenty dollars a ton; and thereby sacrifice his fortune. the thing could not be expected, it is preposterous. his obligee must wait and hope for better times. a man's family is a part of himself. therefore the payment of a just debt may be deferred in order to shield from want parents, wife, children, brothers or sisters. life, limb and reputation are greater possessions than riches; consequently, rather than jeopardize these, one may, for the time, put aside his obligations to make restitution. all this supposes, of course, that during the interval of delay the creditor does not suffer inconveniences greater than, or as great as, those the debtor seeks to avoid. the latter's right to defer payment ceases to exist the moment it comes into conflict with an equal right of the former to said payment. it is against reason to expect that, after suffering a first injustice, the victim should suffer a second in order to spare the guilty party a lesser or an equal injury. preference therefore must be given to the creditor over the debtor when the necessity for sacrifice is equal, and leniency must be refused when it becomes cruelty to the former. outside these circumstances, which are rare indeed, it will be seen at once that the creditor may act an unjust part in pressing claims that accidentally and temporarily become invalid. he has a right to his own, but he is not justified in vindicating that right, if in so doing, he inflicts more damage than equity calls for. the culprit has a right not to suffer more than he deserves, and it is mock justice that does not respect that right. if the creditor does suffer some loss by the delay, this might be a circumstance to remember at the final settlement but for the present, there is an impediment to the working of justice, placed by the fatal order of things and it is beyond power to remove it. chapter xcix. debts. before closing our remarks, necessarily brief and incomplete, on this subject, so vast and comprehensive, we desire in a few words to pay our respects to that particular form of injustice, more common perhaps than all others combined, which is known as criminal debt, likewise, to its agent, the most brazen impostor and unconscionable fraud that afflicts society, the man who owes and will not pay. more people suffer from bad debts than from stealing and destruction of property. it is easier to contract a debt, or to borrow a trifle, than to steal it outright; it is safer, too. imprudence is one of the chief characteristics of this genus of iniquity. "i would sooner owe you this than cheat you out of it:" this, in word or deed, is the highly spiritual consolation they offer those whom they fleece and then laugh at. the wilful debtor is, first of all, a thief and a robber, because he retains unjustly the lawful possessions of another. there is no difference between taking and keeping what belongs to the neighbor. the loss is the same to a man whether he is robbed of a certain amount or sells goods for which he gets nothing in return. the injustice is the same in both cases, the malice identical. he therefore who can pay his debts, and will not, must be branded as a thief and an enemy to the rights of property. the debtor is guilty of a second crime, of dishonesty and fraud against his fellow-man, by reason of his breaking a contract, entered upon with a party in good faith, and binding in conscience until cancelled by fulfilment. when a man borrows or buys or runs an account on credit, he agrees to return a quid pro quo, an equivalent for value received. when he fails to do so, he violates his contract, breaks his pledge of honor, obtains goods under false pretense. even if he is sincere at the time of the making of the contract, the crime is perpetrated the moment he becomes a guilty debtor by repudiating, in one way or another, his just debts. now, to injure a person is wrong; to break faith with him at one and the same time is to incur guilt of a double dye. there is likewise an element of contumely and outrage in such dishonest operations; the affront offered the victim is contemptible. men have often been heard to say, after being victimized by imposture of this sort: "i do not mind the loss so much, but i do object to being treated like a fool and a monkey." one's feelings suffer more than one's purse. especially is this the case when the credit is given or a loan made as a favor or service, intended or requested, only to be requited by the blackest kind of ingratitude. and let us not forget the extent of damage wrought unto worthy people in hard circumstances who are shut out from the advantages of borrowing and buying on credit by the nefarious practices of dishonest borrowers and buyers. a burnt child keeps away from the fire. a man, after being defrauded palpably a few times, acquires the habit of refusing all credit; and he turns down many who deserve better, because of the persecution to which he is subjected by rogues and scoundrels. every criminal debtor contributes to that state of affairs and shares the responsibility of causing honest people to suffer want through inability to get credit. and who are the persons thus guilty of a manifold guilt? they are those who borrow and buy knowing full well they will not pay, pile debt upon debt knowing full well they cannot pay. others, who do not repudiate openly their obligations, put off paying indefinitely for futile reasons: hard times, that last forever; ships coming in, whose fate is yet unlearned; windfalls from rich relatives that are not yet born, etc.; and from delay to delay they become not only less able, but less willing, to settle their accounts. sometimes you meet a fellow anxious to square himself for the total amount; half his assets is negotiable, the other half is gall. he threatens you with the alternative of half or none; he wants you to accept his impudence at the same figures at which he himself values it. and this schemer usually succeeds in his endeavor. others there are who protest their determination to pay up, even to the last cent; their dun-bills are always kept in sight, lest they forget their obligations; they treasure these bills, as one treasures a thing of immense value. but they live beyond their means and income, purchase pleasure and luxury, refuse to curtail frivolous expenses and extravagant outlay. and in the meantime their debts remain in status quo, unredeemed and less and less redeemable, their determination holds good, apparently; and the creditor breaks commandments looking on and hoping. some do violence to their thinking faculty by trying to find justification, somehow, for not paying their debts. the creditor is dead, they say; or he has plenty and can well afford to be generous. an attempt is often made at establishing a case of occult compensation, its only merit being its ingenuity, worthy of a better cause. all such lame excuses argue a deeper perversity of will, a malice well-nigh incurable; but they do not satisfy justice, because they are not founded on truth. a debt has a character of sacredness, like all moral obligations; more sacred than many other moral obligations, because this quality is taken directly from the eternal prototype of justice, which is god. you cannot wilfully repudiate it therefore without repudiating god. you must respect it as you respect him. your sins and your debts will follow you before the throne of god. god alone is concerned with your sins; but with your debts a third party is concerned. and if god may easily waive his claims against you as a sinner, a sterner necessity may influence his judgment of you as a debtor, through respect for the inviolable rights of that third party who does not forgive so readily. the end. standard catholic books published by benziger brothers cincinnati: main st. new york: - barclay st. chicago: - w. monroe st. books marked net are such where ten per cent, must be added for postage. thus a book advertised as _net_, $ . , will be sent postpaid on receipt of $ . . books not marked _net_ will be sent postpaid on receipt of advertised price. miscellaneous books abandonment to divine providence. caussade. _net_, adoration of the blessed sacrament. tesniere. _net_, anecdotes and examples illustrating the catholic catechism. spirago. _net_, angels of the sanctuary. musser. announcement book for sunday masses. _net_, art of profiting by our faults. tissot. _net_, assertio septem sacramentorum or defence of the seven sacraments, by henry viii. o'donovan. _net_, autobiography of st. ignatius. o'conor. _net_, beginnings of christianity, the. shahan. _net_, benedicenda. schulte. _net_, blessed sacrament book. lasance. cloth, . ; 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"lee" claude lightfoot. finn. college boy. a. yorke. cupa revisited. mannix. daddy dan. waggaman. dear friends. nirdlinger. dimpling's success. c. mulholland. dollar hunt, the. e. g. martin. ethelred preston. finn. every-day girl, an. crowley. fatal diamonds. the. donnelly. five o'clock stories. flower of the flock. egan. for the white rose. hinkson. freddy carr's adventures. garrold. freddy carr and his friends. garrold. fred's little daughter. s. t. smith. godfrey the little hermit. schmid. golden lily, the. hinkson. great captain, the. hinkson. guild boys of ridingdale. bearne. haldeman children, the. mannix. harmony flats. whitmire. harry dee. finn. harry russell. copus. heir of dreams, an. o'malley. his first and last appearance. finn. hop blossoms, the. schmid. hostage of war. bonesteel. how they worked their way. egan. in quest of the golden chest. barton. inundation, the, and other tales. herchenbach. "jack." jack hildreth on the nile. taggart. jack o'lantern. waggaman. juniors of st. bede's. bryson. juvenile round table. first series. juvenile round table. second series. juvenile round table. third series. klondike picnic, a. donnelly. lamp of the sanctuary. wiseman. legends and stories of the child jesus from many lands. lutz. little apostle on crutches. delamare. little girl from back east. roberts. little missy. waggaman. loyal blue and royal scarlet. taggart. madcap set at st. anne's. brunowe. making of mortlake. copus. marks of the bear claws. spalding. mary tracy's fortune. sadlier. master fridolin. giehrl. melor of the silver hand. bearne. milly aveling. s. t. smith. more five o'clock stories. mostly boys. finn. my strange friend. finn. mystery of cleverly. barton. mysterious doorway. sadlier. mystery of hornby hall. sadlier. nan nobody. waggaman. ned rieder. wehs. new boys at ridingdale. bearne. new scholar at st. anne's. brunowe. old charlmont's seed bed. s. t. smith. old mill on the withrose. spalding. old robber's castle. schmid. our lady's lutenist. bearne. overseer of mahlbourg. schmid. pancho and panchita. mannix. pauline archer. sadlier. peril of dionysio. mannix. percy wynn. finn. petronilla. donnelly. pickle and pepper. dorsey. pilgrim from ireland. carnot. playwater plot. waggaman. poverina. buckenham. queen's page. hinkson. queen's promise. waggaman. race for copper island. spalding. recruit tommy collins. bonesteel. ridingdale flower show. bearne. romance of the silver shoon. bearne. rose bush, the. schmid. sea-gulls rock. sandeau. transcriber's note: page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed in curly braces, e.g. { }. they have been located where page breaks occurred in the original book. for its index, a page number has been placed only at the start of that section. christianity and ethics a handbook of christian ethics by archibald b. d. alexander, m.a., d.d. author of 'a short history of philosophy,' 'the ethics of st. paul,' etc. london: duckworth & co. henrietta st., covent garden all rights reserved {v} preface the object of this volume is to present a brief but comprehensive view of the christian conception of the moral life. in order to conform with the requirements of the series to which the volume belongs, the writer has found the task of compression one of almost insurmountable difficulty; and some topics, only less important than those dealt with, have been necessarily omitted. the book claims to be, as its title indicates, simply a handbook or introduction to christian ethics. it deals with principles rather than details, and suggests lines of thought instead of attempting an exhaustive treatment of the subject. at the same time, in the author's opinion, no really vital question has been overlooked. the treatise is intended primarily for students, but it is hoped that it may prove serviceable to those who desire a succinct account of the moral and social problems of the present day. a fairly full bibliography has been added, which, along with the references to authorities in the body of the work, may be helpful to those who wish to prosecute the study. for the convenience of readers the book has been divided into four sections, entitled, postulates, personality, character, and conduct; and a detailed synopsis of contents has been supplied. to the rev. w. r. thomson, b.d. of bellshill, scotland, who read the chapters in type, and generally put at his disposal much valuable suggestion, the author would record his most sincere thanks. {vii} contents introduction page a plea for the study of christian ethics . . . . . . . . . . section a--postulates chapter i the nature and scope of ethics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. general definition. ii. distinctive features-- . ideal; . norm; . will. iii. is ethics a science? iv. relation to-- . logic; . aesthetics; . politics. v. dependence upon-- . metaphysics; . psychology. chapter ii the postulates of christian ethics . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. philosophical ethics. ii. dogmatics. iii. theological presuppositions-- . christian idea of god. . christian doctrine of sin. . human responsibility. iv. authority and method. chapter iii ethical thought before christ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. in greece and rome--socrates, plato, aristotle, stoics. stoicism and st. paul. ii. in israel-- . law; . prophecy; . poetry. preparatory character of pre-christian morality. section b--personality chapter iv the estimate of man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. conflicting views of human nature-- . man by nature morally good. . man by nature totally depraved. . the christian view. ii. examination of man's psychical nature-- . the unity of the soul. . the divine in man. . the physical and mental life. iii. appeal of christianity to the mind. chapter v the witness of conscience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. treatment of conscience-- . in greek poetry and philosophy. . in old testament. . in new testament. ii. nature and origin of conscience-- . intuitionalism. . evolutionalism. iii. validity of conscience-- . the christian view. . the moral imperatives. . the permanence of conscience chapter vi 'the miracle of the will' . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . is man free to choose the good? creative power of volition. aspects of problem raised. i. scientific-- man and physical necessity. ii. psychological-- determinism and indeterminism. criticism of james and bergson. spontaneity and necessity. iii. theological-- divine sovereignty and human freedom. jesus and paul--challenge to the will. freedom--a gift and a task. section c--character chapter vii modern theories of life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. naturalistic tendency-- . materialistic-- ( ) idyllic or poetic--rousseau. ( ) philosophic--feuerbach. ( ) scientific--haeckel. . utilitarian--hobbes, bentham, mill. . evolutionary--spencer. . socialistic--marx, engels. . individualistic-- ( ) aestheticism--goethe, schiller. ( ) subjectivism-- (_a_) pessimism--schopenhauer. (_b_) optimism--nietzsche. ii. idealistic tendency-- . kant--categorical imperative. . fichte and hegel--idea of personality. . james--pragmatism. . bergson--vitalism. . eucken--activism. chapter viii the christian ideal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . life, as the highest good. i. life, in its individual aspect-- . its intensity. . its expansion. . 'eternal life.' ii. life, in its social aspect-- . 'the kingdom of god'-- eschatological interpretation. untenableness of _interimsethik_. . christ's view of kingdom-- ( ) a present reality--a gift. ( ) a gradual development--a task. ( ) a future consummation--a hope. iii. life, in its godward aspect-- . holiness. . righteousness. . love. chapter ix standard and motive . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. christ as example-- . portrayal by synoptists-- ( ) artlessness of disciples. ( ) naturalness of jesus, . impression of power-- ( ) power of loyalty to calling. ( ) power of holiness. ( ) power of sympathy. . value of jesus' example for present life-- misconception of phrase 'imitation of christ.' ii. the christian motive-- . analysis of springs of conduct-- ( ) divine forgiveness. ( ) fatherhood of god. ( ) sense of vocation. ( ) brevity of life. ( ) idea of immortality. . question as to purity of motive-- ( ) charge of asceticism. ( ) charge of hedonism. . doctrine of rewards-- ( ) in philosophy. ( ) in christianity--(_a_) jesus; (_b_) paul. chapter x the dynamic of the new life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. divine power-- operative through christ's . incarnation and life. . death and sacrifice. . resurrection and indwelling presence. ii. human response-- . repentance-- ( ) contrition--confession--resolution. ( ) question of 'sudden conversion.' ( ) 'twice born' or 'once born.' . faith-- ( ) in ordinary life. ( ) in teaching of jesus. ( ) the pauline doctrine. . obedience-- ( ) active appropriation of grace. ( ) determination of whole personality. ( ) gradual assimilation. section d--conduct chapter xi virtues and virtue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . definition of virtue. i. the natural basis of the virtues-- 'the cardinal virtues.' ii. the christian transformation of the virtues-- . the new testament account. . cardinal virtues, elements of christian character. . place of passive virtues in life. iii. the unification of the virtues-- . unity in relation to god. . love, spring of all virtues, . 'theological virtues,' aspects of love. chapter xii the realm of duty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. aspects of duty-- . duty and vocation. . conflict of duties-- ( ) competing obligations. ( ) 'counsels of perfection.' ( ) indifferent acts. . rights and duties-- ( ) claim of 'natural rights.' ( ) based on worth of individual. ( ) christian idea of liberty. ii. spheres of duty-- . duties in relation to self-- ( ) self-respect. ( ) self-preservation. ( ) self-development-- self-regarding duties not prominent in scripture. self-realisation through self-sacrifice. . duties in relation to others-- ( ) regard for man: brotherly love-- (_a_) justice. (_b_) veracity. (_c_) judgment. ( ) service-- (_a_) sympathy. (_b_) beneficence. (_c_) forgiveness. ( ) example and influence. . duties in relation to god-- ( ) recognition. ( ) obedience--passive and active. ( ) worship--reverence, prayer, thanksgiving. chapter xiii social institutions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. the family-- . origin and evolution of family. . christian view-- ( ) christ's teaching on marriage. ( ) state regulation and eugenics. ( ) tendencies to disparagement. . family relationships-- ( ) parents and children. ( ) woman's place and rights. ( ) child life and education. ii. the state-- . basis of authority-- tolstoy and anarchism. 'social contract.' . state, in new testament. . modern conceptions-- views of augustine and hegel. ( ) duty of state to citizens. ( ) duty of citizens to state. ( ) the democratic movement-- reciprocity of service and sense of brotherhood. iii. the church-- . relation of church and state. . purpose and ideal of church-- ( ) worship and edification. ( ) witness to christ. ( ) evangelisation of mankind. . the church and the social problem-- ( ) christ's teaching as to industry and wealth. ( ) attitude of early church to society. ( ) of roman and reformed churches. . duty of christianity to the world-- the missionary imperative and opportunity. chapter xiv conclusion--the permanence of christian ethics . . . . . . . bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . { } christianity and ethics introduction a plea for the study of christian ethics if, as matthew arnold says, conduct is three-fourths of life, then a careful inquiry into the laws of conduct is indispensable to the proper interpretation of the meaning and purpose of life. conduct of itself, however, is merely the outward expression of character; and character again has its roots in personality; so that if we are to form a just conception of life we have to examine the forces which shape human personality and raise it to its highest power and efficiency. in estimating the value of man all the facts of consciousness and experience must be considered. hence no adequate account of the end of life can be given without regard to that which, if it is true, must be the most stupendous fact of history--the fact of christ. if the christian is a man to whom no incident of experience is secular and no duty insignificant, because all things belong to god and all life is dominated by the spirit of christ, then christian ethics must be the application of christianity to conduct; and its theme must be the systematic study of the ideals and forces which are alone adequate to shape character and fit man for the highest conceivable destiny--fellowship with, and likeness to, the divine being in whose image he has been made. this, of course, may be said to be the aim of all theology. the theologian must not be content to discuss merely speculative problems about god and man. he must seek above { } all things to bring the truths of revelation to bear upon human practice. all knowledge has its practical implicate. the dogma which cannot be translated into duty is apt to be a vague abstraction. in all ages there has been a tendency to separate truth and duty. but knowledge has two sides; it is at once a revelation and a challenge. there is no truth which has not its corresponding obligation, and no obligation which has not its corresponding truth. and not until every truth is rounded into its duty, and every duty is referred back into its truth shall we attain to that clearness of vision and consistency of moral life, to promote which is the primary task of christian ethics. it is this practical element which gives to the study of morals its justification and makes it specially important for the christian teacher. in this sense ethics is really the crown of theology and ought to be the end of all previous study. as a separate branch of study christian ethics dates only from the reformation. it was natural, and perhaps inevitable that the first efforts of the church should be occupied with the formation and elaboration of dogma. with a few notable exceptions, among whom may be mentioned basil, clement, alquin and thomas aquinas, the church fathers and schoolmen paid but scanty attention to the ethical side of religion. it was only after the reformation that theology, roman and protestant alike, was divided into different branches. the roman catholic name for what we style ethics is 'moral philosophy,' which, however, consists mainly of directions for father confessors in their dealing with perplexed souls. christian ethics appears for the first time as the name of a treatise by a french theologian of the calvinistic persuasion--danaeus, whose work, however, is confined to an exposition of the decalogue. the first recorded work of the lutheran church is the _theologia moralis_, written in , by george calixtus. but the modern study of the subject really dates from { } schleiermacher ( - ), who divides theology into two sections, dogmatics and ethics, giving to the latter an independent treatment. since his time ethics has been regarded as a separate discipline, and within the last few decades increasing attention has been devoted to it. this strong ethical tendency is one of the most noticeable features of the present age. everywhere to-day the personal human interest is in evidence. we see it in the literature of the age and especially in the best poetry, beginning already with coleridge and wordsworth, and continued in tennyson and browning. it is the inner life of man as depicted to us by these master singers, the story of the soul, even more than the delineation of nature which appeals to man's deepest experience and evokes his finest response. we see it in the art of our times, which, not content to be a mere expression of sensuous beauty or lifeless nature, seeks to be instinct with human sympathy and to become the vehicle of the ideas and aims of man. we see it in modern fiction, which is no longer the narration of a simple tale, but the subtle analysis of character, and the intricate study of the passions and ambitions of common life. history to-day is not concerned so much with recording the intrigues of kings and the movements of armies as with scrutinising the motives and estimating the personal forces which have shaped the ages. even in the domain of theology itself this tendency is visible. our theologians are not content with discussing abstract doctrines or recounting the decisions of church councils, but are turning to the gospels and seeking to depict the life of jesus--to probe the secret of his divine humanity and to interpret the meaning for the world of his unique personality. nor is this tendency confined to professional thinkers and theologians, it is affecting the common mind of the laity. 'never was there a time,' says a modern writer, 'when plain people were less concerned with the metaphysics or the ecclesiasticism of christianity. the construction of systems and the contention of creeds which once appeared the central themes of human interest are now { } regarded by millions of busy men and women as mere echoes of ancient controversies, if not mere mockeries of the problems of the present day.' the church under the inspiration of this new feeling for humanity is turning with fresh interest to the contemplation of the character of jesus christ, and is rising to a more lofty idea of its responsibilities towards the world. more than ever in the past, it is now felt that christianity must vindicate itself as a practical religion; and that in view of the great problems--scientific, social and industrial, which the new conditions of an advancing civilisation have created, the church, if it is to fulfil its function as the interpreter and guide of thought, must come down from its heights of calm seclusion and grapple with the actual difficulties of men, not indeed by assuming a political rôle or acting as a divider and judge amid conflicting secular aims, but by revealing the mind of christ and bringing the principles of the gospel to bear upon the complex life of society. no one who reflects upon the spirit of the times will doubt that there are reasons of urgent importance why this aspect of christian life and duty, which we have been considering, should be specially insisted upon to-day. of these the first and foremost is the prevalence of a materialistic philosophy. taking its rise in the evolutionary theories of last century, this view is now being applied with relentless logic as an interpretation of the problems of society by a school of socialistic writers. man, it is said, is the creature of heredity and environment alone. condition creates character, and relief from the woes of humanity is to be sought, not in the transformation of the individual but in the revolutionising of the circumstances of life. as a consequence of this philosophy of externalism there is a filtering down of these materialistic views to the multitude, who care, indeed, little for theories, but are quick to be affected by a prevailing tone. underlying the feeling of unrest and dissatisfaction, so marked a feature of our present day life, there is distinctly discernible among the masses a loosening of religious faith and a slackening { } of moral obligation. the idea of personality and the sense of duty are not so vivid and strong as they used to be. a vague sentimentalising about sin has taken the place of the more robust view of earlier times, and evil is traced to untoward environment rather than to feebleness of individual will. and finally, to name no other cause, there is a tendency in our day among all classes to divorce religion from life--to separate the sacred from the secular, and to regard worship and work as belonging to two entirely distinct realms of existence. for these reasons, among others, there is a special need, as it seems to us, for a systematic study of christian ethics on the part of those who are to be the leaders of thought and the teachers of the people. the materialistic view of life must be met by a more adequate christian philosophy. the unfaith and pessimism of the age must be overcome by the advocacy of an idealistic conception which insists not only upon the personality and worth of man, involving duties as well as rights, but also upon the supremacy of conscience in obedience to the law of christ. above all, we need an ethic which will show that religion must be co-extensive with life, transfiguring and spiritualising all its activities and relationships. life is a unity and all duty is one, whether it be duty to god or duty to man. it must be all of a piece, like the robe of christ, woven from the top to the bottom without seam. it takes its spring from one source and is dominated by one spirit. in the christianity of christ there stand conspicuous two great ideas bound together, indeed, in a higher--love to god the father. these are personal perfection and the service of mankind--the culture of self and the care of others. 'be ye perfect' and 'love your neighbour as yourself.' it is the glory of christianity to have harmonised these seemingly competing aims. the disciple of christ finds that he cannot realise his own life except as he seeks the good of others; and that he cannot effectively help his fellows except by giving to them that which he himself is. this, as we take it, is the christian conception of the moral life; and it is { } the business of christian ethics to show that it is at once reasonable and practical. the present volume will be divided into _four_ main parts, entitled, _postulates_, _personality_, _character_ and _conduct_. the _first_ will deal with the meaning of ethics generally and its relation to cognate subjects; and specially with the philosophical, psychological and theological presuppositions of christian ethics. the _second_ part will be devoted to man as moral subject, and will analyse the capacities of the soul which respond to the calls and claims of the new life. the _third_ section will involve a consideration of the formative principles of character, the moulding of the soul, the ideals, motives and forces by means of which the 'new man' is 'recreated' and fashioned. _finally_, under conduct, the virtues, duties and rights of man will be discussed; and the various spheres of service and institutions of society examined in relation to which the moral life in its individual and social aspects is manifested and developed. { } section a postulates { } chapter i the nature and scope of ethics philosophy has been defined as 'thinking things together.' every man, says hegel, is a philosopher, and in so far as it is the natural tendency of the human mind to connect and unify the manifold phenomena of life, the paradox of the german thinker is not without a measure of truth. but while this is only the occasional pastime of the ordinary individual, it is the conscious and habitual aim of the philosopher. in daily life people are wont to make assumptions which they do not verify, and employ figures of speech which of necessity are partial and inadequate. it is the business of philosophy to investigate the pre-suppositions of common life and to translate into realities the pictures of ordinary language. it was the method of socrates to challenge the current modes of speaking and to ask his fellow-men what they meant when they used such words as 'goodness,' 'virtue,' 'justice.' every time you employ any of these terms, he said, you virtually imply a whole theory of life. if you would have an intelligent understanding of yourself and the world of which you form a part, you must cease to live by custom and speak by rote. you must seek to bring the manifold phenomena of the universe and the various experiences of life into some kind of unity and see them as co-ordinated parts of a whole. when men thus begin to reflect on the origin and connection of things, three questions at once suggest themselves--what, how, and why? what is the world? how do i know it? and why am i here? we might briefly classify the three great departments of human thought as attempts { } to answer these three inquiries. what exists is the problem of metaphysics. what am i and how do i know? is the question of psychology. what is my purpose, what am i to do? is the subject of ethics. these questions are closely related, and the answer given to one largely determines the solution of the others. the truths gained by philosophical thought are not confined to the kingdom of abstract speculation but apply in the last resort to life. the impulse to know is only a phase of the more general impulse to be and to act. beneath all man's activities, as their source and spring, there is ever some dim perception of an end to be attained. 'the ultimate end,' says paulsen, 'impelling men to meditate upon the nature of the universe, will always be the desire to reach some conclusion concerning the meaning of the source and goal of their lives.' the origin and aim of all philosophy is consequently to be sought in ethics. i. if we ask more particularly what ethics is, definition affords us some light. it is to aristotle that we are indebted for the earliest use of this term, and it was he who gave to the subject its title and systematic form. the name _ta ethika_ is derived from _êthos_, character, which again is closely connected with _ethos_, signifying custom. ethics, therefore, according to aristotle is the science of character, character being understood to mean according to its etymology, customs or habits of conduct. but while the modern usage of the term 'character' suggests greater inwardness than would seem to be implied in the ancient definition, it must be remembered that under the title of ethics aristotle had in view, not only a description of the outward habits of man, but also that which gives to custom its value, viz., the sources of action, the motives, and especially the ends which guide a man in the conduct of life. but since men live before they reflect, ethics and morality are not synonymous. so long as there is a congruity between the customs of a people and the practical requirements of life, ethical questions do not occur. it is only when difficulties arise as to matters of right, for which the { } existing usages of society offer no solution, that reflection upon morality awakens. no longer content with blindly accepting the formulae of the past, men are prompted to ask, whence do these customs come, and what is their authority? in the conflict of duties, which a wider outlook inevitably creates, the inquirer seeks to estimate their relative values, and to bring his conception of life into harmony with the higher demands and larger ideals which have been disclosed to him. this has been the invariable course of ethical inquiry. at different stages of history--in the age of the sophists of ancient greece, when men were no longer satisfied with the old forms of life and truth: at the dawn of the christian era, when a new ideal was revealed in christ: during the period of the reformation, when men threw off the bondage of the past and made a stand for the rights of the individual conscience: and in more recent times, when in the field of political life the antithesis between individual and social instincts had awakened larger and more enlightened views of civic and social responsibility--the study of ethics, as a science of moral life, has come to the front. ethics may, therefore, be defined as the science of the end of life--the science which inquires into its meaning and purpose. but inasmuch as the end or purpose of life involves the idea of some good which is in harmony with the highest conceivable well-being of man--some good which belongs to the true fulfilment of life--ethics may also be defined as the science of the highest good or _summum bonum_. finally, ethics may be considered not only as the science of the highest good or ultimate end of life, but also as the study of all that conditions that end, the dispositions, desires and motives of the individual, all the facts and forces which bear upon the will and shape human life in its various social relationships. ii. arising out of this general definition three features may be mentioned as descriptive of its distinctive character among the sciences. { } . ethics is concerned with the _ideal_ of life. by an ideal we mean a better state of being than has been actually realised. we are confessedly not as we should be, and there floats before the minds of men a vision of some higher condition of life and society than that which exists. life divorced from an ideal is ethically valueless. some conception of the supreme good is the imperative demand and moral necessity of man's being. hence the chief business of ethics is to answer the question: what is the supreme good? for what should a man live? what, in short, is the ideal of life? in this respect ethics as a science is distinguished from the physical sciences. they explain facts and trace sequences, but they do not form ideals or endeavour to move the will in the direction of them. . ethics again is concerned with a _norm_ of life, and in this sense it is frequently styled a normative science. that is to say, it is a science which prescribes rules or maxims according to which life is to be regulated. this is sometimes expressed by saying that ethics treats of what _ought to be_. the ideal must not be one which simply floats in the air. it must be an ideal which is possible, and, therefore, as such, obligatory. it is useless to feel the worth of a certain idea, or even to speak of the desirability of it, if we do not feel also that it ought to be realised. moral judgments imply an 'ought,' and that 'ought' implies a norm or standard, in the light of which, as a criterion, all obligation must be tested, and according to which all conduct must be regulated. . ethics, once more, is concerned with the _will_. it is based specifically on the fact that man is not only an intellectual being (capable of knowing) and a sensitive being (possessed of feeling) but also a volitional being; that is, a being endowed with self-determining activity. it implies that man is responsible for his intentions, dispositions and actions. the idea of a supreme ideal at which he is to aim and a norm or standard of conduct according to which he ought to regulate his life, would have no meaning if we did not presuppose the power of self-determination. { } whatever is not willed has no moral value. where there is no freedom of choice, we cannot speak of an action as either good or evil.[ ] when we praise or blame a man's conduct we do so under the assumption that his action is voluntary. in all moral action purpose is implied. this is the meaning of the well-known dictum of kant, 'there is nothing in the world . . . that can be called good without qualification except a good will. a good will is good, not because of what it performs or effects, not by its aptness for the attainment of some proposed end, but simply by virtue of the volition.'[ ] it is the inner aim, the good will which alone gives moral worth to any endeavour. it is not what i do but the reason why i do it which is chiefly of ethical value. the essence of virtue resides in the will, not in the achievement; in the intention or motive, not in the result. iii. the propriety of styling ethics a science has sometimes been questioned. science, it is said, has to do with certain necessary and uniform facts of experience; its object is simply to trace effects from causes and to formulate laws according to which sequences inevitably result from certain ascertained causes or observed facts. but is not character, with which ethics confessedly deals, just that concerning which no definite conclusions can be predicted? is not conduct, dependent as it is on the human will, just the element in man which cannot be explained as the resultant of calculable forces? if the will is free, and is the chief factor in the moulding of life, then you cannot forecast what line conduct will take or predict what shape character will assume. the whole conception of ethics as a science must, it is contended, fall to the ground, if we admit a variable and incalculable element in conduct. some writers, on this account, are disposed to regard ethics as an art rather than a science, and indeed, like every normative science, it may be regarded as lying midway between them. a science may be said to teach us to know { } and an art to do: but as has been well remarked, 'a normative science teaches to know how to do.'[ ] ethics may indeed be regarded both as a science and an art. in so far as it examines and explains certain phenomena of character it is a science: but in so far as it attempts to regulate human conduct by instruction and advice it is an art.[ ] yet when all is said, in so far as ethics has to do with the volitional side of man,--with decisions and acts of will,--there must be something indeterminate and problematic in it which precludes it from being designated an exact science. a certain variableness belongs to character, and conduct cannot be pronounced good or bad without reference to the acting subject. actions cannot be wholly explained by law, and a large portion of human life (and that the highest and noblest) eludes analysis. a human being is not simply a part of the world. he is able to break in upon the sequence of events and set in motion new forces whose effects neither he himself nor his fellows can estimate. it is the unique quality of rational beings that in great things and in small things they act from ideas. the magic power of thought cannot be exaggerated. great conceptions have great consequences, and they rule the world. a new spiritual idea shoots forth its rays and enlightens to larger issues generations of men. there is a mystery in every forth-putting of will-power, and every expression of personality. character cannot be computed. the art of goodness, of living nobly, if so unconscious a thing may be called an art, is one certainly which defies complete scientific treatment. it is with facts like these that ethics has to do; and while we may lay down broad general principles which must underlie the teaching of every true prophet and the conduct of every good man, there will always be an element with which science cannot cope. iv. it will not be necessary, after what has been said, to trace at any length the relations between ethics and the { } special mental sciences, such as logic, aesthetics, and politics. . _logic_ is the science of the formal laws of thought, and is concerned not with the truth of phenomena, but merely with the laws of correct reasoning about them. ethics establishes the laws according to which we ought to act. logic legislates for the reason, and decerns the laws which the intellect must obey if it would think correctly. both sciences determine what is valid; but while logic is confined to the realm of what is valid in reasoning, ethics is occupied with what is valid in action. there is, indeed, a logic of life; and in so far as all true conduct must have a rational element in it and be guided by certain intelligible forms, ethics may be described as a kind of logic of character. . the connection between ethics and _aesthetics_ is closer. aesthetics is the science of the laws of beauty, while ethics is the science of the laws of the good. but in so far as aesthetics deals with the emotions rather than the reason it comes into contact with ethics in the psychological field. in its narrower sense aesthetics deals with beauty merely in an impersonal way; and its immediate object is not what is morally beautiful, but rather that which is beautiful in itself irrespective of moral considerations. ethics, on the other hand, is concerned with personal worth as expressed in perfection of will and action. conduct may be beautiful and character may afford aesthetic satisfaction, but ethics, in so far as it is concerned with judgments of virtue, is independent of all thought of the mere beauty or utility of conduct. aesthetic consideration may indeed aid practical morality, but it is not identical with it. it is conceivable that what is right may not be immediately beautiful, and may indeed in its pursuit or realisation involve action which contradicts our ideas of beauty. but though both sciences have different aims they are occupied largely with the same emotions, and are connected by a common idealising purpose. in the deepest sense, what is good is beautiful and what is beautiful is good; and { } ultimately, in the moral and spiritual life, goodness and beauty coincide. indeed, so close is the connection between the two conceptions that the greeks used the same word, _to kalon_, to express beauty of form and nobility of character. and even in modern times the expression 'a beautiful soul,' indicates the intimate relation between inner excellence of life and outward attractiveness. both aesthetics and ethics have regard to that symmetry or proportion of life which fulfils our ideas at once of goodness and of beauty. in this sense schiller sought to remove the sharpness of kant's moral theory by claiming a place in the moral life for beauty. our actions are, indeed, good when we do our duty because we ought, but they are beautiful when we do it because we cannot do otherwise, because they have become our second nature. the purpose of all culture, says schiller, is to harmonise reason and sense, and thus to fulfil the idea of a perfect manhood.[ ] 'when i dared question: "it is beautiful, but is it true?" thy answer was, "in truth lives beauty."'[ ] . _politics_ is still more closely related to ethics, and indeed ethics may be said to comprehend politics. both deal with human action and institution, and cover largely the same field. for man is not merely an individual, but is a part of a social organism. we cannot consider the virtues of the individual life without also considering the society to which he is related, and the interaction of the whole and its part. politics is usually defined as the science of government, which of course, involves all the institutions and laws affecting men's relations to each other. but while politics is strictly concerned only with the outward condition of the state's well-being and the external order of { } the community, ethics seeks the internal good or virtue of mankind, and is occupied with an ideal society in which each individual shall be able to realise the true aim and meaning of life. but after all, as aristotle said, politics is really a branch of ethics, and both are inseparable from, and complementary of each other. on the one hand, ethics cannot ignore the material conditions of human welfare nor minimise the economic forces which shape society and make possible the moral aims of man. on the other hand, economics must recognise the service of ethical study, and keep in view the moral purposes of life, otherwise it is apt to limit its consideration to merely selfish and material ends. v. while ethics is thus closely connected with the sciences just named, there are two departments of knowledge, pre-supposed indeed in all mental studies, which in a very intimate way affect the science of ethics. these are metaphysics on the one hand and psychology on the other. . metaphysics is pre-supposed by all the sciences; and indeed, all our views of life, even our simplest experiences, involve metaphysical assumptions. it has been well said that the attempt to construct an ethical theory without a metaphysical basis issues not in a moral science without assumptions, but in an ethics which becomes confused in philosophical doubts. leslie stephen proposes to ignore metaphysics, and remarks that he is content 'to build upon the solid earth.' but, as has been pertinently asked, 'how does he know that the earth is solid on which he builds?' this is a question of metaphysics.[ ] the claim is frequently made by a certain class of writers, that we withdraw ourselves from all metaphysical sophistries, and betake ourselves to the guidance of commonsense. but what is this commonsense of which the ordinary man vaunts himself? it is in reality a number of vague assumptions borrowed unconsciously from old exploded theories--assertions, opinions, beliefs, accumulated, no one knows how, { } and accepted as settled judgments.[ ] we do not escape philosophy by refusing to think. some kind of theory of life is implied in such words, 'soul,' 'duty,' 'freedom,' 'power,' 'god,' which the unreflecting mind is daily using. it is useless to say we can dispense with philosophy, for that is simply to content ourselves with bad philosophy. 'to ignore the progress and development in the history of philosophy,' says t. h. green,[ ] 'is not to return to the simplicity of a pre-philosophic age, but to condemn ourselves to grope in the maze of cultivated opinion, itself the confused result of these past systems of thought which we will not trouble ourselves to think out.' the aim of all philosophy, as plato said, is just to correct the assumptions of the ordinary mind, and to grasp in their unity and cohesion the ultimate principles which the mind feels must be at the root of all reality. we have an ethical interest in determining whether there be any moral reality beneath the appearances of the world. ethical questions, therefore, run back into metaphysics. if we take metaphysics in its widest sense as involving the idea of some ultimate end, to the realisation of which the whole process of the world as known to us is somehow a means, we may easily see that metaphysical inquiry, though distinct from ethical, is its necessary pre-supposition. the being or purpose of god, the great first cause, the world as fashioned, ordered and interpenetrated by him, and man as conditioned by and dependent upon the deity--are postulates of the moral life and must be accepted as a basis of all ethical study. the distinction between ethics and philosophy did not arise at once. in early greek speculation, almost to the time of aristotle, metaphysics and morals were not separated. and even in later times, spinoza and to some extent green, though they professedly treat of ethics, hardly dissociate metaphysical from ethical considerations. nor is that to be wondered at when men are dealing with the first principles of all being and life. our view of god and of the { } world, our fundamental _welt-anschauung_ cannot but determine our view of man and his moral life. in every philosophical system from plato to hegel, in which the universe is regarded as having a rational meaning and ultimate end, the good of human beings is conceived as identical with, or at least as included in the universal good. . but if a sound metaphysical basis be a necessary requisite for the adequate consideration of ethics, _psychology_ as the science of the human soul is so vitally connected with ethics, that the two studies may almost be treated as branches of one subject. an ethic which takes no account of psychological assumptions would be impossible. consciously or unconsciously every treatment of moral subjects is permeated by the view of the soul or personality of man which the writer has adopted, and his meaning of conduct will be largely determined by the theory of human freedom and responsibility with which he starts. questions as to character and duty invariably lead to inquiries as to certain states of the agent's mind, as to the functions and possibilities of his natural capacities and powers. we cannot pronounce an action morally good or bad until we have determined the extent and limits of his faculties and have investigated the questions of disposition and purpose, of intention and motive, which lie at the root of all conduct, and without which actions are neither moral nor immoral. it is surely a mistake to say, as some do, that as logic deals with the correctness of reasoning, so ethics deals only with the correctness of conduct, and is not directly concerned with the processes by which we come to act correctly.[ ] on the contrary, merely correct action may be ethically worthless, and conduct obtains its moral value from the motives or intentions which actuate and determine it. ethics cannot, therefore, ignore the psychological processes of feeling, desiring and willing of the acting subject. it is indeed true that in ordinary life men are frequently judged to be good or bad, according to the outward effect of their actions, and material results are often regarded as the sole { } measure of good. but while it may be a point of difficulty in theoretic morality to determine the comparative worth and mutual relation of good affections and good actions, all surely will allow that a certain quality of disposition or motive in the agent is required to constitute an action morally good, and that it is not enough to measure virtue by its utility or its beneficial effect alone. hence all moralists are agreed that the main object of their investigation must belong to the psychical side of human life--whether they hold that man's ultimate end is to be found in the sphere of pleasure or maintain that his well-being lies in the realisation of virtue for its own sake. the problems as to the origin and adequacy of conscience, as to the meaning and validity of voluntary action; the questions concerning motives and desires, as to the historical evolution of moral customs, and man's relation at each stage of his history to the social, political and religious institutions amid which he lives--are subjects which, though falling within the scope of ethics, have their roots in the science of the soul. the very existence of a science of ethics depends upon the answers which psychology gives to such questions. if, for example, it be decided that there is in man no such faculty or organ as conscience, and that what men so designate is but a natural manifestation gradually evolved in and through the physical and social development of man: or if we deny the self-determining power of human beings and assume that what we call the freedom of the will is a delusion (or at least, in the last resort, a negligible element) and that man is but one of the many phenomena or facts of a physical universe--then we may continue, indeed, as some evolutionary and naturalistic thinkers do, to speak of a science of ethics, but such a science will not be a study of the moral life as we understand it and have defined it. ethics, therefore, while dependent upon the philosophical sciences, has its own distinct content and scope. the end of life, that for which a man should live, with all its implications, forms the subject of moral inquiry. it is { } concerned not merely with what a man is or actually does, but more specifically with what he should be and should do. hence, as we have seen, the word 'ought' is the most distinctive term of ethics involving a consideration of values and a relation of the actual and the ideal. the 'ought' of life constitutes at once the purpose, law, and reason of conduct. it proposes the three great questions involved in all ethical inquiry--whither? how? and why? and determines the three great words which are constantly recurring in every ethical system--end, norm, motive. moral good is the moral end considered as realised. the moral norm or rule impelling the will to the realisation of this end is called duty. the moral motive considered as an acquired power of the acting will is called virtue.[ ] [ ] cf. mackenzie, _manual of ethics_, p. ; also wuttke, _christian ethics_ (eng. trans.), vol. i. p. . [ ] _metaph. of morals_, sect. i. [ ] mackenzie, _manual of ethics_, p. . see also muirhead, _elements of ethics_. [ ] hyslop, _elements of ethics_, p. . [ ] schiller, _�ber anmuth und würde_. cf. also ruskin, _mod. painters_, vol. ii.; seeley, _natural religion_, and inge, _faith and its psychology_, p. ff. see also bosanquet _hist. of aesthetic_. we are indebted to _romanticism_, and especially to novalis in germany and cousin in france for the thought that the good and the beautiful meet and amalgamate in god. [ ] browning. [ ] cf. newman smyth, _christian ethics_, p. . [ ] see author's _history of philosophy_, p. . [ ] introduction to hume's _works_. [ ] mackenzie seems to imply this view. _ethics_, p. . [ ] cf. haering, _ethics of the christian life_, p. . { } chapter ii the postulates of christian ethics we now proceed to define christian ethics and to investigate the particular postulates, philosophical and theological, upon which it rests. christian ethics presupposes the christian view of life as revealed in christ, and its definition must be in harmony with the christian ideal. the prime question of christian ethics is, how ought christians to order their lives? it is therefore the science of morals as conditioned by christian faith; and the problems it discusses are, the nature, meaning and laws of the moral life as dominated by the supreme good which has been revealed to the world in the person and teaching of christ. it is based upon an historical event, and presupposes a particular development and consummation of the world. i _the relation of christian to philosophical ethics_.--christian ethics is a branch of general ethics. but it is something more; it is ethics in its richest and fullest expression--the interpretation of life which corresponds to the supreme manifestation of the divine will. for if the revelation of god in christ is true, then that revelation is not merely a factor, but the factor, which must dominate and colour man's whole outlook and give an entirely new value to all his aims and actions. in christianity we are confronted with the motive-power of a great personality who has entered into the current of human history and { } given a new direction to the moral life of man. man's life at its highest can only be interpreted in the light of this supreme revelation, and can only be accounted for as the creation of the dynamic force of this unique personality. but while this truth gives to christian ethics its distinctive character and pre-eminent worth it does not throw discredit upon philosophical ethics, nor indeed separate the two departments by any hard and fast lines. they have much in common. a large domain of conduct is covered by both. the so-called pagan virtues have their value for christian character and are in the line of christian virtue. even in his natural state man is constituted for the moral life, and, as st. paul states, is not without some knowledge of right and wrong. the moral attainments of the ancients are not to be regarded simply as 'splendid vices,' but as positive achievements of good. duty may differ in content, but it is of the same kind under any system. purity is purity and benevolence benevolence, whether manifested in a heathen or a christian. while, therefore, christian ethics takes its point of departure from the special revelation of god and the unique disclosure of man's possibilities in christ, it gladly accepts and freely uses the results of moral philosophy in so far as they throw light upon the fundamental facts of human nature. as a system of morals christianity claims to be inclusive. it takes cognisance of all the data of consciousness, and assumes as its own, from whatever quarter it may come, all ascertained truth. the facts of man's natural history, the conclusions from philosophy, the manifold lights afforded by previous speculation--all are gathered up, sifted and tried by one all-authoritative measure of truth--the mind of christ. it completes what is lacking in other systems in so far as their conclusions are based upon an incomplete survey of facts. it deals, in short, with personality in its highest ranges of moral power and spiritual consciousness and seeks to interpret life by its greatest possibilities and loftiest attainments as they are revealed in christ. but while christian ethics is at one with philosophic { } ethics in postulating a natural capacity for spiritual life, it is differentiated from all non-christian systems by its distinctive belief in the possibility of the re-creation of character. speculative ethics prescribes only what ought ideally to be done or avoided. it takes no account of the foes of the spiritual life; nor does it consider the remedy by which character, once it is perverted or destroyed, can be restored and transformed. christian ethics, on the other hand, is concerned primarily with the question, by what power can a man achieve the right and do the good? it is not enough to postulate the inherent capacity of man. experience of human nature shows that there are hostile elements which too often frustrate his natural development. hence the practical problem which christian ethics has to face is, how can the spiritual ideal be made a reality? it regards man as standing in need of recovery, and it is forced to assume, that which philosophical ethics does not recognise, a divine power by which character can be renewed. christianity claims to be 'the power of god unto salvation to every one that believeth.' christian ethics therefore is based upon the twofold assumption that the ideal of humanity has actually been revealed in christ, and that in him also is the power by which man may realise this ideal. ii _the relation of christian ethics to dogmatics_.--within the sphere of theology proper the two main constituents of christian teaching are dogmatics and ethics, or doctrines and morals. though it is convenient to regard these separately they really form a whole, and are but two aspects of one subject. it is difficult to define their limits, and to say where dogmatics ends and ethics begins. the distinction is sometimes expressed by saying that dogmatics is a theoretic science, whereas ethics is practical. it is true that ethics stands nearer to everyday life and deals with matters of practical conduct, while dogmatics is concerned with beliefs and treats of their origin and elucidation. { } but, on the other hand, ethics also takes cognisance of beliefs as well as actions, and is interested in judgments not less than achievements. there is a practical side of doctrine and there is a theoretic side of morals. even the most theoretic of sciences, metaphysics, though, as novalis said, it bakes no bread, is not without its direct bearing upon life. dogmatic theology when divorced from practical interest is in danger of becoming mere pedantry; and ethical inquiry, if it has no dogmatic basis, loses scientific value and sinks into a mere enumeration of duties. nor is the common statement, that dogmatics shows what we should believe and ethics what we ought to do, an adequate one. moral precepts are also objects of faith, and what we should believe involves moral requirements and pre-supposes a moral character. schleiermacher has been charged with ignoring the difference between the two disciplines, but with scant justice. for, while he regards the two subjects as but different branches of christian theology, and insists upon their intimate connection, he does not neglect their distinction. there has been a growing tendency to accentuate the difference, and recent writers such as jacoby, haering and lemme, not to mention martensen, dorner and wuttke, claim for ethics a separate and independent treatment. the ultimate connection between dogmatics and ethics cannot be ignored without loss to both. it tends only to confusion to speak as some do of 'a creedless morality.' on the one hand, ethics saves dogmatics from evaporating into unsubstantial speculation, and by affording the test of workableness, keeps it upon the solid foundation of fact. on the other hand, dogmatics supplies to ethics its formative principles and normative standards, and preserves the moral life from degenerating into the vagaries of fanaticism or the apathy of fatalism. but while both sciences form complementary sides of theology and stand in relations of mutual service, each deals with the human consciousness in a different way. dogmatics regards the christian life from the standpoint of divine dependence: ethics regards it from the { } standpoint of human determination. dogmatics deals with faith in relation to god, as the receptive organ of grace: ethics views faith rather in relation to man, as a human activity or organ of conduct. the one shows us how our adoption into the kingdom of god is the work of divine love: the other shows how this knowledge of salvation manifests itself in love to god and man, and must be worked out through all the relationships of life. iii we may define more particularly the relation of ethics to dogmatics by enumerating briefly the doctrinal postulates or assumptions with which ethics starts. . ethics assumes the christian _idea of god_. god is for ethics not an impersonal force, nor even simply the creator of the universe as philosophy might conceive him.[ ] creative power is not of course denied, but it is qualified by what theology calls the 'moral attributes of god.' we do not ignore his omnipotence, but we look beyond it, to 'the love that tops the power, the christ in god.'[ ] it is not necessary here to sketch the old testament teaching with regard to god. it is sufficient to state that the new testament writers, while not attempting to proclaim abstract doctrines, took over generally the hebrew conception of the deity as a god who was at once almighty, holy and righteous. the distinctive note which the new testament emphasises is the personality of god, and personality includes reason, will and love. the fact that we are his offspring, as st. paul argues, is the basis of our true conception of god's nature. through that which is highest in man we are enabled to discern something of his character. but it is specially in and through jesus christ that the distinctive character of the divine personality is declared. christ reveals him as our father, and everywhere the new { } testament writers assume that men stand in the closest filial relations to him. in the fundamental conception of divine fatherhood there are implicitly contained certain elements of ethical significance.[ ] of these may be mentioned: ( ) _the spiritual perfection of god_.--the christian doctrine of god includes not only his personality, but his spiritual perfection. all that is highest and best in life is attributed to god. what we regard as having supreme moral worth is eternally realised in him. it is this fact that prescribes man's ideal and makes it binding. 'be ye perfect even as your father in heaven is perfect,' says christ. because of what god is, spiritual and moral excellence takes precedence of all other aims which can be perceived and pursued by man. morality is the revelation of an ideal eternally existing in the divine mind. 'the belief in god,' it has been said, 'is the logical pre-supposition of an objective or absolute morality.'[ ] the moral law, as the norm and goal of our life, obtains its validity and obligation for us not because it is an arbitrarily-given command, but because it is of the very character of god. ( ) _the sovereignty of god_.--not only the spiritual perfection but the moral sovereignty of god is pre-supposed. he is the supreme excellence on whom all things depend, and in whom they find their ultimate explanation. the world is not merely his creation, it is the expression of his mind. he is not related to the universe as an artist is related to his work, but rather as a personal being to his own mental and moral activities.[ ] he is immanent in all the phenomena of nature and movements of life and thought; and in the order and purpose of the world his character and will are manifested. the fact that the meaning and order of things are not imposed from without, but constitute their inner nature, reveals not only the completeness of his { } sovereignty, but the purpose of it. the highest end of god, as moral and spiritual, is fulfilled by the constitution and education of spiritual beings like himself, and in laying down the conditions which are necessary for their existence and perfecting. no definition of divine sovereignty can exclude the idea of moral freedom and the consequences bound up with it. hence god must not only confer the gift of individual liberty, but respect it throughout the whole course of his dealings with man. ( ) _the supremacy of love_.--this is the highest and most distinctive feature of the divine personality. it is the sum of all the others; as well as the special characteristic of the fatherhood of god as revealed by christ. 'god is love' is the crowning statement of the gospel and the fullest expression of the divine nature. the essential of all love is self-giving; and the peculiarity of god's love is the communication and imparting of himself to his creatures. the love of god finds its highest manifestation in the gift and sacrifice of his son. he is the supreme personality in history, revealing god in and to the world. in the light of what christ is we know what god is, and from his revelation there flows a new and ever-deepening experience of the divine being. . christian ethics presupposes the _christian doctrine of sin_. it is not the province of ethics to discuss minutely the origin of evil or propound a theory of sin. but it must see to it that the view it takes is consistent with the truths of revelation and in harmony with the facts of life. a false or inadequate conception of sin is as detrimental to ethics as it is to dogmatics; and upon our doctrine of evil depends very largely our interpretation of life in regard to its difficulties and purposes, its trials and triumphs. in the meantime it is enough to remark that considerable vagueness of idea and looseness of expression exist concerning this subject. while some regard sin simply as a _defect_ or shortcoming, a missing of the mark, as the greek word _hamartia_ implies, others treat it as a _disease_, or infirmity of the flesh--a malady affecting the physical constitution which may be { } incurred by heredity or induced by environment. in both cases it is regarded as a misfortune, rather than a fault, or even as a fate from which the notion of guilt is absent. while there is an element of truth in these representations, they are defective in so far as they do not take sufficient account of the personal and determinative factor in all sinful acts. the christian view, though not denying that physical weakness and the influence of heredity and environment do, in many cases, affect conduct, affirms that there is a personal element always present which these conditions do not explain. sin is not merely negative. it is something positive, not so much an imperfection as a trespass. it is to be accounted for not as an inherited or inherent malady, but as a self-chosen perversity. it belongs to the spirit rather than to the body, and though it has its seat in the heart and in the emotions, it has to do principally with the will. 'every man is tempted when he is drawn away by his own lust and enticed. then when lust has conceived it bringeth forth sin.'[ ] the essence of sin is selfishness. it is the deliberate choice of self in preference to god--personal and wilful rebellion against the known law of righteousness and truth. there are, of course, degrees of wrongdoing and undoubtedly extenuating circumstances which must be taken into account in estimating the significance and enormity of guilt, but in the last resort christian ethics is compelled to postulate the fact of sin, and to regard it as a personal rebellion against the holy will of god, the deliberate choice of self and the wilful perversion of the powers of man into instruments of unrighteousness. . a third postulate, which is a corollary of the christian view of god and of sin, is the _responsibility of man_. christian ethics treats every man as accountable for his thoughts and actions, and therefore, as capable of choosing the good as revealed in christ. while not denying the sovereignty of god, nor minimising the mystery of evil, christianity firmly maintains the doctrine of human freedom. an ethic would be impossible if, on the one side, grace were absolutely { } irresistible; or, on the other, sin were unalterably necessitated. whatever be the doctrine we formulate on these subjects, ethics demands that what we call freedom be safeguarded. an interesting question emerges at this point as to the possibility, apart from a knowledge of christ, of choosing the good. difficult as this question is, and though it was answered by augustine and many of the early fathers in the negative, the modern, and probably the more just view, is that we cannot hold mankind responsible unless we allow to all men the larger freedom and judge them according to their light and opportunity. if non-christians are fated to do evil, then no guilt can be imputed. history shows that a love of goodness has sometimes existed, and that many isolated acts of purity and kindness have been done, among people who have known nothing of the historical christ. the new testament recognises degrees of depravity in nations and individuals, and a measure of noble aspiration and honest endeavour in ordinary human nature. st. paul plainly assumes some knowledge and performance on the part of the heathen, and though he denounces their immorality in unsparing terms, he does not affirm that pagan society was so corrupt that it had lost all knowledge of moral good. iv before concluding this chapter some remarks regarding the authority and method of christian ethics may be not inappropriate. . christian ethics is not directly concerned with critical questions as to the genuineness and authenticity of the new testament writings. it is sufficient for its purpose that these have been generally received by the church, and that they present in the person of christ the highest embodiment of the law and spirit of the moral life. the writings of the new testament thus become ethically normative in virtue of their direct reflection of the mind of christ and their special receptivity of his spirit. their { } authority, therefore, is christ's own authority, and has a value for us as his word is reproduced by them. it does not detract from the validity of the new testament as the reflection of the spirit of christ that there are discernible in it distinct signs of development of doctrine, a manifest growth in clearness and depth of insight and knowledge of the mind of jesus. such evidences of advancement are specially noticeable in the application of christian principles to the practical problems of life, such as the questions of slavery, marriage, work and property. st. paul does not disclaim the possibility of development, and he associates himself with those who know in part and wait for fuller light. in common with all christians, paul was doubtless conscious of a growing enrichment in spiritual knowledge; and his later epistles show that he had reached to clearer prospects of christ and his redemption, and had obtained a fuller grasp of the world-wide significance of the gospel than when he first began to preach. one cannot forget that the battle of criticism is raging to-day around the inner citadel--the very person and words of jesus. if it can be shown that the gospels contain only very imperfect records of the historical jesus, and that very few sayings of our lord can be definitely pronounced genuine, then, indeed, we might have to give up some of the particular passages upon which we have based our conception of truth and duty, but nothing less than a wholesale denial of the historical existence of jesus[ ] would demand of us a repudiation of the christian view of life. the ideals, motives, and sentiments--the entire outlook and spirit of life which we associate with christ--are now a positive possession of the christian consciousness. there is a christian view of the world, a christian _welt-anschauung_, so living and real in the heart of christendom that even though we had no more reliable basis than the 'nine foundation pillars' which schmiedel condescends to leave us, we should not be wholly deprived of the fundamental principles upon which the christian life might be reared. { } if to these we add the list of 'doubly attested sayings' collected by burkitt,[ ] which even some of the most negative critics have been constrained to allow, we should at least have a starting-point for the study of the teaching of jesus. the most reputable scholars, however, of germany, america and britain acknowledge that no reasonable doubt can be cast upon the general substance and tone of the synoptic gospels, compiled, as they were, from the ancient gospel of mark and the source commonly called 'q' (_i.e._ the lost common origin of the non-markian portions of matthew and luke). to these we should be disposed to add the fourth gospel, which, though a less primary source, undoubtedly records acts and sayings of our lord attested by one, who (whosoever he was) was in close touch with his master's life, and had drunk deeply of his spirit. in the general tone and trend of these writings we find abundant materials for what may be called the ethics of jesus. it is true, no sharp line can be drawn between his religious and moral teaching. but, taking ethics in its general sense, as the discussion of the ideals, virtues, duties of man, the relation of man to god and to his fellow-men, it will at once be seen that a very large portion of christ's teaching is distinctly ethical. the facts of his own earthly existence, all his great miracles, his parables, and above all, the sermon on the mount, have an immediate bearing upon human conduct. they all deal with character, and are chiefly illustrations and enforcements of the divine ideal of life and of the value of man as a child of god which he came to reveal. in the example of jesus himself we have the best possible illustration of the translation of principles into life. and in so far as we find our highest good embodied in him, he becomes for us, as j. s. mill acknowledged, a kind of personified conscience. no abstract statement of ethical principles can possibly influence life so powerfully as the personal incarnation of these principles; and if the greatest means to the true life is personal association with the high and noble, then it need not seem strange { } that love and admiration for the person of christ have as a matter of fact proved the mightiest of historical motives to noble living. however imperfectly we may know the person of jesus, and however fragmentary may be the record of his teaching, one great truth looms out of the darkness--the peerlessness of his character and the incomparableness of his ideal of life. he comes to us with a message of good, new to man, based on the great conviction of the fatherhood of god. the all-dominating faith that a genuine seeking love is at the heart of the universe makes jesus certain that the laws of the world are the laws of a loving god--laws of life which must be studied, welcomed, and heartily obeyed. . the christian ideal, though given in christ, has to be examined, analysed, and applied by the very same faculties as are employed in dealing with speculative problems. all science must be furnished with facts, and its task generally is to shape its materials to definite ends. the scientist does not invent. he does not create. he simply _discovers_ what is already there: he only moulds into form what is given. in like manner, the christian moralist deals with the revelation of life which has been granted to him partly in the human consciousness, and partly through the sacred scriptures. the scriptures, however, do not offer a systematic presentation of the life of christ, or a formal directory of moral conduct. the data are supplied, but these data require to be interpreted and unified so as to form a system of ethics. the authority to which christian ethics appeals is not an external oracle which imposes its dictates in a mechanical way. it is an authority embodied in intelligible forms, and appealing to the rational faculties of man. christian ethics, though deduced from scripture, is not a cut and dry code of rules prescribed by god which man must blindly obey. it has to be thought out, and intelligently applied to all the circumstances of life. according to the protestant view, at least, ethics is not a stereotyped compendium of precepts which { } the church supplies to its members to save them from thinking. slavish imitation is wholly foreign to the genius of the gospel. christ himself appeals everywhere to the rational nature of man, and his words are life and spirit only as they are intelligibly apprehended and become by inner conviction the principles of action. authoritative, then, as the scriptures are, and containing as they do the revelation of an unique historical fact, they do not present a closed or final system of truth. christ has yet many things to say unto us, and the holy spirit is continually adding new facts to human experience, and disclosing richer and fuller manifestations of god through history and providence and the personal consciousness of man. no progress in thought or life can indeed be made which is inconsistent with, or foreign to, the fundamental facts which centre in christ: and we may be justly suspicious of all advancement in doctrine or morals which does not flow from the initial truths of the master's life and teaching. but, just as progress has been made, both in the increase of materials of knowledge and in regard to the clearer insight and appreciation of the meaning of christian truth, since the apostles' age, so we may hope that, as the ages go on, we shall acquire a still fuller conception of the kingdom of god and a richer apprehension of the divine will. the task and method of christian ethics will be, consequently, the intelligent interpretation and the gradual application to human life and society, in all their relationships, of the mind of christ under the constant illumination and guidance of the divine spirit. [ ] cf. dorner, _system der christl. ethik_, p. . see also newman smyth, _christian ethics_, p. . [ ] cf. mackintosh, _christian ethics_, p. . [ ] cf. lidgett, _the christian religion_, pp. , ff., where the idea of god's nature is admirably developed. [ ] rashdall, _the theory of good and evil_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] lidgett, _idem_. but see bosanquet, _principle of indiv. and value_, p. ff. [ ] james i. , . [ ] as, for example, that of drew's _christus myth_. [ ] cf. _gospel history and its transmission_. { } chapter iii ethical thought before christ apart from the writings of the new testament, which are the primary source of christian ethics, a comprehensive view of our subject would include some account of the ethical conceptions of greece, rome and israel, which were at least contributory to the christian idea of the moral life. whatever view we take of its origin, christianity did not come into the world like the goddess athene, without preparation, but was the product of many factors. the moral problems of to-day cannot be rightly appreciated except in the light of certain concepts which come to us from ancient thought; and greco-roman philosophy as well as hebrew religion have contributed not a little to the form and trend of modern ethical inquiry. all we can attempt is the briefest outline, first, of the successive epochs of greek and roman ethics; and second, of the leading moral ideas of the hebrews as indicating the preparatory stages in the evolution of thought which finds its completion in the ethics of christianity. i before the golden age of greek philosophy there was no ethics in the strictest sense. philosophy proper occupied itself primarily with ontological questions--questions as to the origin and constitution of the material world. it was only when mythology and religion had lost their hold upon the cultured, and the traditions of the poets had come to be doubted, that inquiries as to the meaning of life and conduct arose. { } the sophists may be regarded as the pioneers of ethical science. this body of professional teachers, who appeared about the fifth century in greece, drew attention to the vagueness of common opinion and began to teach the art of conduct. of these protagoras is the most famous, and to him is attributed the saying, 'man is the measure of all things.' as applied to conduct, this dictum is commonly interpreted as meaning that good is entirely subjective, relative to the individual. viewed in this light the saying is one-sided and sceptical, subversive of all objective morality. but the dictum may be regarded as expressing an important truth, that the good is personal and must ultimately be the good for man as man, therefore for all men. . it was _socrates_, however, who, as it was said, first called philosophy from heaven to the sphere of this earth, and diverted men's minds from the consideration of natural things to the affairs of human life. he was indeed the first moral philosopher, inasmuch as that, while the sophists merely talked at large about justice and virtue, he asked what these terms really meant. living in an age when the old guides of life--law and custom--were losing their hold upon men, he was compelled to find a substitute for them by reflection upon the meaning and object of existence. for him the source of evil is want of thought, and his aim is to awaken men to the realisation of what they are, and what they must seek if they would make the best of their lives. he is the prophet of clear self-consciousness. 'know thyself' is his motto, and he maintains that all virtue must be founded on such knowledge. a life without reflection upon the meaning of existence is unworthy of a man.[ ] hence the famous socratic dictum, 'virtue is knowledge.' both negatively and positively socrates held this principle to be true. for, on the one hand, he who is not conscious of the good and does not know in what it consists, cannot possibly pursue it. and, on the other hand, if a man is once alive to his real good, how can he do otherwise than pursue it? no one therefore does { } wrong willingly. let a man know what is right, and he will do it. knowledge of virtue is not, however, distinct from self-interest. every one naturally seeks the good simply because he sees that the good is identical with his ultimate happiness. the wise man is the happy man. hence to know oneself is the secret of well-being. let each be master of himself, knowing what he seeks, and seeking what he knows--that, for socrates, is the first principle of ethics, the condition of all moral life. this view is obviously one-sided and essentially individualistic, excluding all those forms of morality which are pursued unconsciously, and are due more to the influence of intuitive perception and social habit than to clear and definite knowledge. the merit of socrates, however, lies in his demand for ethical reflection, and his insistence upon man not only acting rightly, but acting from the right motive. . while socrates was the first to direct attention to the nature of virtue, it received from _plato_ a more systematic treatment. platonic philosophy may be described as an extension to the universe of the principles which socrates applied to the life of the individual. plato attempts to define the end of man by his place in the cosmos; and by bringing ethics into connection with metaphysics he asks what is the idea of man as a part of universal reality? two main influences combined to produce his conception of virtue. first, in opposition to the heraclitean doctrine of perpetual change, he contended for something real and permanent. second, in antagonism to the sophistic theory of the conventional origin of the moral law, he maintained that man's chief end was the good which was fixed in the eternal nature of things, and did not consist in the pursuit of transient pleasures. hence, in two respects, plato goes beyond socrates. he puts opinion, which is his name for ordinary consciousness, between ignorance and knowledge, ascribing to it a certain measure of truth, and making it the starting-point for reflection. and further, he transforms the socratic idea of morality, rejecting the notion that its principle is to be found in a mere calculation of pleasures, { } and maintaining that particular goods must be estimated by the good of life as a whole. plato's philosophy rests upon his doctrine of ideas, which, as the types of permanent reality, represent the eternal nature of things; and the problem of life is to rise from opinion to truth, from appearance to reality, and attain to the ideal principle of unity. the highest good plato identifies with god, and man's end is ultimately to be found in the knowledge of, and communion with, the eternal. the human soul he conceived to be a mixture of two elements. in virtue of its higher spiritual nature it participates in the world of ideas, the life of god: and in virtue of its lower or animal impulses, in the corporeal world of decay. these two dissimilar parts are connected by an intermediate element called by plato _thymos_ or courage, implying the emotions or affections of the heart. hence a threefold constitution of the soul is conceived--the rational powers, the emotional desires, and the animal passions. if we ask who is the good man? plato answers, it is the man in whom these three elements are harmonised. on the basis of this psychology plato classifies and determines the virtues--adopting the four cardinal virtues of greek tradition as the fundamental types of morality. wisdom is the quality, or condition of all virtue and the crown of the moral life: courage is the virtue of the emotional part of man; temperance or moderation, the virtue of the lower appetites: while justice is the unity and the principle of the others. virtue is thus no longer identified with knowledge simply. another source of vice besides ignorance is assumed, viz., the disorder and conflict of the soul; and the well-being of man lies in the attainment of a well-ordered and harmonious life. as health is the harmony of the body, so virtue is the harmony of the soul--a condition of perfection in which every desire is kept in control and every function performs its part with a view to the good of the whole. morality, however, does not belong merely to the individual, but has its perfect realisation in the state in which the three elements of the soul have their { } counterpart in the threefold rank of society. man is indeed but a type of a larger cosmos, and it is not as an individual but as a citizen that he finds his station and duties, and is capable of realising his true life. thus we see how plato is led to correct the shortcomings of socrates--his abrupt distinction between ignorance and knowledge, his vagueness as to the meaning of the good, and his tendency to emphasise the subjective side of virtue and withdraw the individual from the community of which he is essentially a part. but in developing his theory of ideas plato has represented the true life of man as consisting in the knowledge of, and indeed in absorption in, god, a state to which man can only attain by the suppression of his natural impulses and withdrawal from earthly life: and though there is not wanting in plato's later teaching the higher conception of the transformation of the animal passions, he is not wholly successful in overcoming the dualism between impulse and reason which besets some of the earlier dialogues. it is a striking proof of the vitality of plato that his teaching has affected every form of idealism and has helped to shape the history of religious thought in all ages. not only many of the early fathers, such as clement and origen, but the neo-platonists of alexandria, the cambridge platonists of the seventeenth century, and also the german theologians, baur and schleiermacher, have recognised numerous coincidences between christianity and platonism: as bishop westcott has said, 'plato points to st. john.'[ ] his influence may be detected in some of the greatest christian poetry of our own country, especially in that of wordsworth and tennyson. for plato believes, in common with the greatest of every age, in 'that inborn passion for perfection,' that innate though often unconscious yearning after the true, the beautiful, the good, 'those obstinate questionings of sense and outward things,' which are the heritage of human nature. { } . the ethics of _aristotle_ does not essentially differ from that of plato. he is the first to treat of morals formally as a science, which, however, in his hands becomes a division of politics. man, says aristotle, is really a social animal. even more decisively than plato, therefore, he treats man as a part of society. while in plato there is the foreshadowing of the truth that the goal of moral endeavour lies in godlikeness, with aristotle the goal is confined to this life and is conceived simply as the earthly well-being of the moral subject. 'death,' he declares, 'is the greatest of all evils, for it is the end.' aristotle begins his great work on ethics with the discussion of the chief good, which he declares to be happiness or well-being. but happiness does not consist in sensual pleasure, nor even in the pursuit of honour, but in an 'activity of the soul in accordance with reason.'[ ] there are required for this life of right thinking and right doing not only suitable environment but proper instruction. virtue is not virtuous until it is a habit, and the only way to be virtuous is to practise virtue. to be virtuous a man's conduct must be a law for him, the regular expression of his will. hence the virtues are habits of deliberate choice, and not natural endowments. following plato, aristotle sees that there is in man a number of impulses struggling for the mastery of the soul, hence he is led to assume that the natural instincts need guidance and control. moderation is therefore the one chief virtue; and moral excellence consists in an activity which at every point seeks to strike a 'mean' between two opposite excesses. virtue in general, then, may be defined as the observation of the due mean in action. aristotle also follows plato in assigning the ideal good to contemplation, and in exalting the life of reason and speculation above all others. in thus idealising the contemplative life he was but reflecting the spirit of his race. this apotheosis of knowledge infected all greek thought, and found exaggerated expression in the religious absorption of neo-platonism. { } without dwelling further upon the ethical philosophy of aristotle, a defect which at once strikes a modern in regard to his scheme of virtues is that benevolence is not recognised, except obscurely as a form of magnanimity; and that, in general, the gentler virtues, so prominent in christianity, have little place in the list. the virtues are chiefly aristocratic. favourable conditions are needed for their cultivation. they are not possible for a slave, and hardly for those engaged in 'mercenary occupations.'[ ] further, it may be remarked that habit of itself does not make a man virtuous. morality cannot consist in a mere succession of customary acts. 'one good custom would corrupt the world,' and habit is frequently a hindrance rather than a help to the moral life. but the main defect of aristotle's treatment of virtue is that he tends to regard the passions as irrational, and he does not see that passions if wholly evil could have no 'mean.' reason pervades all the lower appetites of man: and the instincts and desires, instead of being treated as elements which must be suppressed, ought to be regarded rather as powers to be transformed and employed as vehicles of the moral life. at the same time there are not wanting passages in aristotle as well as in plato which, instead of emphasising the avoidance of excess, regard virtue as consisting in complementary elements--the addition of one virtuous characteristic to another--'that balance of contrasted qualities which meets us at every turn in the distinguished personalities of the hellenic race, and which is too often thought of in a merely negative way, as the avoidance of excess rather than as the highest outcome of an intense and many-sided vitality.'[ ] . after aristotle philosophy rapidly declined, and ethics degenerated into popular moralising which manifested itself chiefly in a growing depreciation of good as the end { } of life. the conflicting elements of reason and impulse, which neither plato nor aristotle succeeded in harmonising, gave rise ultimately to two opposite interpretations of the moral life. the _stoics_ selected the rational nature as the true guide to an ethical system, but they gave to it a supremacy so rigid as to threaten the extinction of the affections. the _epicureans_, on the other hand, fastening upon the emotions as the measure of truth, emphasised the happiness of the individual as the chief good--a doctrine which led some of the followers of epicurus to justify even sensual enjoyment. it is not necessary to dwell upon the details of epicureanism, for though its description of the 'wise man,' as that of a person who prudently steered a middle course between passion and asceticism, was one which exercised considerable influence upon the morals of the age, it is the doctrines of stoicism which more especially have come into contact with christianity. without discussing the stoic conception of the world as interpenetrated and controlled by an inherent spirit, and the consequent view of life as proceeding from god and being in all its parts equally divine, we may note that the stoics, under the influence of platonism, regarded self-realisation as the true end of man. this idea they expressed in the formula, 'life according to nature.' the wise man is he who seeks to live in all the circumstances of life in agreement with his rational nature. the law of nature is to avoid what is hurtful and strive for what is appropriate. pleasure, though not the immediate object of man, arises as an accompaniment of a well-ordered life. pleasure and pain are, however, really accidents, to be met by the wise man with indifference. he alone is free who acknowledges the absolute supremacy of reason and makes himself independent of earthly desires. this life of freedom is open to all: since all men are members of one body. the slave may be as free as the consul, and in every station of life each may make the world serve him by living in harmony with it. there is a certain sublimity in the ethics of stoicism which has always appealed to noble minds. 'it inspired,' { } says mr. lecky, 'nearly all the great characters of the early roman empire, and nerved every attempt to maintain the dignity and freedom of the human soul.'[ ] but we cannot close our eyes to its defects. divine providence, though frequently dwelt upon, signified little more for the stoic than destiny or fate. harmony with nature was simply a sense of proud self-sufficiency. stoicism is the glorification of reason, even to the extent of suppressing all emotion. sin is unreason, and salvation lies in an external control of the passions--in indifference and apathy begotten of the subordination of desire to reason. the chief merit of stoicism is that in an age of moral degeneracy it insisted upon the necessity of integrity in all the conditions of life. in its preference for the joys of the inner life and its scorn of the delights of sense; in its emphasis upon individual responsibility and duty; above all, in its advocacy of a common humanity and its belief in the relation of each human soul to god, roman stoicism, as revealed in the writings of a seneca, an epictetus, and a marcus aurelius, not only showed how high paganism at its best could reach, but proved in a measure a preparation for christianity, with whose practical truths it had much in common. the affinities between stoicism and paulinism have been frequently pointed out, and the similarity in language and thought can scarcely be accounted for by coincidence. there are, however, elements in stoicism which st. paul would never have dreamt of assimilating. the material conception of the world, the self-conscious pride, the absence of all sense of sin, the temper of apathy, and unnatural suppression of feelings were ideas which could not but rouse the apostle's strongest antagonism. but, on the other hand, there were characteristics of a nobler order in stoic morality which, we may well believe, paul found ready to his hand and did not hesitate to incorporate in his teaching. of these we may mention, the immanence of god, the idea of wisdom, the conception of freedom as { } the prerogative of the individual, and the notion of brotherhood as the goal of humanity.[ ] the roman stoics, notwithstanding their theoretic interest in moral questions, lived in an ideal world, and hardly attempted to bring their views into connection with the facts of life. their philosophy was a refuge from the evil around them rather than an effort to remove it. they seek to overcome the world by being indifferent to it. in neo-platonism--the last of the greek schools of philosophy--this tendency to withdraw from life and its problems becomes still more marked. absorption in god is the goal of existence and the essence of religion. 'man is left alone with god without any world to mediate between them, and in the ecstatic vision of the absolute the light of reason is extinguished.'[ ] meagre as our sketch of ancient thought has necessarily been, it is perhaps enough to show that the debt of religion to greek and roman ethics is incalculable. it lifted man above vague wonder, and gave him courage to define his relation to existence. it caused him to ask questions of experience, and awakened him to the value of life and the meaning of freedom, duty, and good. finally, it brought into view those contrasted aims of life and society which find their solution in the christian ideal.[ ] ii christianity stands in the closest relation with _hebrew religion_. much as the philosophy of greece and rome have contributed to christendom, there is no such intimate relation between them as that which connects christian ethics with the morality of israel. christ himself, and still more the apostle paul, assumed as a substratum of { } their teaching the revelation which had been granted to the jews. the moral and religious doctrines comprehended under the designation of the 'law' served, as the apostle said, as a _paidagogos_ or usher whose function it was to lead them to the school of christ. at the outset we are impressed by the fact that the ethics of judaeism was inseparable from its religion. moral obligations were conceived as divine commands, and the moral law as a revelation of the divine will. at first jehovah was simply a tribal deity, but gradually this restricted view gave place to the wider conception of god as the sovereign of all men. the divine commandment is the criterion and measure of man's obedience. evil, while it has its source and head in a hostile but subsidiary power, consists in violation of jehovah's will. there are three main channels of hebrew revelation, commonly known as the _law_, the _prophecy_, and _poetry_ of old testament. . law ( ) _the mosaic legislation_ centering in the decalogue[ ] is the first stage of old testament ethic. the ten commandments, whether derived from mosaic enactment or representing a later summary of duty, hold a supreme and formative place in the teaching of the old testament. all, not even excepting the fourth, are purely moral requirements. they are, however, largely negative; the fifth commandment only rising to positive duty. they are also merely external, regulative of outward conduct. the sixth and seventh protect the rights of persons, while the eighth guards outward property. though these laws may be shown to have their roots in the moral consciousness of mankind, they were at first restricted by israel in their scope and practice to its own tribes. ( ) _the civil laws_ present a second factor in the ethical education of israel. the 'book of the covenant'[ ] reveals a certain advancement in political legislation. still the { } hard and legal enactments of retaliation--'an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth'--disclose a barbarous conception of right. alongside of these primitive laws must be set those of a more humane nature--laws with regard to release, the permission of gleaning, the privileges of the year of jubilee. ( ) _the ceremonial laws_ embody a third element in the moral life of israel. these had to do chiefly with commands and prohibitions relative to personal conduct--'meats and drinks and diverse washings'; and with sacrifices and forms of ritual worship.[ ] with regard to the moral value of the commandments two opposite errors are to be avoided. we must not refuse to recognise in the old testament the record of a true, if elementary and imperfect, revelation of god. but also we must beware of exalting the commandments of the old dispensation to the level of those of the new; and thus misunderstanding the nature and relation of both. the christian faith is in a sense the development of judaeism, though it is infinitely more. the commandments of moses, in so far as they have their roots in the constitution of man, have not been superseded, but taken up and spiritualised by the ethic of the gospel. . prophecy the dominant factor of old testament ethics lay in the influence exerted by the prophets. they, and not the priests, are the great moralists of israel. the prophets were speakers for god, the interpreters of his will. they were the moral guides of the people, the champions of integrity in political life, not less than witnesses for individual purity.[ ] we may sum up the ethical significance of the hebrew prophets in three features. ( ) they were preachers of _personal righteousness_. in { } times of falsehood and hypocrisy they were witnesses for integrity and truth, upholding the personal virtues of justice, sincerity, and mercy against the idolatry and formalism of the priesthood. 'what doth the lord require of thee,' said micah, 'but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy god.'[ ] in the same strain isaiah exclaimed, 'bring no more vain oblations, but wash you and make you clean.'[ ] and so also habakkuk has affirmed in words which became the keynote of paul's theology and the watchword of the reformation--'the just shall live by faith.'[ ] ( ) they were the advocates of the _rights of man_, of equity and justice between man and man. they denounce the tyranny of kings, and the luxury of the nobles. they protest against the oppression of the poor and befriend the toilers of the cities. they proclaim the worth of man as man. they reveal jehovah as the god of the common people, and seek to mitigate the burdens which lie upon the enslaved and down-trodden. ( ) they were the apostles of _hope_. not only did they seek to lift their fellow-men above their present calamities, but they proclaimed a message of peace and triumph which was to be evolved out of trouble. a great promise gradually loomed on the horizon, and hope began to centre in an anointed deliverer. the hebrew prophets were not probably conscious of the full significance of their own predictions. like all true poets, they uttered greater things than they knew. the prophet who most clearly outlines this truth is the second isaiah. as he looks down the ages he sees that healing is to be brought about through suffering, the suffering of a sinless one. upon this mysterious figure who is to rise up in the latter days is to be laid the burden of humanity. no other, not even st. paul himself, has grasped so clearly the great secret of atonement or given so touching a picture of the power of vicarious suffering as this unknown prophet of israel. { } . the poetical books passing from the prophets to the poets of israel--and especially to the book of psalms--the devotional manual of the people, reflecting the moral and religious life of the nation at the various stages of its development--we find the same exalted character of god as a god of righteousness, hating evil and jealous for devotion, the same profound sense of sin and the same high vocation of man. the hebrew nation was essentially a poetic people,[ ] and their literature is full of poetry. but poetry is not systematic. it is not safe, therefore, to deduce particular tenets of faith or moral principles from passages which glow with intensity of feeling. but if a nation's character is revealed in its songs, the deep spirituality and high moral tone of israel are clearly reflected in that body of religious poetry which extends over a period of a thousand years, from david to the maccabean age. it is at once national and personal, and is a wonderful record of the human heart in its various moods and yearnings. underlying all true poetry there is a philosophy of life. god, for the hebrew psalmist, is the one pervading presence. he is not a mere impersonation of the powers of nature, but a personal being, righteous and merciful, with whom man stands in the closest relations. holy and awful, indeed, hating iniquity and exacting punishment upon the wicked, he is also tender and pitiful--a father of the oppressed, who bears their burdens, forgives their iniquities, and crowns them with tender mercy.[ ] all nature speaks to the hebrew of god. he is no far-off creator, but immanent in all his works.[ ] he presides over mankind, and provides for the manifold wants of his creatures. it is this thought which gives unity to the nation, and binds the tribes into a common brotherhood. god is their personal friend. in war and peace, in worship and labour, at home and in exile, it is to jehovah they look { } for strength and light and joy. he is their shepherd and redeemer, under whose wings they trust. corresponding to this sublime faith, the virtues of obedience and fidelity are dwelt upon, while the ideal of personal righteousness and purity is constantly held forth. it is no doubt largely temporal blessings which the psalmists emphasise, and the rewards of integrity are chiefly those of material and earthly prosperity. the hope of the future life is nowhere clearly expressed in the old testament, and while in the psalter here and there a dim yearning for a future with god breaks forth, hardly any of these poems illumine the destiny of man beyond the grave. the hope of israel was limited mostly to this earth. the land beyond the shadows does not come within their purview. like a child, the psalmist is content to know that his divine father is near him here and now. when exactly the larger hope emerged we cannot say. but gradually, with the breaking up of the national life and under the pressure of suffering, a clearer vision dawned. with the limitations named, it is a sublime outlook upon life and a high-toned morality which the psalter discloses. poetry, indeed, idealises, and no doubt the israelites did not always live up to their aspirations; but men who could give utterance to a faith so clear, to a penitence so deep, and to longings so lofty and spiritual as these psalms contain are not the least among the heralds of the kingdom of christ. we cannot enlarge upon the ethical ideas of the other writings of the old testament, the books of wisdom, proverbs, ecclesiastes, and job. their teaching, while not particularly lofty, is generally healthy and practical, consisting of homely commonplaces and shrewd observations upon life and conduct. the motives appealed to are not always the highest, and frequently have regard only to earthly prosperity and worldly policy. it must not, however, be overlooked that moral practice is usually allied with the fear of god, and the right choice of wisdom is represented as the dictate of piety not less than the sanction of prudence. the writers of the wisdom literature are the { } humanists of their age. as distinguished from the idealism of the prophets, they are realists who look at life in a somewhat utilitarian way. with the prophets, however, they are at one in regarding the inferiority of ceremonial to obedience and sincerity. god is the ruler of the world, and man's task is to live in obedience to him. what god requires is correct outward behaviour, self-restraint, and consideration of others. in estimating the ethics of israel the fact that it was a preparatory stage in the revelation of god's will must not be overlooked. we are not surprised, therefore, that, judged by the absolute standard of the new testament, the morality of the old testament must be pronounced imperfect. in two respects at least, in intent and extent, it is deficient. ( ) it is lacking in _depth_. there is a tendency to dwell upon the sufficiency of external acts rather than the necessity of inward disposition. at the same time, in the psalter and prophecy inward purity is recognised.[ ] further, the character of jehovah is sometimes presented in a repellent aspect; as in the threatenings of the second commandment; the treatment of the children of achan and the sons of korah; the seeming injustice of god, implied in the complaint of moses, and the protests of abraham and david. but again there are not wanting more kindly features of the divine being; and the fatherhood of god finds frequent expression. though the penal code is severe, a gentler spirit shines through many of its provisions, and protection is afforded to the wage-earner, the dependent, and the poor; while the care of slaves, foreigners, and even lower animals is not overlooked.[ ] again, it has been noticed that the motives to which the old testament appeals are often mercenary. material prosperity plays an important part as an inducement to well-doing. the good which the pious patriarch or royal potentate contemplates is something which is calculated to enrich himself or advance his people. but here we must not forget that { } god's revelation is progressive, and his dealing with man educative. there is naturally a certain accommodation of the divine law to the various stages of the moral apprehension of the jewish people. gradually the nation is being carried forward by the promise of material benefits to the deeper and more inward appreciation of spiritual blessings. ( ) it is lacking in _scope_. in regard to universality the hebrew ideal, it must be acknowledged, is deficient. god is usually represented as the god of israel alone, and not as the god of all men, and the obligations of veracity, honesty, and mercy are confined within the limits of the nation. it is true that a prominent commandment given to israel and endorsed by our lord runs thus: 'thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.'[ ] but the extent of the obligation seems to be restricted by the context: 'thou shalt not avenge nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people.' it is contended that the word translated 'neighbour' bears a wider import than the english term, and is really applicable to any person. the larger idea is expressed in vv. , , where the word 'stranger' or 'foreigner' is substituted for neighbour. and there are passages in which the stranger is regarded as the special client of god, and is enjoined to look to him for protection. the jews were not in practice, however, faithful to the humanitarianism of their law, and, in keeping with other nations, showed a tendency to restrict divine favours within the limits of their own land, and to maintain throughout their history an attitude of aloofness and repellent isolation which even amounted to intolerance towards other races. in early days, however, the obligation of hospitality was regarded as sacred.[ ] nor must we forget that, whatever may have been the jewish practice, the promise enshrined in their revelation involves the unity of mankind; while several of the prophecies and psalms look forward to a world-wide blessing.[ ] in isaiah we even read, 'god of the whole earth shall he be called.'[ ] { } the stream of preparation for christianity thus flowed steadily through three channels, the greek, the roman, and the jew. each contributed something to the fullness of the time. the problem of greek civilisation was the problem of _freedom_, the realisation of self-dependence and self-determination. in the pursuit of these ends greece garnered conclusions which are the undying possessions of the world. if to the graces of self-abasement, meekness and charity it remained a stranger, it gave a new worth to the individual, and showed that without the virtues of wisdom, courage, steadfastness and justice man could not attain to moral character. the roman's gift was unbending devotion to _duty_. with a genius for rule he forced men into one polity; and by levelling material barriers he enabled the nations to commune, and made a highway for the message of freedom and brotherhood. but, intoxicated with material glory, he became blind to spiritual good, and in his universal toleration he emptied all faiths of their content, driving the masses to superstition, and the few who yearned for a higher life to withdrawal from the world. the jewish contribution was _righteousness_. not specially distinguished by intellectual powers, nor gifted in political enterprise, his endowment was spiritual insight, and by his dispersion throughout the world he made others the sharers of his inheritance. but his tendency was to keep his privilege to himself, or so to load it with legal restrictions as to bar its acceptance for strangers; and in his pride of isolation he failed to recognise his deliverer when he came. thus, negatively and positively, by failure and by partial attainment, the world was prepared for him who was the desire of all nations. in christ were gathered up the wisdom of the greek, the courage of the roman, the righteousness of the jew; and he who came not to destroy but to fulfil at once interpreted and satisfied the longings of the ages. [ ] _apologia_, pp. - . [ ] cf. adam, _vitality of platonism_, p. . [ ] _nic. ethics_, bk. i. chap. . [ ] _histharnikai ergasiai_, arist., _politics_, iii. 'there is nothing common between a master and his slave,' _nic. ethics_, viii. [ ] butcher, _harvard lectures on greek subjects_, quoted by barbour, _philos. study of christian ethics_, p. . cf. also burnet, _ethics of aristotle_, p. . 'the "mean" is really the true nature of the soul when fully developed.' [ ] _hist. of europ. morals_, vol. i. chap. ii. [ ] see author's _ethics of st. paul_ for further discussion of relation of paul to stoics. [ ] cf. e. caird, _evolution of theology in the greek philosophers_, vol. i. p. . [ ] cf. caird, idem. pfleiderer, _vorbereitung des christentums in der griech. philos._; wenley, _preparation for christianity_. [ ] exod. xx.; deut. v. [ ] ex. xx.-xxiii. [ ] amos v. ; hos. vi. ; isa. i. - . [ ] cf. wallace, _lectures and essays on natural theol. and ethics_, p. . [ ] micah vi. . [ ] isa. i. - ; micah vi. . [ ] hab. ii. ; cf. rom. i. ; gal. iii. . [ ] though houston chamberlain, in his recent work, _the foundations of the nineteenth century_, maintains that they were 'a most prosaic, materialistic people, without any real sense of poetry.' [ ] ps. . [ ] ps. . [ ] ps. ; isa. . [ ] deut. xxiv. , ; jer. xxii. - ; matt. iii ; deut. xxv. . [ ] lev. xix. . [ ] gen. xviii. xix. [ ] isa. lxi.; ps. xxii. ; xlviii. - ; lxxxvii. [ ] isa. liv. . { } section b personality { } chapter iv the estimate of man having thus far laid the foundations of our study by a discussion of its presuppositions and sources, we are now prepared to consider man as the personal subject of the new life. the spirit of god which takes hold of man and renews his life must not be conceived as a foreign power breaking the continuity of consciousness. the natural is the basis of the supernatural. it is not a new personality which is created; it is the old that is transformed and completed. if there was not already implicit in man that which predisposed him for the higher life, a consciousness to which the spirit could appeal, then christianity would be simply a mechanical or magical influence without ethical significance and having no relation to the past history of the individual. but that is not the teaching of our lord or of his apostles. we are bound, therefore, to assume a certain substratum of powers, physical, mental and moral, as constituting the raw material of which the new personality is formed. the spirit of god does not quench the natural faculties of man, but works through and upon them, raising them to a higher value.[ ] i. but before proceeding to a consideration of these elements of human consciousness to which christianity appeals, we must glance at two opposite theories of human nature, either of which, if the complete view of man, would be inimical to christianity.[ ] { } . the first view is that man _by nature is morally good_. his natural impulses are from birth wholly virtuous, and require only to be left to their own operation to issue in a life of perfection. those who favour this contention claim the support of scripture. not only does the whole tone of the bible imply the inherent goodness of primitive man, but many texts both in the old and new testaments suggest that god made man upright.[ ] among the greeks, and especially the stoics, this view prevailed. all nature was regarded as the creation of perfect reason, and the primitive state as one of uncorrupted innocence. pelagius espoused this doctrine, and it continued to influence dogmatic theology not only in the form of semi-pelagianism, but even as modifying the severer tenets of augustine. the theory received fresh importance during the revolutionary movement of the eighteenth century, and found a strong exponent in rousseau. 'let us sweep away all conventions and institutions of man's making and get back to the simplicity of a primitive age.' the man of nature is guileless, and his natural instincts would preserve him in uncorrupted purity if they were not perverted by the artificial usages of society. so profoundly did this theory dominate the thoughts of men that its influence may be detected not only in the political fanaticism which found expression in the french revolution, but also in the practical views of the protestant church acting as a deterrent to missionary effort.[ ] this view of human nature, though not perhaps formally stated, finds expression in much of the literature of the present day. professor james cites theodore parker and other leaders of the liberal movement in new england of last century as representatives of the tendency.[ ] these writers do not wholly ignore moral effect, but they make light of sin, and regard it not as something positive, but merely as a stage in the development of man. { } . the other theory of human nature goes to the opposite extreme. man by nature is _utterly depraved_, and his natural instincts are wholly bad. those who take this view also appeal to scripture: 'man is shapen in iniquity and conceived in sin.' many passages in the new testament, and especially in the writings of st. paul, seem to emphasise the utter degradation of man. it was not, however, until the time of augustine that this idea of innate depravity was formulated into a doctrine. the augustinean dogma has coloured all later theology. in the roman catholic church, even in such a writer as pascal, and in protestantism, under the influence of calvin, the complete corruption of man's nature has been depicted in the blackest hues. these theories of human nature represent aspects of truth, and are false only in their isolation. the doctrine that man is innocent by nature is not in agreement with history. nowhere is the noble savage to be found. the primitive man exhibits the same tendencies as his more civilised neighbour, and his animal passions are indulged without control of reason or consideration for others. indeed, hobbes's view of early society as a state of war and rapacity is much truer to fact than rousseau's. the noble savage is simply a fiction of the imagination, an abstraction obtained by withdrawing him from all social environment. but even could we conceive of a human being kept from infancy in isolation, he would not fulfil the true idea of virtue, but would simply develop into a negative creature, a mutilated being bereft of all that constitutes our notion of humanity. such experiences as are possible only in society--all forms of goodness as suggested by such words as 'love,' 'sympathy,' 'service'--would never emerge at all. the native instincts of man are simply potencies or capacities for morality; they must have a life of opportunity for their evolution and exercise. the abstract self prior to and apart from all objective experience is an illusion. it is only in relation to a world of moral beings that the moral life becomes possible for man. the innocence which the advocates of this theory contend for is { } something not unlike the non-rational existence of the animal. it is true that the brute is not immoral, but neither is it moral. the whole significance of the passions as they exist in man lies in the fact that they are not purely animal, but, since they belong to man, are always impregnated with reason. it is reason that gives to them their moral worth, and it is because man must always put his self into every desire or impulse that it becomes the instrument either of virtue or of vice.[ ] but if the theory of primitive purity is untenable, not less so is that of innate depravity. here, also, its advocates are not consistent with themselves. even the systems of theology derived from augustine do not contend that man was created with an evil propensity. his sin was the result of an historical catastrophe. in his paradisiacal condition man is conceived as possessing a nobility and innocence of nature far beyond that even which rousseau depicted. milton, in spite of his calvinistic puritanism, has painted a picture of man's ideal innocence which for idyllic charm is unequalled in literature.[ ] nor does historical inquiry bear out the theory of the utter depravity of man. the latest anthropological research into the condition of primitive man suggests rather that even the lowest forms of savage life are not without some dim consciousness of a higher power and some latent capacity for good.[ ] finally, these writers are not more successful when they claim the support of the bible. not only are there many examples of virtue in patriarchal times, but, as we have seen, there are not a few texts which imply the natural goodness of man. our lord repeatedly assumes the affinity with goodness of those who had not hitherto come into contact with the gospel, as in the case of jairus, the rich young ruler, and the syrophenician woman. it has been affirmed by wernle[ ] that the apostle paul in the interests of salvation grossly { } exaggerates the condition of the natural man. 'he violently extinguished every other light in the world so that jesus might shine in it alone.' but this surely is a misstatement. it is true that no more scathing denunciation of sinful human nature has ever been presented than the account of heathen immorality to be found in the first chapter of romans. yet the apostle does not actually affirm, nor even imply, that pagan society was so utterly corrupt that it had lost all knowledge of moral good. though so bad as to be beyond hope of recovery by natural effort, it was not so bad as to have quenched in utter darkness the light which lighteth every man. . christianity, while acknowledging the partial truth of both of these theories, reconciles them. if, on the one hand, man were innately good and could of himself attain to righteousness, there would be no need of a gospel of renewal. but history and experience alike show that that is not the case. if, on the other hand, man were wholly bad, had no susceptibility for virtue and truth, then there would be nothing in him, as we have seen, which could respond to the christian appeal.[ ] christianity alone offers an answer to the question in which pascal presents the great antithesis of human nature: 'if man was not made for god, how is it that he can be happy only in god? and if he is made for god, how is he so opposite to god?'[ ] however, then, we may account for the presence of evil in human nature, a true view of christianity involves the conception of a latent spiritual element in man, a capacity for goodness to which his whole being points. matter itself may be said not merely to exist for spirit, but to have within it already the potency of the higher forms of life; and just as nature is making towards humanity, and in humanity at last finds itself; as 'striving to be man, the worm mounts through all the spires of form,'[ ] { } so man, even in his most primitive state, has within him the promise of higher things. no theory of his origin can interfere with the assumption that he belongs to a moral sphere, and is capable of a life which is shaping itself to spiritual ends. whatever be man's past history and evolution, he has from the beginning been made in god's image, and bears the divine impress in all the lineaments of body and soul. his degradation cannot wholly obliterate his inherent nobility, and indeed his actual corruption bears witness to his possible holiness. granting the hypothesis of evolution, matter even in its crudest beginnings contains potentially all the rich variety of the natural and spiritual life. the reality of a growing thing lies in its highest form of being. in the light of the last we explain the first. if the universe is, as science pronounces, an organic totality which is ever converting its promise into actuality, then 'the ultimate interpretation even of the lowest existence of the world, cannot be given except on principles which are adequate to explain the highest.'[ ] christian morality is therefore nothing else than the morality prepared from all eternity, and is but the highest realisation of that which man even at his lowest has ever been, though unconsciously, striving after. all that is best and highest in man, all that he is capable of yet becoming, has really existed within him from the very first, just as the flower and leaf and fruit are contained implicitly in the seedling. this is the pauline view of human nature. jesus christ, according to the apostle, is the end and consummation of the whole creation. everywhere in all men there is a capacity for christ. whatever be his origin, man comes upon the stage of being bearing within him a great and far-reaching destiny. there is in him, as browning says, 'a tendency to god.' he is not simply what he is now, but all that he is yet to be. ii. assuming, then, the inherent spirituality of man, we may now proceed to examine his moral consciousness with a view to seeing how its various constituents form what we have called the substratum of the christian life. { } . we must guard against seeming to adopt the old and discredited psychology which divides man into a number of separate and independent faculties. man is not made like a machine, of a number of adjusted parts. _he is a unity_, a living organism, in which every part has something of all the others; and all together, animated by one spirit, constitute a living whole which we call personality. while the bible is rich in terms denoting the different constituents of man, neither the old testament nor the new regards human nature as a plurality of powers. a bind of unity or hierarchy of the natural faculties is assumed, and amid all the difference of function and variety of operation it is undeniable that the new testament writers generally, and particularly st. paul, presuppose a unity of consciousness--a single ego, or soul. it is unnecessary to discuss the question, much debated by biblical psychologists, as to whether the apostle recognises a threefold or a twofold division of man.[ ] our view is that he recognised only a twofold division, body and soul, which, however, he always regarded as constituting a unity, the body itself being psychical or interpenetrated with spirit, and the spirit always acting upon and working through the physical powers. man is a unique phenomenon in the world. even on his physical side he is not a piece of dead matter, but is instinct through and through with spirit. and on his psychical side he is not an unsubstantial wraith, but a being inconceivable apart from outward embodiment. perhaps the most general term which we may adopt is _psyche_ or soul--the living self or vital and animating principle which is at once the seat of all bodily sensation and the source of the higher cognitive faculties. . the fact of ethical interest from which we must proceed is that man, in virtue of his spiritual nature, is _akin to god_, and participates in the three great elements of the divine personality--thought, love and will.[ ] personality has been called 'the culminating fact of the { } universe.' and it is the task of man to realise his true personality--to fulfil the law of his highest self. in this work he has to harmonise and bring to the unity of his personal life, by means of one dominating force, the various elements of his nature--his sensuous, emotional, and rational powers. by the constitution of his being he belongs to a larger world, and when he is true to himself he is ever reaching out towards it. from the very beginning of life, and even in the lowest phases of his nature he has within him the potency of the divine. he carries the infinite in his soul, and by reason of his very existence shares the life of god. the value of his soul in this sense is repeatedly emphasised in scripture. in our lord's teaching it is perhaps the most distinctive note. the soul, or self-conscious spiritual ego, is spoken of as capable of being 'acquired' or 'lost.'[ ] it is acquired or possessed when a man seeks to regain the image in which he was created. it is lost when he refuses to respond to those spiritual influences by which christ besets him, and by means of which the soul is moulded into the likeness of god. . a full presentation of this subject would involve a reference even to the physical powers which form an integral part of man and witness to his eternal destiny. ( ) the very body is to be redeemed and sanctified, and made an instrument of the new life in christ. the extremes of asceticism and self-indulgence, both of which found advocates in greek philosophy and even in the early church, have no countenance in scripture. evil does not reside in the flesh, as the greeks held, but in the will which uses the flesh for its base ends. not mutilation but transformation, not suppression but consecration is the christian ideal. the natural is the basis of the spiritual. man is the temple of god, every part of which is sacred. christ claims to be king of the body as of every other domain of life. the secret of spiritual progress does not consist in the unflinching destruction of the flesh, but in its firm but kindly discipline for loyal service. it is not, therefore, by { } leaving the body behind but by taking it up into our higher self that we become spiritual. as browning says, 'let us cry all good things are ours, nor soul helps flesh more now than flesh helps soul.' without dwelling further upon the physical elements of man, there are three constituents or functions of personality prominent in the new testament which claim our consideration, reason, conscience and will. it is just because man possesses, or _is_ mind, conscience and will, that he is capable of responding to the life which christ offers, and of sharing in the divine character which he reveals. ( ) the term _nous_, or reason, is of frequent occurrence in the new testament. christianity highly honours the intellectual powers of man and accords to the mind an important rôle in apprehending and entering into the thoughts and purposes of god. 'thou shalt love the lord thy god with all thy heart and with all thy soul and with all thy mind,' says jesus. many are disposed to think that the exercise of faith, the immediate organ of spiritual apprehension, is checked by the interference of reason. but so far from faith and reason being opposed, not only are they necessary to each other, but in all real faith there is an element of reason. in all religious feeling, as in morality, art, and other spheres of human activity, there is the underlying element of reason which is the characteristic of all the activities of a self-conscious intelligence. to endeavour to elicit that element, to infuse into the spontaneous and unsifted conceptions of religious experience the objective clearness, necessity and organic unity of thought--is the legitimate aim of science, in religion as in other spheres. it would be strange if in the highest of all provinces of human experience intelligence must renounce her claim.[ ] the ritschlian value-judgment theory in its disparagement of philosophy is practically a dethronement of reason. and the protest of pragmatism and the voluntarists { } generally against what they term 'intellectualism'[ ] and their distrust of the logical faculty, are virtually an avowal of despair and a resort to agnosticism, if not to scepticism. if we are to renounce the quest for objective truth, and accept 'those ideas only which we can assimilate, validate, corroborate,'[ ] those ideas in short which are 'practically useful in guiding us to desirable issues,' then it would seem we are committed to a world of subjective caprice and confusion and must give up the belief in a rational view of the universe. ( ) in spite of the wonderful suggestiveness of m. bergson's philosophy, we are unable to accept the distinction which that writer draws between intuition and intelligence, in which he seems to imply that intuition is the higher of the two activities. intelligence, according to this writer, is at home exclusively in spatial considerations, in solids, in geometry, but it is to be repelled as a foreign element when it comes to deal with life. bergson would exclude rational thought and intelligence from life, creation, and initiative. the clearest evidence of intuition is in the works of great artists. 'what is implied is that in artistic creation, in the work of genius and imagination, we have pure novelty issuing from no premeditated or rational idea, but simply pure irrationality and unaccountableness.'[ ] the work of art cannot be predicated; it is beyond reason, as life is beyond logic and law.[ ] but so far from finding life unintelligible, it would be nearer the truth to say that man's reason can, strictly speaking, understand nothing else.[ ] 'instinct finds,' says bergson, 'but does not search. reason searches but cannot find.'[ ] 'but,' adds professor dewey, 'what we find is meaningless save as measured by searching, and so instincts and passions must be elevated into reason.'[ ] in the lower creatures instinct does the { } work of reason--sufficiently for the simple conditions in which the animal lives. and in the earlier stages of human life instinct plays an important part. but when man, both as an individual and as humanity, advances to a more complex life, instinct is unequal to the new task confronting him. we cannot be content to be guided by instinct. reason asserts itself and seeks to permeate all our experiences, and give unity and purpose to all our thoughts and acts. the recent disparagement of intellectualism is probably a reaction against the extreme absolutism of german idealism which, beginning with kant, found fullest expression in fichte, schelling and hegel. but the true way to meet exclusive rationalism is not to discredit the function of mind, but to give to it a larger domain of experience. we do not exalt faith by emptying it of all intellectual content and reducing it to mere subjective feeling; nor do we explain genius by ascribing its acts to blind, unthinking impulse. 'the real is the rational,' says hegel. truth, in other words, presupposes a rational universe which we, as rational beings, must assume in all our thought and effort. to set up faith against reason, or intuition against intelligence is to set the mind against itself. we cannot set up an order of facts, as professor james would have us do, outside the intellectual realm; for what does not fall within our experience can have for us no meaning, and what for us has no meaning cannot be an object of faith. an ineradicable belief in the rationality of the world is the ultimate basis of all art, morality and religion. to rest in mere intuition or emotion and not to seek objective truth would be for man to renounce his true prerogative and to open the door for all kinds of superstition and caprice. iii. in the truest sense it may be claimed that this is the teaching of christianity. when christ says that we are to love god with our minds he seems to imply that there is such a thing as intelligent affection. the distinctive feature of our lord's claim is that god is not satisfied when his creatures render a merely implicit obedience; he { } desires also the enthusiastic use of their intellect, intent on knowing everything that it is possible for men to know about his character and ways. and is there not something sublime in this demand of god that the noblest part of man should be consecrated to him? god reveals himself in christ to our highest; and he would have us respond to his manifestations with our highest. nor is this the attitude of christ only. the apostle paul also honours the mind, and gives to it the supreme place as the organ of apprehending and appropriating divine truth. mr. lecky brings the serious charge against christianity that it habitually disregards the virtues of the intellect. if there is any truth in this statement it refers, not to the genius of the gospel itself, nor to the earlier exponents of it, but rather to the church in those centuries which followed the conversion of constantine. no impartial reader of st. paul's epistles can aver that the apostle made a virtue of ignorance and credulity. these documents, which are the earliest exposition of the mind of christ, impress us rather with the intellectual boldness of their attempt to grapple with the greatest problems of life. paul was essentially a thinker; and, as sabatier says, is to be ranked with plato and aristotle, augustine and kant, as one of the mightiest intellectual forces of the world. but not content with being a thinker himself, he sought to make his converts thinkers too, and he does not hesitate to make the utmost demand upon their reasoning faculties. he assumes a natural capacity in man for apprehending the truth, and appeals to the mind rather than to the emotions. the gospel is styled by him 'the word of truth,' and he bids men 'prove all things.' worship is not a meaningless ebullition of feeling or a superstitious ritual, but a form of self-expression which is to be enlightened and guided by thought. 'i will pray with the understanding and sing with the understanding.' it is indeed a strong and virile christianity which paul and the other apostles proclaim. it is no magic spell they seek to exert. they are convinced that there is that in { } the mind of man which is ready to respond to a thoughtful gospel. if men will only give their unprejudiced minds to god's word, it is able to make them 'wise unto salvation.' it would lead us beyond the scope of this chapter to consider the peculiar pauline significance of faith. it is enough to say that while he does not identify it with intellectual assent, as little does he confine it to mere subjective assurance. it is the primary act of the human spirit when brought into contact with divine truth, and it lies at the root of a new ethical power, and of a deeper knowledge of god. if the apostle appears to speak disparagingly of wisdom it is the wisdom of pride, of 'knowledge that puffeth up.' he warns timothy against 'science falsely so called.' on the whole st. paul exalts the intellect and bids men attain to the full exercise of their mental powers. 'be not children in understanding: but in understanding be men.'[ ] if, as we have seen, the body be an integral part of man, and has its place and function in the christian life, not less, but even more, has the mind a special ethical importance. it is to the intelligence that christianity appeals, and it is with the rational faculties that moral truth is apprehended and applied to life. reason in its broadest sense is the most distinctive feature of man, and by means of it he exerts his mightiest influence upon the world. mental and moral growth are closely connected, and personal character is largely moulded by thought. 'as a man thinketh in his heart so is he.' not only at the beginning of the new life, but in all its after stages the mind is an important factor, and its consecration and cultivation are laid upon us as an obligation by him in whose image we have been made, and whom to know and serve is our highest end. [ ] see author's _ethics of st. paul_. [ ] cf. murray, _sandbank of christian ethics_. see also hegel, _phil. der religion_, vol. ii. p. ff., where the antithesis is finely worked out. [ ] gen. i. ; eccles. vii. ; col. iii. ; james iii. . [ ] see hugh miller's _essays_, quoted by murray, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] cf. w. james, _varieties of religious experience_, pp. - . [ ] cf. goethe's _faust_. see also nietzsche, _götzendämmerung_ for trenchant criticism of rousseau. [ ] murray, _idem_. [ ] max müller, fraser, _golden bough_, and others. [ ] anfänge des christentums. [ ] cf. ottley, _christian ideas and ideals_, p. . 'christianity does justice both to man's inherent instinct that he has been made for god, and to his sense of unworthiness and incapacity.' [ ] _pensées_, part ii. art. . [ ] emerson. [ ] ed. caird, _critical philosophy of kant_, p. . [ ] see author's _ethics of st. paul_. [ ] ottley, _idem_, p. . [ ] luke xxi. . [ ] cf. john caird, _introd. to the philosophy of religion_. [ ] cf. wm. james's _pragmatism_ and _a pluralistic world_. [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] cf. bosanquet, _the principles of individuality and value_. [ ] bergson, _evol. creat._, p. f. [ ] cf. e. caird, _kant_, vol. ii. pp. and . [ ] _evol. creat._, p. . [ ] _hib. jour._, july . [ ] some sentences in the above are borrowed from the writer's _ethics of st. paul_. { } chapter v the witness of conscience passing from the physical and mental constituents of man, we turn to the more distinctly moral elements; and in this chapter we shall consider that aspect of the human consciousness to which mankind has given the name of 'conscience.' no subject has presented greater difficulties to the moralist, and there are few which require more careful elucidation. from the earliest period of reflection the question how we came to have moral ideas has been a disputed one. at first it was thought that there existed in man a distinct innate faculty or moral sense which was capable of deciding categorically man's duty without reference to history or condition. but in modern times the theory of evolution has discredited the inviolable character of conscience, and sought rather to determine its nature and significance in the light of its origin and development. only the barest outline of the subject can be attempted here, since our object is simply to show that however we may account for its presence, there is in man, as we know him, some power or function which bears witness to divine truth and fits him to respond to the revelation of christ. it will be most convenient to consider the subject under three heads: i. the history of the conception; ii. the nature and origin of conscience; and iii. its present validity. i. _history of the conception_.--'the name conscience,' says a writer on the subject, 'appears somewhat late in { } the history of the world: that for which it stands is as old as mankind.'[ ] . without pushing our inquiries back into the legendary lore of savage life, in which we find evidence of the idea in the social institutions and religious enactments of primitive races, it is among the greeks that the word, if not the idea of conscience, first meets us. perhaps the earliest trace of the notion is to be found in the mythological conception of the furies, whose business it was to avenge crime--a conception which might be regarded as the reaction of man's own nature against the violation of better instincts, if not as the reflection or embodiment of what is popularly called conscience. it can scarcely be doubted that the erinnyes of aeschylus were deities of remorse, and possess psychological significance as symbols of the primitive action of conscience.[ ] though sophocles is less of a theologian than aeschylus, and problems of ethics count less than the human interest of his story, the law of nemesis does find in him dramatic expression, and the noble declaration put into the mouth of antigone concerning the unwritten laws of god that 'know no change and are not of to-day nor yesterday, but must be obeyed in preference to the temporary commandments of men,'[ ] is a protest on behalf of conscience against human oppression. and even in euripides, regarded as an impious scoffer by some scholars,[ ] there are not wanting, especially in the example of alcestis, evidence of belief in that divine justice and moral order of which the virtues of self-devotion and sacrifice in the soul of man are the witness. socrates was among the first teachers of antiquity who led the way to that self-knowledge which is of the essence of conscience, and in the 'daemon,' or inner voice, which he claimed to possess, some writers have detected the trace { } of the intuitive monitor of man. plato's discussion of the question, 'what is the highest good?' involves the capacity of moral judgment, and his conception of reason regulating desire suggests a power in the mind whose function it is to point to the highest good and to subordinate to it all the other impulses of man. in the ethics of aristotle there is a reference to a faculty in man or 'rule within,' which, he says, the beasts lack. but it is among the stoics that the word first appears; and it is to the roman moralist, seneca, that we are indebted for the earlier definite perception of an abiding consciousness bearing witness concerning a man's own conduct. the writings of epictetus, aurelius, and seneca approach in moral sublimity and searching self-analysis the new testament scriptures. it was probably to the stoics that st. paul was indebted for the word _syneidêsis_ to which he has given so distinctive a meaning that it has coloured and determined the whole later history of the moral consciousness. . but if the word as used in the new testament comes from greek sources the idea itself was long prevalent in the jewish conception of life, which, even more than the greek, was constitutive of, and preparatory to, the christian view. the word does not, indeed, occur in the old testament, but the question of god to adam, 'where art thou?' the story of cain and the curse he was to suffer for the murder of his brother; the history of joseph's dealing with his brethren; the account of david's sin and conviction, are by implication appeals to conscience. indeed, the whole history of israel, from the time when the promise was given to abraham and the law through moses until the denunciations of wrong-doing and the predictions of doom of the later prophets, is one long education of the moral sense. it is the problem of conscience that imparts its chief interest to the book of job; and one reason why the psalms in all ages have been so highly prized is because they are the cries of a wounded conscience, and the confessions of a convicted and contrite heart. { } . if we turn to the new testament we find, as we might expect, a much clearer testimony to the reality of the conscience. the word came into the hands of the new testament writers ready-made, but they gave to it a richer meaning, so that it is to them we must go if we would understand the nature and the supremacy of the conscience. the term occurs thirty-one times in the new testament, but it does not appear once in the gospels. it is, indeed, principally a pauline expression, and to the apostle of the gentiles more than to any other writer is due the clear conception and elucidation of the term. it would be a mistake, however, to assume that the doctrine itself depends entirely upon the use of the word. our lord never, indeed, employs the term, but surely no teacher ever sounded the depths of the human heart as he did. it was his mission to reveal men to themselves, to convict them of sin, and show the need of that life of righteousness and purity which he came to give. 'why even of yourselves,' he said, 'judge ye not what is right?' christ, indeed, might be called the conscience of man. to awaken, renew and enlighten the moral sense of individuals, to make them know what they were and what they were capable of becoming was the work of the son of man, and in contact with him every one was morally unveiled. the word occurs twice in acts, five times in hebrews, three times in the epistles of peter, and more than twenty times in the pauline epistles. st. paul's doctrine of the conscience is contained in romans ii. , , where he speaks of the gentiles being 'a law unto themselves,' inasmuch as they possess a 'law written in their hearts,' 'their conscience bearing witness, therewith accusing or excusing them.' the idea underlying the passage is the responsibility of all men for their actions, their condemnation in sin, and their acceptance in righteousness. this applies to gentiles as well as jews, and it applies to them because, though they have not the explicit revelation of the law, they have a revelation of the good in their hearts. the passage therefore teaches two things: ( ) that man has received a { } revelation of good sufficient at all stages of his history to make him morally responsible; and ( ) that man possesses a moral faculty which indeed is not a separate power, but the whole moral consciousness or personality in virtue of which he recognises and approves of the good which, either as the law written in his heart or as the law communicated in the decalogue, has been revealed to him, and by whose authority he judges himself. ii. _nature, and origin of conscience_.--while experience seems to point to the existence of something in man witnessing to the right, there is great diversity of view as to the nature of this moral element. the word 'conscience' stands for a concept whose meaning is far from well defined, and the lack of definiteness has left its trace upon ethical theories. while some moralists assign conscience to the rational or intellectual side of man, and make it wholly a faculty of judgment; others attribute it to feeling or impulse, and make it a sense of pleasure or pain; others again associate it more closely with the will, and regard its function to be legislative or imperative. these differences of opinion reveal the complexity of the nature of conscience. the fact is, that it belongs to all these departments--the intellectual, emotional, and volitional--and ought to be regarded not as a single faculty distinct from the particular decisions, motives, and acts of man, not as an activity foreign to the ego, but as the expression of the whole personality. the question of the origin of conscience, though closely connected with its nature, is for ethics only of secondary importance. it is desirable, however, to indicate the two main theories which have been held regarding its genesis. while there are several varieties, they may be divided broadly into two--intuitionalism and evolutionalism. . _nativism_, of which intuitionalism is the most common form, regards the conscience as a separate natural endowment, coeval with the creation of man. every individual, it is maintained, has been endowed by nature with a distinct faculty or organ by which he can immediately and clearly { } pronounce upon the rightness or wrongness of his own actions. in its most pronounced form this theory maintains that man has not merely a general consciousness of moral distinctions, but possesses from the very first, apart from all experience and education, a definite and clear knowledge of the particular vices which ought to be avoided and the particular virtues which ought to be practised. this theory is usually connected with a form of theism which maintains that the conscience is particularly a divine gift, and is, indeed, god's special witness or oracle in the heart of man. though there would seem to be an element of truth in intuitionalism, since man, to be man at all, must be conceived as made for god and having that in him which points to the end or ideal of his being, still in its most extreme form it would not be difficult to show that this theory is untenable. it is objectionable, because it involves two assumptions, of which the one conflicts with experience, and the other with the psychological nature of man. ( ) experience gives us no warrant for supposing that duty is always the same, and that conscience is therefore exempt from change. history shows rather that moral convictions only gradually emerge, and that the laws and customs of one age are often repudiated by the next. what may seem right to one man is no longer so to his descendant. history records deeds committed in one generation in the name of conscience which in the same name a later generation has condemned with horror. moreover, the possibility of a conflict between duties proves that unconditional truth exists at no stage of moral development. there is no law so sacred that it may not in special cases have to yield to the sacredness of a higher law. when duties conflict, our choice cannot be determined by any _a priori_ principle residing in ourselves. it must be governed by that wider conception of the moral life which is to be gained through one's previous development, and on the basis of a ripe moral experience.[ ] ( ) nor is this theory consistent with { } the known nature of man. we know of no separate and independent organ called conscience. man must not be divided against himself. reason and feeling enter into all acts of will, since these are not processes different in kind, but elements of voluntary activity itself and inseparable from it. it is impossible for a man to be determined in his actions or judgments by a mere external formula of duty, a 'categorical imperative,' as kant calls it, apart from motives. moreover, all endowments may be regarded as divine gifts, and it is a precarious position to claim for one faculty a spiritually divine or supernatural origin which is denied to others. man is related to god in his whole nature. the view which regards the law of duty as something foreign to man, stern and unchangeable in its decrees, and in nowise dependent upon the gradual development and growing content of the moral life is not consistent either with history or psychology. . _evolutionalism_, which since the time of darwin has been applied by spencer and others to account for the growth of our moral ideas, holds that conscience is the result of a process of development, but does not limit the process to the life of the individual. it extends to the experience of the race. while admitting the existence of conscience as a moral faculty in the rational man of to-day, it holds that it did not exist in his primitive ancestors. earlier individuals accumulated a certain amount of experience and moral knowledge, the result of which, as a habit or acquired capacity, was handed down to their successors. from the first man has been a member of society, and is what he is in virtue of his relation to it. all that makes him man, all his powers of body and mind, are inherited. his instincts and desires, which are the springs of action, are themselves the creation of heredity, association and environment. the individual takes its shape at every point from its relation to the social organism of which it is a part. what man really seeks from the earliest is satisfaction. 'no school,' says mr. spencer, 'can avoid taking for the ultimate moral aim a desirable { } state of feeling.'[ ] prolonged experience of pleasure in connection with actions which serve social ends has resulted in certain physiological changes in the brain and nervous system rendering these actions constant. thus, according to spencer, is begotten conscience. while acknowledging the service which the evolutionary theory has done in calling attention to the place and function of experience and social environment in the development of the moral life, and in showing that moral judgment, like every other capacity, must participate in the gradual unfolding of personality, as a conclusive explanation of conscience it must be pronounced insufficient. press the analysis of sensation as far back as we please, and make an analysis of instincts and feelings as detailed as possible, we never get in man a mere sensation, as we find it in the lower animal; it is always sensation related to, and modified by, a self. in the simplest human instincts there is always a spiritual element which is the basis of the possibility at once of knowledge and morality. 'that countless generations,' says green, 'should have passed during which a transmitted organism was progressively modified by reaction on its surroundings, by struggle for existence or otherwise, till its functions became such that an eternal consciousness could realise or produce itself through them--might add to the wonder with which the consideration of what we do and are must always fill us, but it could not alter the results of that consideration.'[ ] no process of evolution, even though it draws upon illimitable ages, can evolve what was not already present in the form of a spiritual potency. the empiric treatment of conscience as the result of social environment and culture leads inevitably back to the assumption of some rudimentary moral consciousness without which the development of a moral sense would be an impossibility. the history of mankind, moreover, shows that conscience, so far from being merely the reflex of the prevailing customs and institutions of a particular age, has frequently { } closed its special character by reacting upon and protesting against the recognised traditions of society. the individual conscience has often been in advance of its times; and the progress of man has been secured as much by the champions of liberty as by those who conform to accepted customs. in all moral advance there comes a stage when, in the conflict of habit and principle, conscience asserts itself, not only in revealing a higher ideal, but in urging men to seek it. iii. _the validity and witness of conscience_.--it is not, however, with the origin of conscience, but with its capacities and functions in its developed state that ethics is primarily concerned. the beginning must be interpreted by the end, and the process by the result to which it tends. . the christian doctrine is committed neither to the intuitional nor the evolutionist theory, but rather may be said to reconcile both by retaining that which is true in each. while it holds to the inherent ability on the part of a being made in god's image to recognise at the different stages of his growth and development god's will as it has been progressively revealed, it avoids the necessity of conceiving man as possessing from the very beginning a full-fledged organ of infallible authority. the conscience participates in man's general progress and enlightenment. nor can the moral development of the individual be held separate from the moral development of the race. as there is a moral solidarity of mankind, so the individual conscience is conditional by the social conscience. the individual does not start in life with a full-grown moral apparatus any more than he starts with a matured physical frame. the most distinctively spiritual attainments of man have their antecedents in less human and more animal capacities. as there is a continuity of human life, so individuals and peoples inherit the moral assets of previous generations, and incorporate in their experience all past attainments. conscience is involved in man's moral history. it suffers in his sin and alienation from god, becoming clouded in its insight and feeble in its testimony, but it shares also in his { } spiritual advancement, growing more sensitive and decisive in its judgments. ( ) conscience, as the new testament teaches, can be _perverted_ and debased. it is always open to a free agent to disobey his conscience and reject its authority. on the intuitional theory, which regards the conscience as a separable and independent faculty, it would be difficult to vindicate the terrible consequences of such conduct. it is because the conscience is the man himself as related to the consciousness of the divine will that the effects are so injurious. conscience may be (_a_) _stained_, defiled, and polluted in its very texture ( cor. viii. ); (_b_) _branded_ or seared ( tim. iv. ), rendered insensible to all feeling for good; (_c_) _perverted_, in which the very light within becomes darkness. in this last stage the man calls evil good and good evil--the very springs of his nature are poisoned and the avenues of his soul are closed. 'this is death, and the sole death, when man's loss comes to him from his gain.'[ ] ( ) but if conscience can be perverted it may also be _improved_. the education is twofold, social and individual. through society, says green, personality is actualised. 'no individual can make a conscience for himself. he always needs a society to make it for him.'[ ] there is no such thing as a purely individual conscience. man can only realise himself, come to his best, in relation to others. the conditions amid which a man is born and reared--the home, the school, the church, the state--are the means by which the conscience is exercised and educated. but the individual is not passive. he has also a part to play; and the whole task of man may be regarded as an endeavour to make his conscience effective in life. the new testament writers refrain from speaking of the conscience as an unerring and perfect organ. their language implies rather the possibility of its gradual enlightenment; and st. paul specially dwells upon the necessity of 'growing in spiritual { } knowledge and perception.' as life advances moral judgment may be modified and corrected by fuller knowledge, and the perception of a particular form of conduct as good may yield to the experience of something better. . 'it is one of the most wonderful things,' says professor wundt, 'about moral development, that it unites so many conditions of subordinate value in the accomplishment of higher results,'[ ] and the worth of morality is not endangered because the grounds of its realisation in special cases do not always correspond in elevation to the moral ideas. the conscience is not an independent faculty which issues its mandates irrespective of experience. its judgments are always conditioned by motives. the moral imperatives of conscience may be grouped under four heads:[ ] ( ) _external constraints_, including all forms of punishment for immoral actions and the social disadvantages which such actions involve. these can only produce the lowest grade of morality, outward propriety, the mere appearance of virtue which has only a negative value in so far as it avoids what is morally offensive. ( ) _internal constraints_, consisting of influences excited by the example of others, by public opinion and habits formed through education and training. ( ) _self-satisfaction_, originating in the agent's own consciousness. it may be a sense of pleasure or feeling of self-approbation: or higher still, the idea of duty for its own sake, commonly called 'conscientiousness.' ( ) _the ideal of life_, the highest imperative of conscience. here the nobility of life, as a whole, the supreme life-purpose, gives meaning and incentive to each and every action. the ideal of life is not, however, something static and completed, given once and for all. it grows with the enlightenment of the individual and the development of humanity. the consciousness of every age comprehends it in certain laws and ends of life. the highest form of the ideal finds its embodiment in what are called noble characters. these ethical heroes rise, in rare and exceptional circumstances, above the ordinary level of { } common morality, gathering up into themselves the entire moral development of the past, and radiating their influence into the remotest distances of the future. they are the embodiments of the conscience of the race, at once the standard and challenge of the moral life of mankind, whose influence awakens the slumbering aspirations of men, and whose creative genius affects the whole history of the world, lifting it to higher levels of thought and endeavour. the supreme example--unique, however, both in kind and degree, and differing by its uniqueness from every other life which has in some measure approximated to the ideal--is disclosed in jesus christ. thus it is that the moral consciousness of the world generally and of the individual in particular, of which the conscience is the organ and expression, develops from less to more, under the influence of the successive imperatives of conduct, till finally it attains to the vision of the greatness of life as it is revealed in its supreme and all-commanding ideal.[ ] . finally, in this connection the question of the _permanence of conscience_ may be referred to. is the ultimate of life a state in which conscience will pervade every department of a man's being, dominating all his thoughts and activities? or is the ideal condition one in which conscience shall be outgrown and its operation rendered superfluous? a recent writer on christian ethics[ ] makes the remarkable statement that where there is no sense of sin conscience has no function, and he draws the inference that where there is complete normality and perfect moral health conscience will be in abeyance. satan, inasmuch as he lacks all moral instinct, can know nothing of conscience; and, because of his sinlessness, jesus must also be pronounced conscienceless. hence the paradox attributed to machiavelli: 'he who is without conscience is either a christ or a devil.' but though it is true that the son of man had no actual experience of sin, and could not, indeed, feel remorse or contrition, yet in so far as he was man there was in him { } the possibility of sin, and in the intimate relation which he bore to the human race he had a most accurate and clear knowledge both of the meaning and consequences of evil. so far from saying that christ had no conscience, it would be nearer the truth to say that he had a perfect conscience, a personality and fullness of consciousness which was a complete reflection of, and harmony with, the highest conceivable good. the confusion of thought into which professor lemme seems to fall is due, we cannot help thinking, to the too restricted and negative signification he gives to conscience. conscience is not merely the faculty of reproving and approving one's own conduct when brought into relation with actual sin. it is involved in every moral judgment. a good conscience is not only the absence of an evil one. it has also a positive sanctioning value. the 'ought' of life is constantly present. it is the whole man ever conscious of, and confronted by, his ideal self. the conscience participates in man's gradual progress and enlightenment; so far from the individual growing towards a condition in which self-judgment ceases, he is progressing rather in moral discernment, and becoming more and more responsive to the will of him whose impress and image he bears upon his soul. the tendency of modern physiological accounts of conscience has been to undermine its authority and empty life of its responsibility, but no theory of the origin of conscience must be permitted to invalidate its judgments. if conscience has any moral worth it is that it contains the promise and witness of god. the prime question is, what is the nature of its testimony? according to the teaching of scripture it bears witness to the existence of a higher than man--to a divine person with whom he is spiritually akin and to whom he is accountable. 'god's most intimate presence in the soul.' as the revelation of god's will grows clearer man's ideal becomes loftier. hence a man's conscience is the measure of his moral life. it reveals god, and in the light of god reveals man to himself. we carry a 'forever' within our bosom, { } 'ein gott in unserer brust,'[ ] as goethe says, which reminds us that even while denizens of this earth we are citizens of heaven and the sharers of an eternal life. like another john the baptist, conscience points to one greater than itself. it emphasises the discord that exists between the various parts of man's nature, a discord which it condemns but cannot remove. it can judge, but it cannot compel. hence it places man before christ, and bids him yield to the sway of a new transforming power. as one has finely said, 'he who has implanted in every breast such irrefragible testimony to the right, and such unappeasable yearnings for its complete triumph, now comes in his own perfect way to reveal himself as the lord of conscience, the guide of its perplexities, the strength of its weakness and the perfecter of its highest hopes.'[ ] [ ] davidson, _the christian conscience_. [ ] cf. symonds, _studies of greek poets_, first series, p. . [ ] _antigone_, plumptre's trans., - . [ ] cf. bunsen, _god in history_, vol. ii. p. ; also campbell, _religion in greek literature_. [ ] cf. wundt, _ethik_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] _data of ethics_, p. . [ ] _proleg._, section . [ ] browning. [ ] _proleg._, section . [ ] _ethik_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] _idem_. [ ] cf. wundt, _ethik_, vol. ii. pp. - . [ ] lemme, _christliche ethik_, vol. i. [ ] _tasso_, act iii. scene . [ ] davidson, _the christian conscience_, p. . { } chapter vi 'the miracle of the will' closely connected with the conscience as a moral capacity is the power of self-determination, or as it is popularly called--free-will. if conscience is the manifestation of man as knowing, will is more especially his manifestation as a being who acts. the subject which we now approach presents at once a problem and a task. the nature of freedom has been keenly debated from the earliest times, and the history of the problem of the will is almost the history of philosophy. the practical question which arises is whether the individual has any power by which the gulf between the natural and the spiritual can be transcended. can man choose and decide for a spiritual world above that in which he is by nature involved? the revelation of the good must, indeed, precede the activity of man. but at the same time the change cannot merely happen to him. he cannot simply be a passive recipient. the new life must be taken up by his own activity, and be made his by his own decision and acceptance. this responsive activity on the part of man is the task which life presents to the will. much obviously depends upon the answer we are able to give to this question. if man has no power of choice, no capacity of self-determination, and is nothing more than a part of the natural world, then the ethical life is at once ruled out of court. the difficulties connected with the problem of moral freedom resolve themselves mainly into three: a scientific, a psychological, and a theological. { } i. on the part of natural science it is claimed that man is subject, like everything else, to physical necessity. ii. from the psychological standpoint it is urged that man's actions are always determined by the strongest motive. iii. on the theological side it is alleged that human freedom is incompatible with divine sovereignty. a complete doctrine of freedom would require to be examined in the light of these three objections. for our purpose it will be sufficient to indicate briefly the value of these difficulties, and the manner in which they may be met. i the wonderful progress of the natural sciences in the second half of the nineteenth century has tended to banish the old idea of freedom from the realm of experience. science, it is maintained, clearly shows that man belongs to a great world-movement, in relation to which his whole life and work are completely determined. though even in earlier ages, and especially in stoic philosophy, this conception of life was not ignored, it is more particularly in recent times, under the influence of the evolutionary theory, that the idea of determination has been applied with relentless insistence to the structure of the soul. there is, it is alleged, no room for change or spontaneity. everything, down to the minutest impulse, depends upon something else, and proceeds from a definite cause. the idea of choice is simply the remnant of an unscientific mode of thinking. it might be sufficient to reply that in thus reducing life and experience to a necessary part of a world-whole, more is surrendered than even science is willing to yield. the freedom which some writers reject in the interests of science they attempt to introduce in an altered form. why are these philosophers so anxious to conserve the ethical consequences of life? is it not because they feel that there is something in man which will not fit into a rigid world-mechanism, and that conduct would cease { } to have moral worth if life were reduced to a causal series of happenings? but it may be further argued that, if the mechanical conception of life, which reduces the spiritual to the natural, were consistently carried out it would lead not merely to the destruction of the moral life, but to the destruction of science itself. if man is merely a part of nature, subject entirely to nature's law, then the realities of the higher life--love, self-sacrifice, devotion to ends beyond ourselves--must be radically re-interpreted or regarded simply as illusions. but it is also true that from this standpoint science itself is an illusion. for if reality lies only in the passing impressions of our sensible nature, the claim of science to find valid truth must end in the denial of the very possibility of knowledge. does not the very existence of physical science imply the priority of thought? while in one sense it may be conceded that man is a part of nature, does not the truth, which cannot be gainsaid, that he is aware of the fact, prove a certain priority and power which differentiates him from all other phenomena of the universe? if he is a link in the chain of being, he is at least a link which is conscious of what he is. he is a being who knows himself, indeed, through the objective world, but also realises himself only as he makes himself its master and the agent of a divine purpose to which all things are contributing, and for which all things exist. in all our reasoning and endeavour we must start from the unity of the self-conscious soul. whatever we can either know or achieve, is _our_ truth, _our_ act presented in and through our self-consciousness. it is impossible for us to conceive any standard of truth or object of desire outside of our experience. as a thinking and acting being man pursues ends, and has the consciousness that they are his own ends, subject to his own choice and control. it is always the self that the soul seeks; and the will is nothing else than the man making and finding for himself another world. the attempt has recently been made to measure mental states by their physical stimuli and explain mental { } processes by cerebral reaction. it is true that certain physical phenomena seem to be invariably antecedent to thought, but so far science has been unable to exhibit the form of nexus between these physical antecedents and ideas. even if the knowledge of the topography of the brain were immeasurably more advanced than it now is, even though we could observe the vast network of nerve-fibres and filaments of which the brain is composed, and could discern the actual changes in brain-cells under nerve stimulations, we should still be a long way off from understanding the nature and genesis of ideas which can only be known to us as immediate in their own quality. all that we can ever affirm is that a certain physical excitation is the antecedent of thought. it is illegitimate to say that it is the 'cause' of thought; unless, indeed, the word 'cause' be invested with no other meaning than that which is involved in such a conception. it is, however, in a very general way only, and within an exceedingly narrow range, that such measurement is possible. we do not even know at present what nerves correspond to the sensations of heat and cold, pain and joy; and all attempts to localise will-centres have proved unavailing. the finer and more delicate feelings cannot be gauged. but even though the alleged parallelism were entirely demonstrated, the immediate and pertinent question would still remain, who or what is the investigator? is it an ego, a thinking self? or is it only a complex of vibrations or mechanical impressions bound together in a particular body which, for convenience, is called an ego? are the so-called entities--personality, consciousness, self--but symbols, as professor mach says, useful in so far as they help us to express our physical sensations, but which with further research must be pronounced illusions?[ ] monistic naturalism, which would explain all psychical experiences in terms of cerebral action, must not be allowed to arrogate to itself powers which it does not possess, and quietly brush { } aside facts which do not fit into its system. the moral sanctions so universally and deeply rooted in the consciousness of mankind, the feelings of responsibility, of guilt and regret; the soul's fidelities and heroisms, its hopes and fears, its aims and ideals--the poetry, art, and religion that have made man what he is, all that has contributed to the uplifting of the world--are, to say the least, unaccounted for, if it must be held that 'man is born in chains.' primary facts must not be surrendered nor ultimate experiences sacrificed in the interests of theoretic simplicity. in the recent anti-metaphysical movement of germany, of which haeckel, avenarius, oswald and mach are representatives, there is presented the final conflict. it is not freedom of will only that is at stake, it is the very existence of a spiritual world. 'es ist der kampf um die seele.'[ ] if the world forms a closed and 'given' system in which every particular is determined completely by its position in the whole, then there can be no place for spontaneity, initiative, creation, which all investigation shows to be the distinctive feature in human progress and upward movement. so far from its being true that the world makes man, it would be nearer the truth to say that man makes the world. a 'given' world can never be primary.[ ] there must be a mind behind it. we fall back, therefore, upon the principle which must be postulated in the whole discussion--the unity and self-determining activity of the self-conscious mind. ii we may now proceed to the second problem of the will, the objection that human action is determined by motives, and that what we call freedom is nothing else than the necessary result of the pressure of motives upon the will. in other words, the conduct of the individual is always determined by the strongest motive. it will be seen on examination that this objection is just another form of that which we have already considered. indeed, the { } analogy of mechanical power is frequently applied to the motives of the will. diverse motives have been compared to different forces which meet in one centre, and it is supposed that the result in action is determined by the united pressure of these various motives. now it may be freely admitted at the outset that the individual never acts except under certain influences. an uninfluenced man, an unbiassed character cannot exist. not for one moment do we escape the environment, material and moral, which stimulates our inner life to reaction and response. it is not contended that a man is independent of all motives. what we do affirm is that the self-realising potentiality of personality is present throughout. much of the confusion of thought in connection with this subject arises from a false and inadequate notion of personality. personality is the whole man, all that his past history, present circumstances and future aims have made him, the result of all that the world of which he is a part has contributed to his experience. his bodily sensations, his mental acts, his desires and motives are not detached and extraneous forces acting on him from without, but elements which constitute his whole being. the person, in other words, is the visible or tangible phenomenon of something inward--the phase or function by which an individual agent takes his place in the common world of human intercourse and interaction, and plays his peculiar and definite part in life.[ ] but this totality of consciousness, so far from reducing man to a 'mere manufactured article,' gives to personality its unique distinction. by personality all things are dominated. 'other things exist, so to speak, for the sake of their kind and for the sake of other things: a person is never a mere means to something beyond, but always at the same time an end in himself. he has the royal and divine right of creating law, of starting by his exception a new law which shall henceforth be a canon and a standard.'[ ] { } the objection to the freedom of the will which we are now considering may be best appreciated if we examine briefly the two extreme theories which have been maintained on the subject. on the one hand, _determinism_ or, as it is sometimes called, necessitarianism, holds that all our actions are conditioned by law--the so-called motive that influences a man's conduct is simply a link in a chain of occurrences of which his act is the last. the future has no possibilities hidden in its womb. i am simply what the past has made me. my circumstances are given, and my character is simply the necessary resultant of the natural forces that act upon me. on the other hand, _indeterminism_, or libertarianism, insists upon absolute liberty of choice of the individual, and denies that necessity or continuity determines conduct. of two alternatives both may now be really possible. you can never predict what will be, nor lay down absolutely what a man will do. the world is not a finished and fixed whole. it admits of infinite possibilities, and instead of the volition i have actually made, i could just as easily have made a different one. without entering upon a detailed criticism of these two positions, it may be said that both contain an element of truth and are not so contradictory as they seem. on the one hand, all the various factors of the complex will may seem to be determined by something that lies beyond our control, and thus our will itself be really determined. but, on the other hand, moral continuity in its last analysis is only a half truth, and must find its complement in the recognition of the possibilities of new beginnings. the very nature of moral action implies, as lotze has said, that new factors may enter into the stream of causal sequence, and that even though a man's life may be, and must be, largely conditioned by his circumstances, his activity may be really originative and free. what the determinists seem to forget is, as green says, that 'character is only formed through a man's conscious presentation to himself of objects as _his_ good, as that in which his self-satisfaction is found.'[ ] { } desires are always for objects which have a value for the individual. a man's real character is reflected in his desires, and it is not that he is moved by some outside abstract force, which, being the strongest, he cannot resist, but it is because he puts _himself_ into the desire or motive that it becomes the strongest, the one which he chooses to follow. my motives are really part of myself, of which all my actions are the outcome. human desires, in short, are not merely external tendencies forcing a man this way or that way. they are a part of the man himself, and are always directed towards objects related to a self; and it is the satisfaction of self that makes them desirable. on the other hand, the fallacy lurking in the libertarian view arises from the fact that it also makes a hard and fast distinction between the self and the will. the indeterminists speak as if the self had amongst its several faculties a will which is free in the sense of being able to act independently of all desires and motives. but, as a matter of fact, the will, as we have said, is simply the man, and it cannot be separated from his history, his character, and the objects which his character desires. to speak, as people sometimes do in popular language, of being free to do as they like--that is, to be influenced by no motive whatever, is not only an idea absurd in itself, but one which, if pushed to its consequences, would be subversive of all freedom, and consequently of all moral value. 'the liberty of indifference,' if the phrase means anything at all, implies not merely that the agent is free from all external compulsion, but that he is free from himself, not determined even by his own character. and if we ask what it really is that causes him to act, it must be answered, some caprice of the moment, some accidental impulse or arbitrary freak of fancy. the late professor james makes a valiant attempt to solve the 'dilemma of determinism' by resorting to the idea of 'chance' which he defines as a 'purely relative term, giving us no information about that which is predicated, except that it happens to be disconnected with something else--not controlled, secured or { } necessitated by other things in advance of its own actual presence.'[ ] 'on my way home,' he says, 'i can choose either of two ways'; and suppose 'the choice is made twice over and each time falls on a different street.' 'imagine that i first walk through divinity avenue, and then am set again at the door of this hall just as i was before the choice was made. imagine then that, _everything else being the same_,[ ] i now make a different choice and traverse oxford street. looking outwardly at these universes of which my two acts are a part, can you say which is the impossible and accidental one and which the rational and necessary one?' perhaps an outsider could not say, but professor james, if he examined his reasons, could say. he assumes that 'everything else is the same.' but that is just what cannot be. a new factor has been introduced, it may be a whim, a sudden impulse, perhaps even a desire to upset calculation--a something in his character in virtue of which his second choice is different from his first. it is an utter misnomer to call it 'chance.' even though he had tossed a coin and acted on the throw, his action would still be determined by the kind of man he was. let us not seek to defend freedom on inadequate grounds, or contend for a spurious liberty. no view of the subject should indeed debar us from acknowledging 'changes in heart and life,' but a misunderstanding of the doctrine of freedom may tend to paralyse moral initiative. the attempt to sunder the will and the understanding and discover the source of freedom in the realm of the emotions, as the voluntarists seek to do, cannot be regarded as satisfactory or sound philosophy. in separating faith and knowledge the ritschlian school tends to make subjective feeling the measure of truth and life; while recent psychological experiments in america with the phenomena of faith-healing, hypnotism and suggestion, claim to have discovered hitherto unsuspected potencies of the will. this line of thought has been welcomed by many as a relief from the mechanical theory of life and as a witness to moral { } freedom and christian hope. but so far from proving the sovereignty and autonomy of the will, it discloses rather the possibilities of its abject bondage and thraldom. no one can doubt the facts which professor james and others, working from the side of religious psychology, have recently established, or discredit the instances of conversion to which the annals of the christian life so abundantly testify. but even conversion must not be regarded as a change without motives. there must be some connection between motive, character and act, otherwise the new spiritual experience would be simply a magical happening lacking all moral significance. if there were no continuity of consciousness, if i could be something to-day irrespective of what i was yesterday, then all we signify by contrition, penitence, and shame would have no real meaning. even the grace of god works through natural channels and human influences. the past is not so much obliterated, as taken up into the new life and transfigured with a new value. the truth of spontaneity and initiative in life has lately found in m. bergson a fresh and vigorous advocacy, and we cannot be too grateful to that profound thinker for his reassertion of some neglected aspects of freedom and his philosophical vindication of the doctrine which puts it in a new position of prominence and security. 'life is creation.' 'reality is a perpetual growth, a creation pursued without end.' 'our will performs this miracle.' 'every human work in which there is invention, every movement that manifests spontaneity brings something new into the world. in the composition of the work of genius, as in a simple free decision, we create what no mere assemblage of materials could have given.'[ ] but yet he says that 'life cannot create absolutely because it is confronted with matter. . . . but it seizes upon this matter which is necessity itself, and strives to introduce into it the greatest possible amount of indetermination and liberty.'[ ] even bergson, though he emphasises so strongly immediacy and incalculableness in { } all human action, cannot deny that the bodily arrangements and mechanisms are at least the basis of the working of the soul. man cannot produce any change in the world except in strict co-ordination with the forces and qualities of material things. the idea in his consciousness is powerless save in so far as it is a guide to combinations and modifications which are latent in reality. the man who works with his hands does not create out of nothing a new totality. even genius is conditioned by the elements he works with and upon. he can do nothing with his materials beyond what it is in themselves to yield. this sense of co-operation is strongly marked in the higher grades of activity. the world may be in the making, as bergson says, but it is being made of possibilities already inherent in it. life may be incalculable, and you can never know beforehand what a great man, indeed, what any man may achieve, but even the originality of a leonardo or a beethoven cannot effect the impossible or contradict the order of nature. the sculptor feels that the statue is already lying in the marble awaiting only his creative touch to bring it forth. the metal is alive in the worker's hands, coaxing him to make of it something beautiful.[ ] purpose does not come out of an empty mind. freedom and initiative never begin entirely _de novo_. life is a 'creation,' but it is also, as m. bergson labours to prove, an 'evolution.' our ideals are made out of realities. our heaven must be shaped out of the materials of our earth. a moral personality is a self-conscious, self-determining being. but that is only half the reality. the other half is that it is a self-determining consciousness _in a world_. as bergson is careful to tell us, the shape and extent of self-consciousness are determined by our relation to a world which acts upon us and upon which we act. without a world in which we had personal business we should have no self-consciousness. the co-operation of spontaneity and necessity is implied { } in every true idea of freedom. if a man were the subject of necessity alone he would be merely the creature of mechanical causation. if he had the power of spontaneity only his so-called freedom would be a thing of caprice. necessity means simply that man is conditioned by the world in which he lives. spontaneity means, not that he can conjure up at a wish a dream-world of no conditions, but that he is not determined by anything outside of himself, since the very conditions amid which he is placed may be transmuted by him into elements of his own character. moral decisions are never isolated from ideals and tasks presented by our surroundings. the self cannot act on any impulse however external till the impulse has transplanted itself within and become our motive. 'our life,' says eucken, 'is a conflict between fate and freedom, between being "given" and spontaneity. spiritual individuality does not come to any one, but has first to be won by the work of life, elevating that which destiny brings. . . . the idea of freedom calls man to independent co-operation in the conflict of the worlds. it gives to the simply human and apparently commonplace an incomparable greatness. however powerful destiny may be, it does not determine man entirely: for even in opposition to it there is liberation from it.'[ ] iii it will not be necessary to dwell at any length on the third difficulty--the incompatibility of divine sovereignty and grace with moral personality. how to reconcile divine power and human freedom is the great problem which meets us on the very threshold of the study of man's relation to god. the solution, in so far as it is possible for the mind, must be sought in the divine immanence. god works through man, and man acts through god. reason, conscience, and will are equally the testimony to god's indwelling in man and man's { } indwelling in god. it is, as st. paul says, god who worketh in us both to will and to do. but just because of that inherent power, it is we who work out our own character and destiny. the divine is not introduced into human life at particular points or in exceptional crises only. every man has something of the divine in him, and when he is truest to himself he is most at one with god. the whole meaning of human personality is a growing realisation of the divine personality. god's sovereignty has no meaning except in relation to a world of which he is sovereign, and his purposes can only be fulfilled through human agency. while his thoughts far transcend in wisdom and sublimity those of his creatures they must be in a sense of the same kind--thoughts, in other words, which beings made in his image can receive, love and, in a measure, share. and though god cannot be conceived as the author of evil, he may permit it and work through it, bringing order out of chaos, and evolving through suffering and conflict his sovereign purposes. the problem becomes acutest when we endeavour to harmonise the antinomy of man's moral freedom and the doctrine of grace. however insoluble the mystery, it is not lessened by denying one side in the interest of unity. scripture boldly affirms both truths. no writer insists more strenuously than the apostle paul on the sovereign election of god, yet none presents with greater fervour the free offer of salvation. in his ethical teaching, at least, paul is no determinist. freedom is the distinctive note of his conception of life. life is a great and solemn trust committed to each by god, for the use or abuse of which every man will be called to account. his missionary zeal would have no meaning if he did not believe that men were free to accept or refuse his message. paul's own example, indeed, is typical, and while he knew that he was 'called,' he knew, too, that it lay with him to yield himself and present his life as a living sacrifice to god. jesus, too, throughout his ministry, assumed the ability of man freely to accept his call to righteousness, and though he speaks { } of the change as a 'new birth,' a creation from above, beyond the strength of man to effect, he invariably makes his appeal to the will--'follow me,' 'come unto me.' he assumes in all his dealings with individuals that they have the power of decision. and so far from admitting that the past could not be undone, and no chain of habit broken, the whole purpose of his message and lifework was to proclaim the need and possibility of a radical change in life. so full of hope was he for man that he despaired of none, not even of those who had most grievously failed, or most utterly turned their back on purity. the parables in the third gospel of the lost coin, the lost sheep, and the lost son lay emphasis upon the possibility of recovery, and, in the case of the prodigal, specially on the ability to return for those who have gone astray. the teaching of scripture implies that while god is the source of all spiritual good, and divine grace must be present with and precede all rightful action of the human will, it rests with man to respond to the divine love. no human soul is left destitute of the visiting of god's spirit, and however rudimentary the moral life may be, no bounds can be set to the growth which may, and which god intends should, result wherever the human will is consentient. while, therefore, no man can claim merit in the sight of god, but must acknowledge his absolute dependency upon divine grace, no one can escape loss or blame if he wilfully frustrates god's design of mercy. whatever mystery may attend the subject of god's sovereign grace, the bible never presents it as negating the entire freedom of man to give or withhold response to the gift and leading of the divine spirit. in the deepest new testament sense to be free is to have the power of acting according to one's true nature. a man's ideal is his true self, and all short of that is for him a limitation of freedom. inasmuch as no ideal is ever completely realised, true freedom is not so much a possession as a progressive appropriation. it is at once a gift and a task. it contains the twofold idea of emancipation { } and submission. mere deliverance from the lower self is not liberty. freedom must be completed by the appropriation of the higher self and the acceptance of the obligations which that self involves. it is to be acquired through submission to the truth. 'ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.' a man is never so free as when he is the bondsman of christ. the saying of st. paul sums up the secret and essence of all true freedom: 'the law of the spirit of life in christ jesus hath made me free from the law of sin and death.' [ ] mach, _erkenntniss und irrtum_. vorwort. see also _die analyse der empfindungen_, p. . 'das sich ist unrettbar,' he says. [ ] cf. w. schmidt, _der kampf um die seele_, p. . [ ] cf. eucken. [ ] cf. wallace, _logic of hegel, proleg._, p. . [ ] wallace, _idem_, p. . cf. aristotle's wise man whose conduct is not _kata logon_ but _meta logon_. [ ] _proleg._, section . [ ] _the will to believe_, p. . [ ] _the italics are ours_. [ ] _creative evolution_ (eng. trans.), p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] cf. morris, _lects. on art_, p. ; bosanquet, _hist. of aesthetic_, p. ; also _individuality and value_, p. . [ ] _life's basis and life's ideals_, p. f. { } section c character { } chapter vii modern theories of life bearing in mind the three fundamental ideas lying at the root of all ethical inquiry--end, norm, and motive--we have now to deal with the shaping forces of the christian life, the making of character. in this section, therefore, we shall be engaged in a discussion of the ideals, laws, and springs of moral action. and first, what is the supreme good? what is the highest for which a man should live? this question determines the main problem of life. it forces itself irresistibly upon us to-day, and the answer to it is the test of every system of morals. but before endeavouring to determine the distinctively christian ideal, as presented in the teaching of jesus and interpreted by the growing christian consciousness of mankind, it may be well to review briefly some of the main theories of life which are pressing their claims upon our attention to-day. many of these modern views have arisen as a reaction against traditional religion. from the seventeenth century onwards, and especially during the nineteenth, there has been a growing disposition to call in question the christian conception of life. the antagonism reveals itself not only in a distrust of all forms of religion, but also in a craving for wider culture. the old certitudes fail to satisfy men who have acquired new habits of reflection, and there is a disinclination to accept a scheme of life which seems to narrow human interests and exclude such departments as science, art, and politics. one reason of this change is to be found in the wonderful advance of science during the last century. men's minds, withdrawn { } from primary, and fixed upon secondary causes, have refused to believe that the order of nature can be disturbed by supernatural intervention. whether the modern antipathy to christianity is justified is not the question at present before us. we may see in the movements of our day not so much a proof that the old faith is false, as an indication that if christianity is to regain its power a radical re-statement of its truths, and a more comprehensive application of its principles to life as a whole must be undertaken. in the endeavour to find an all-embracing ideal of life two possibilities present themselves, arising from two different ways of viewing man. human life is in one aspect receptive; in another, active. it may be regarded as dependent upon nature for its maintenance, or as a creative power whose function is not merely to receive what nature supplies, but to re-shape nature's materials and create a new spiritual world. receptivity and activity are inseparable, and form together the harmonious rhythm of life. but there has ever been a tendency to emphasise one or other of these aspects. the question has constantly arisen, which is the more important for life--what we receive or what we create? accordingly two contrasted conceptions of life have appeared--a naturalistic and an idealistic. under the first we understand those theories which place man in the realm of sense and explain life by material conditions; under the second we group such systems as give to life an independent creative power. i naturalistic tendency . naturalism has usually taken three forms, an idyllic or poetic, a philosophic, and a scientific, of which rousseau, feuerbach, and haeckel may be chosen as representatives. ( ) according to rousseau, man is really a part of nature, { } and only as he conforms to her laws and finds his satisfaction in what she gives can he be truly happy. nature is the mother of us all, and only as we allow her spirit to pervade and nourish our being do we really live. the watchword, 'back to nature' may be said to have given the first impulse to the later call of the 'simple life,' which has arisen as a protest against the luxury, ostentation, and artificiality of modern times. ( ) the philosophical form of naturalism, as expounded by feuerbach, inveighs against an idealistic interpretation of life. the author of _the essence of christianity_ started as a disciple of hegel, but soon reversed the hegelian principle, and pronounced the spiritual world to be a fiction of the mind. man belongs essentially to the earth, and is governed by his senses. self-interest is his only motive, and egoism his sole law of life. it was only what might be expected, that the ultimate consequences of this philosophy of the senses should be drawn by a disciple of feuerbach, max stirner,[ ] in whose work, _the individual and his property_, the virtues of egoism are extolled, and contempt is poured upon all disinterestedness and altruism. ( ) the latest form of naturalism is the scientific or monistic, as represented by haeckel. it may be described as scientific in so far as its author professes to deduce the moral life from biological principles. in the chapter[ ] devoted to ethics in his work, _the riddle of the universe_, his pronouncements upon morality are not scientifically derived, but simply dogmatically assumed. the underlying principle of monism is that the universe is a unity in which no distinction exists between the material and the spiritual. in this world as we know it there reigns only one kind of law, the invariable law of nature. the so-called spiritual life of man is not an independent realm having its own rights and aims; it belongs wholly to nature. the moral world is a province of the physical, and the key to all the departments of reality is to be found in science { } alone. the doctrine of evolution is brought into the service of monism, and the attempt is made to prove that in the very process of biological development human thought, moral sentiment, and social instincts have been evolved. with a curious sacrifice of consistency, haeckel does not agree with feuerbach in exalting egoism to the place of supremacy in the moral life. he recognises two kinds of duty--duty to self and duty to society. the social sense once created is permanent, and rises to ever-fresh developments. but benevolence, like every other obligation, is, according to evolutionary monism, a product evolved from the battle of existence. traced to its source, it has its spring in the physical organism, and is but an enlargement of the ego.[ ] the monistic naturalism of haeckel offers no high ideal to life. its ethics is but a glorified egoism. its dictates never rise above the impulses derived from nature. but not religion only with its kingdom of god, nor morality only with its imperatives, nor art with its power of idealising the world of nature, but even science itself, with its claim to unify and organise facts, proves that man stands apart from, and is higher than, the material world. the very existence of such activities in the invisible realm renders vain every attempt to reduce the spiritual to the natural, and to make truth, goodness and beauty mere outgrowths of nature. . on its ethical side naturalism is closely associated with the theory of life which bears the name of _utilitarianism_--the theory which regards pleasure or profit as the aim of man. in its most independent form hedonism can hardly be said to exist now as a reasoned theory. carried out to its extreme consequences it reduces man to a mere animal. hence a type of reflective egoism has taken the place of animal gratification, and the idea of ulterior benefit has succeeded to that of immediate pleasure. the names associated with this theory of morals are those of hobbes, bentham, and the two mills. hobbes, { } who preaches undiluted egoism,[ ] may be regarded as the father of utilitarianism. but the title was first applied to the school of bentham.[ ] bentham's watchword was 'utility' expressed in his famous formula--'the greatest happiness of the greatest number.' while renouncing the abstract ideal of equality, he yet asserted the equal claim of every individual to happiness. in its distribution 'each is to count for one, and no one for more than one.' hence bentham insisted upon an exact quantitative calculation of the consequences of our actions as the only sufficient guide to conduct. the end is the production of the maximum of pleasure and the minimum of pain. j. s. mill modified considerably the principle of utility by introducing the doctrine of the qualitative difference in pleasures.[ ] while bentham assumed self-interest as the only motive of conduct, mill affirmed the possibility of altruism in the motive as well as in the end or criterion of right actions.[ ] thus the idea of utility was extended to embrace higher moral ends. but the antithesis between the 'self' and the 'other' was not overcome. to introduce the notion of sympathy, as adam smith and others did, is to beg the question. try as you will, you cannot deduce benevolence from selfishness. the question for the utilitarian must always arise, 'how far ought i to follow my natural desires, and how far my altruistic?' there must be a constant conflict, and he can only be at peace with himself by striking a balance. the utilitarian must be a legalist. the principle of self-sacrifice does not spring from his inner being. truth, love, sacrifice--all that gives to man his true worth as a being standing in vital relation to god--are only artificial adaptations based on convenience and general advantage. . evolutionary ethics, as expounded by spencer and others, though employing utilitarian principles, affords an ampler and more plausible account of life than early { } hedonism.[ ] the evolutionists have enriched the idea of happiness by quietly slipping in many ends which really belong to the idea of the 'good.' as the term 'gravitation' was the magic word of the eighteenth century, so the word 'evolution' is the talisman of the present age. it must be admitted that it is a sublime and fruitful idea. it explains much in nature and history which the old static notion failed to account for. it has a great deal to teach us even in the spiritual sphere. but when applied to life as a whole, and when it is assumed to be the sole explanation of moral action, it is apt to rob the will of its initiative and reduce all moral achievements to merely natural factors in an unfolding drama of life. the soul itself, with all its manifestations and experiences, is treated simply as the resultant and harmonious effect of adaptation to environment. man is regarded as the highest animal, the most richly specialised organism--the last of a long series in the development of life, the outstanding feature of which is the acquired power of complete adjustment to the world, of which it is a part. strictly speaking, there is no room for a personal god in this mechanical theory of the universe. the world becomes inevitably 'the be all and the end all.' hence, as might be expected, while evolutionary ethics claims to cover the whole range of this present life, it does not pretend to extend into the regions of the hereafter. it is concerned only with what it conceives to be the highest earthly good--the material and social well-being of mankind. but no theory of life can be pronounced satisfactory which explains man in terms of this earth alone. the 'great unknown' which mr. spencer posits[ ] as the ultimate source of all power, is a force to be reckoned with; and, known or unknown, is the mightiest factor in all life's experiences. man's spiritual nature in its whole range cannot be treated as of no account. 'the powers of the world to come' have an essential bearing upon human { } conduct in this world. they shape our thoughts and determine our ideals. hence any view of life which excludes from consideration the spiritual side of man, and limits his horizon by the things of this earth must of necessity be inadequate and unsatisfactory. . closely connected with, and, indeed, arising out of, the evolutionary theory, another type of thought, prevalent to-day, falls to be noted--_the socialistic tendency_. it is now universally recognised that the individual cannot be treated as an isolated being, but only in relation to society of which he is a part. the emphasis is laid upon the solidarity of mankind, and man is explained by such social facts as heredity and environment. marx and engels, the pioneers of the socialistic movement, accepted in the fullest sense the scientific doctrine of evolution. so far from being a mere utopian dream, marx contends that socialism is the inevitable outcome of the movement of modern society. the aim of the agitation is to bring men to a clear consciousness of a process which is going forward in all countries where the modern industrial methods prevail. democracy must come to itself and assume its rights. the keynote of the past has been the exploitation of man by man in the three forms of slavery, serfdom, and wage-labour. the keynote of the future must be the exploitation of the earth by man _associated to man_. the practical aim of socialism is that industry is to be carried on by associated labourers jointly owning the means of production. here, again, the all-pervading ideal is--the general good of society--the happiness of the greatest number. the reduction of all aims to a common level, the equalising of social conditions, the direction and control of all private interests and personal endeavours, are to be means to one end--the material good of the community. socialism is not, however, confined to an agitation for material welfare. the industrial aspect of it is only a phase of a larger movement. on its ethical side it is the outcome of a strong aspiration after a higher life.[ ] the world is awakening to { } the fact that the majority of the human family has been virtually excluded from all participation in man's inheritance of knowledge and culture. the labouring classes have been from time immemorial sunk in drudgery and ignorance, bearing the burden of society without sharing in its happiness. it is contended that every man ought to have an opportunity of making the most of his life and obtaining full freedom for the development of body and mind. the aim to secure justice for the many, to protect the weak against the strong, to mitigate the fierceness of competition, to bring about a better understanding between capital and labour, and to gain for all a more elevated and expansive existence, is not merely consistent with, but indispensable to, a true christian conception of life. but the question which naturally arises is, how this reformation is to be brought about. never before have so many revolutionary schemes been proposed, and so many social panaceas for a better world set forth. it is, indeed, a hopeful sign of the times that the age of unconcern is gone and the temper of cautious inaction has yielded to scientific diagnosis and courageous treatment. it must not be forgotten, however, that the exclusively utilitarian position tends to lower the moral ideal, and that the exaggerated emphasis upon the social aspect of life fails to do justice to the independence of the individual. the tendency of modern political thought is to increase the control of government, and to regard all departments of activity as branches of the state, to be held and worked for the general good of the community. thus there is a danger that the individual may gradually lose all initiative, and life be impoverished under a coercive mechanical system. socialism in its extreme form might easily become a new kind of tyranny. by the establishment of collectivism, by making the state the sole owner of all wealth, the sole employer of labour, and the controller of science and art, as well as of education and religion, there is a danger of crushing the spiritual side of man, and giving to all life and endeavour a merely naturalistic character and content. { } . it was inevitable that an exaggerated insistence upon the importance of society should provoke an equally one-sided emphasis upon the worth of the individual, and that as a protest against the demands of socialism there should arise a form of subjectivism which aims at complete self-affirmation. ( ) this tendency has received the name of _aesthetic-individualism_. as a conception of life it may be regarded as intermediate between naturalism and idealism. while rooted in a materialistic view of life, it is moulded in the hands of its best advocates by spiritual aspirations. its standpoint may be characterised as a theory of existence which seeks the highest value of life in the realm of the beautiful, and which therefore endeavours to promote the supreme good of the individual through devotion to art. not only does the cultivation of art tend in itself to elevate life by concentrating the soul upon all that is fairest and noblest in the world, but the best means of enriching and ennobling life is to regard life itself as a work of art. this view of existence, it is claimed, widens the scope of experience, and leads us into ampler worlds of interest and enjoyment. it aims at giving to personality a rounded completeness, and bringing the manifold powers and passions of man into harmonious unity. as a theory of life it is not new. already plato, and still more aristotle, maintained that a true man must seek his highest satisfaction not in the possession of external things, but in the most complete manifestation of his faculties. individual aestheticism largely animated the romantic movement of germany at the beginning of last century. but probably the best illustration of it is to be found in goethe and schiller; while in our country matthew arnold has given it a powerful and persuasive exposition. it was the aim of goethe to mould his life into a work of art, and all his activities and poetic aspirations were subordinated to this end. the beautiful harmonious life is the true life, the well-rounded whole from which must be banished everything narrow, vulgar, and distasteful, and in which { } everything fair and noble must find expression. 'each individual,' says schiller, 'is at once fitted and destined for a pure ideal manhood.' and the attainment of this ideal requires from us the most zealous self-culture and a concentration of effort upon our own peculiar gifts.[ ] a new form of aestheticism has lately appeared which pretends to combine morality and culture. 'the new ethic,'[ ] as it is called, protests against the sombreness of religious traditions and the rigidity of moral restrictions, and assigns to art the function of emancipating man and idealising life. but what this movement really offers under its new catchword is simply a subtler form of epicureanism, a finer self-indulgence. it is the expression of a desire to be free from all restraint, to close one's eyes to the 'majesty of human suffering,' allowing one's thoughts to dwell only upon the agreeable and gay in life. it regards man as simply the sum-total of his natural inclinations, and conceives duty to be nothing else than the endeavour to bring these into equilibrium. that the aesthetic culture of life is a legitimate element in christian morality can hardly be denied by any one who has pondered the meaning in all its breadth of the natural simplicity and spiritual beauty of the manifestation of the son of man. the beautiful, the good, and the true are intimately connected, and constitute together all that is conceivably highest in life. christian ethics ought to include everything that is gracious and fair; and any theory of life that has no room for joy and beauty, for laughter and song, for appreciation of artistic or poetic expression, is surely deficient. but it is one thing to acknowledge these things; it is another to make them the whole of existence. we live in a world in which much else besides beauty and joy exists, and it is not by shirking contact with the unlovely phases of experience, but by resolutely accepting the ministry of sorrow they impose, { } that we attain to our highest selves. the narrow puritanism of a past age may need the corrective of the broader humanism of to-day, but not less must the ethic of self-culture be reinforced by the ethic of self-sacrifice. we may not cultivate the beauty of life at the cost of duty, nor forget that it is often only through the immolation of self that the self can be realised. ( ) while the romantic movement, of which goethe was the most illustrious representative, did much to enlarge life and ennoble the whole expanse of being, its extreme subjectivism and aristocratic exclusiveness found ultimate expression (_a_) in the pessimism of schopenhauer, and the arrogance of nietzsche. the alliance between art and morality was dissolved. the imagination scorned all fetters and, in its craving for novelty and contempt of convention, became the organ of individual caprice and licence. in nietzsche--that strange erratic genius--at once artist, philosopher, and rhapsodist--this philosophy of life found brilliant if bizarre utterance. if schopenhauer reduces existence to nothing, and finds in oblivion and extinction its solution, (_b_) nietzsche seeks rather to magnify life by striking the note of a proud and defiant optimism. he claims for the individual limitless rights; and, repudiating all moral ties, asserts the complete sovereignty of the self-sufficing ego. with a deep-rooted hatred of the prevailing tendencies of civilisation, he combines a vehement desire for a richer and unrestrained development of human power. he would not only revalue all moral values, but reverse all ideas of right and wrong. he would soar 'beyond good and evil,' declaring that the prevailing judgments of mankind are pernicious prejudices which have too long tyrannised over the world. he acknowledges himself to be not a moralist, but an 'immoralist,' and he bids us break in pieces the ancient tables of the decalogue. christianity is the most debasing form of slave-morality. it has made a merit of weakness and servility, and given the name of virtue to such imbecilities as meekness and self-sacrifice. he calls upon the individual to exalt himself. the man of { } the future is to be the man of self-mastery and virile force, 'the superman,' who is to crush under his heel the cringing herd of weaklings who have hitherto possessed the world. the earth is for the strong, the capable, the few. a mighty race, self-assertive, full of vitality and will, is the goal of humanity. the vital significance of nietzsche's radicalism lies less in its positive achievement than in its stimulating effect. though his account of christianity is a caricature, his strong invective has done much to correct the sentimental rose-water view of the christian faith which has been current in some pietistic circles. the superman, with all its vagueness, is a noble, inspiring ideal. the problem of the race is to produce a higher manhood, to realise which there is need for sacrifice and courage. nietzsche is the spiritual father and forerunner of the eugenics. the superman is not born, he is bred. our passions must be our servants. obedience and fidelity, self-discipline and courage are the virtues upon which he insists. 'be master of life. . . .' 'i call you to a new nobility. ye shall become the procreators and sowers of the future.' while there is much that is suggestive in nietzsche's scathing criticisms, and many passages of striking beauty in his books, he is stronger in his denials than his affirmations, and it is the negative side that his followers have fastened upon and developed. sudermann, the novelist, has carried his philosophy of egoism to its extreme. this writer, in a work entitled _sodom's end_, affirms that there is nothing holy and nothing evil. there is no such thing as duty or love. only nerves exist. the 'superman' becomes a monster. such teaching can scarcely be taken seriously. it conveys no helpful message. it is the perversion of life's ideal. as a passing phase of thought it is interesting, but it solves no problems; it advances no truths. it resembles a whirlwind which helps to clear the air and drive away superfluous leaves, but it does little to quicken or expand new seeds of life. { } ii idealistic tendency . modern idealism was inaugurated by kant. kant's significance for thought lies in his twofold demand for a new basis of knowledge and morality. he conceived that both are possible, and that both are interdependent, and have but one solution. the solution, however, could only be achieved by a radical change of method, and by the introduction of new standards of value. kant's theory of morals was an attempt to reconcile the two opposing ethical principles which were current in the eighteenth century. on the one side, the realists treated man simply as a natural being, and accordingly demanded a pursuance of his natural impulses. on the other side, the dogmatists conceived that conduct must be governed by divine sanctions. both theories agreed in regarding happiness as the end of life; the one the happiness of sensuous enjoyment; the other, that of divine favour. both set an end outside of man himself as the basis of their ethical doctrine. kant was dissatisfied with this explanation of the moral life. the question, therefore, which arises is, whence comes the idea of duty which is an undeniable fact of our experience? if it came merely from without, it could never speak to us with absolute authority, nor claim unquestioning obedience. that which comes from without depends for its justification upon some consequence external to our action, and must be based, indeed, upon some excitement of reward or pain. but that would destroy it as a moral good; since nothing can be morally good that is not pursued for its own sake. kant, therefore, seeks to show that the law of the moral life must originate within us, must spring from an inherent principle of our own rational nature. hence the distinctive feature of kant's moral theory is the enunciation of the 'categorical imperative'--the supreme inner demand of reason. from this principle of autonomy there arise at once the notions of man's freedom and the law's { } universality. self-determination is the presupposition of all morality. but what is true for one is true for all. each man is a member of a rational order, and possesses the inalienable independence and the moral dignity of being an end in himself. hence the formula of all duty is, 'act from a maxim at all times fit to be a universal law.' it is the merit of kant that he has given clear expression to the majesty of the moral law. no thinker has more strongly asserted man's spiritual nature or done more to free the ideal of duty from all individual narrowness and selfish interest. but kant's principle of duty labours under the defect, that while it determines the form, it tells us nothing of the content of duty. we learn from him the grandeur of the moral law, but not its essence or motive-power. he does not clearly explain what it is in the inner nature of man that gives to obligation its universal validity or even its dominating force. as a recent writer truly says, 'in order that morality may be possible at all, its law must be realised _in_ me, but while the way in which it is realised is mine, the content is not mine; otherwise the whole conception of obligation is destroyed.'[ ] if the soul's function is purely formal how can we attain to a self-contained life? moreover, if the freedom which kant assigns to man is really to achieve a higher ideal and bring forth a new world, must there not be some spiritual power or energy, some dynamic force, which, while it is within man, is also without, and independent of, him? 'duty for duty's sake' lacks lifting power, and is the essence of legalism. love, after all, is the fulfilling of the law. . to overcome the kantian abstraction, and give content to the formal law of reason was the aim of the idealistic writers who succeeded him. fichte conceived of morality as action--self-consciousness realising itself in a world of deeds. hegel started with the _idea_ as the source of all reality, and developed the conception of personality attaining self-realisation through the growing consciousness of the world and of god. personality involves capacity. the { } law of life, therefore, is, 'be a person and respect others as persons.'[ ] man only comes to himself as he becomes conscious that his life is rooted in a larger self. morality is just the gradual unfolding of an eternal purpose whose whole is the perfection of humanity. it has been objected that the idea of life as an evolutionary process, which finds its most imposing embodiment in the system of hegel, if consistently carried out, destroys all personal motive and self-determining activity, and reduces the history of the world to a soulless mechanism. hegel himself was aware of this objection, and the whole aim of his philosophy was to show that personality has no meaning if it be not the growing consciousness of the infinite. the more recent exponents of his teaching have endeavoured to prove that the individual, so far from being suppressed, is really _expressed_ in the process, that, indeed, while the universal life underlies, unifies, and directs the particular phases of existence, the individual in realising himself is at the same time determining and evolving the larger spiritual world--a world already implicitly present in his earliest consciousness and first strivings. the absolute is indeed within us from the very beginning, but we have to work it out. hence life is achieved through conflict. the universe is not a place for pleasure or apathy. it is a place for soul-making. no rest is to be found by an indolent withdrawal from the world of reality. 'in one way or another, in labour, in learning, and in religion, every man has his pilgrimage to make, his self to remould and to acquire, his world and surroundings to transform. . . . it is in this adventure, and not apart from it, that we find and maintain the personality which we suppose ourselves to possess _ab initio_.'[ ] the soul is a world in itself; but it is not, and must not be treated as, an isolated personality impervious to the mind of others. at each stage of its evolution it is the focus and expression of a larger world. a man does not value himself as a detached subject, but as the { } inheritor of gifts which are focused in him. man, in short, is a trustee for the world; and suffering and privation are among his opportunities. the question for each is, how much can he make of them? something above us there must be to make us do and dare and hope, and the important thing is not one's separate destiny, but the completeness of experience and one's contribution to it.[ ] . it was inevitable that there should arise a reaction against the extreme intellectualism of hegel and his school, and that a conception of existence which lays the emphasis upon the claims of practical life should grow in favour. the pursuit of knowledge tended to become merely a means of promoting human well-being. the first definite attempt to formulate a specific theory of knowledge with this practical aim in view takes the form of what is known as 'pragmatism.' the modern use of this term is chiefly connected with the name of the late professor james, to whose brilliant writings we are largely indebted for the elucidation of its meaning. 'pragmatism,' says james, 'represents the empiricist attitude both in a more radical and less objectionable form than it has ever yet assumed.'[ ] it agrees with utilitarianism in explaining practical aspects, and with positivism in disdaining useless abstractions. it claims to be a method rather than a system of philosophy. and its method consists in bringing the pursuit of knowledge into close relationship with life. nothing is to be regarded as true which cannot be justified by its value for man. the hypothesis which on the whole works best, which most aptly fits the circumstances of a particular case, is true. the emphasis is laid not on absolute principles, but on consequences. we must not consider things as they are in themselves, but in their reference to the good of mankind. it is useless, for example, to speculate about the existence of god. if the hypothesis of a deity works satisfactorily, if the best results follow for the moral well-being of humanity by believing in a god, { } then the hypothesis may be taken as true. it is true at least for us. truth, according to pragmatism, has no independent existence. it is wholly subjective, relative, instrumental. its only test is its utility, its workableness. this view of truth, though supported by much ingenuity and brilliance, would seem to contradict the very idea of truth, and to be subversive of all moral values. if truth has no independent validity, if it is not something to be sought for itself, irrespective of the inclinations and interests of man, then its pursuit can bring no real enrichment to our spiritual being. it remains something alien and external, a mere arbitrary appendix of the self. it is not the essence and standard of human life. if its sole test is what is advantageous or pleasant it sinks into a merely utilitarian opinion or selfish bias. 'truth,' says eucken, 'can only exist as an end in itself. instrumental truth is no truth at all.'[ ] according to this theory, moreover, truth is apt to be broken up into a number of separate fragments without correlation or integrating unity. there will be as many hypotheses as there are individual interests. the truth that seems to work best for one man or one age may not be the truth that serves another. in the collision of opinions who is to arbitrate? if it be the institutions and customs of to-day, the present state of morals, that is to be the measure of what is good, then we seem to be committed to a condition of stagnancy, and involved in the quest of a doubtful gain. as might be expected, professor james's view of truth determines his view of the world. it is pluralistic, not monistic; melioristic, not optimistic. it is characteristic of him that when he discusses the question, is life worth living? his answer practically is, 'yes, if you believe it is.' pragmatism is put forward as the mediator between two opposite tendencies, those of 'tender-mindedness' and 'tough-mindedness.' 'the tendency to rest in the absolute is the characteristic mark of the tender-minded; the { } radically tough-minded, on the other hand, needs no religion at all.'[ ] there is something to be said for both of these views, james thinks, and a compromise will probably best meet the case. hence, against these two ways of accepting the universe, he maintains the pragmatic faith which is at once theistic, pluralistic, and melioristic. he accepts a personal power as a workable theory of the universe. but god need not be infinite or all-inclusive, for 'all that the facts require is that the power should be both other and larger than our common selves.'[ ] such a conception of god, even on james's own admission, is akin to polytheism. and such polytheism implies a pluralistic view of the universe. the invisible order, in which we hope to realise our larger life, is a world which does not grow integrally in accordance with the preconceived plan of a single architect, 'but piecemeal by the contributions of its several parts.'[ ] we make the world to our will, and 'add our fiat to the fiat of the creator.' with regard to the supreme question of human destiny professor james's view is what he calls 'melioristic.' there is a striving for better things, but what the ultimate outcome will be, no one can say. for the world is still in the making. life is a risk. it has many possibilities. good and evil are intermingled, and will continue so to be. it is a pluralistic world just because the will of man is free, and predetermination is excluded. if good was assured as the final goal of ill, and there was no sense of venture, no possibility of loss or failure, then life would lack interest, and moral effort would be shorn of reality and incentive. in professor james's philosophy of life there is much that is original and stimulating, and it draws attention to facts of experience and modes of thought which we were in danger of overlooking. it has compelled us to consider the psychological bases of personality, and to lay more stress upon the power of the will and individual choice in the determining of character and destiny. it is pre-eminently { } a philosophy of action, and it emphasises an aspect of life which intellectualism was prone to neglect--the function of personal endeavour and initiative in the making of the world. it postulates the reality of a living god who invites our co-operation, and it encourages our belief in a higher spiritual order which it is within our power to achieve. pragmatism has hitherto made headway chiefly in america and britain, but on its activistic side it is akin to a new philosophical movement which has appeared in france and germany. the name generally given to this tendency is 'activism' or 'vitalism'--a title chosen probably in order to emphasise the self-activity of the personal consciousness directed towards a world which it at once conquers and creates. the authors of this latest movement are the frenchman, henri bergson, and the german, rudolf eucken. differing widely in their methods and even in their conclusions, they agree in making a direct attack both upon the realism and the intellectualism of the past, and in their conviction that the world is not a 'strung along universe,' as the late professor james puts it, but a world that is being made by the creative power and personal freedom of man. while eucken has for many years occupied a position of commanding influence in the realm of thought, bergson has only recently come into notice. the publication of his striking work, _creative evolution_, marks an epoch in speculation, and is awakening the interest of the philosophical world.[ ] . with his passion for symmetry and completeness bergson has evolved a whole theory of the universe, { } resorting, strange to say, to a form of reasoning that implies the validity of logic, the instrument of the intellect which he never wearies of impugning. without entering upon his merely metaphysical speculations, we fix upon his theory of consciousness--the relation of life to the material world--as involving certain ethical consequences bearing upon our subject. the idea of freedom is the corner-stone of bergson's system, and his whole philosophy is a powerful vindication of the independence and self-determination of the human will. life is free, spontaneous, creative and incalculable; determined neither by natural law nor logical sequence. it can break through all causation and assert its own right. it is not, indeed, unrelated to matter, since it has to find its exercise in a material world. matter plays at once, as he himself says, the rôle of obstacle and stimulus.[ ] but it is not the world of things which legislates for man; it is man who legislates for it. bergson's object is to vindicate the autonomy of consciousness, and his entire philosophy is a protest against every claim of determinism to dominate life. by introducing the creative will before all development, he displaces mechanical force, and makes the whole evolution of life dependent upon the 'vital impulse' which pushes forward against all obstacles to ever higher and higher efficiency. similarly, by drawing a distinction between intellect and intuition, he shows that the latter is the truly creative power in man which penetrates to the heart of reality and shapes its own world. intellect and instinct have been developed along divergent lines. the intellect has merely a practical function. it is related to the needs of action.[ ] it is the faculty of manufacturing artificial objects, especially tools to make tools.[ ] it deals with solids and geometrical figures, and its instrument is logic. but according to bergson it has an inherent incapacity to deal with life.[ ] when we contrast the rigidity and superficiality of intellect with the fluidity, sympathy and intimacy of intuition, we see at once wherein { } lies the true creative power of man. development, when carried too exclusively along the lines of intellect, means loss of will-power; and we have seen how, not individuals alone, but entire nations, may be crushed and destroyed by a too rigid devotion to mechanical and stereotyped methods of thought. only life is adequate to deal with life. let us give free expression to the intuitive and sympathetic force within us, 'feel the wild pulsation of life,' if we would conquer the world and come to our own. 'the spectacle,' says bergson, 'of life from the very beginning down to man suggests to us the image of a current of consciousness which flows down into matter as into a tunnel, most of whose endeavours to advance . . . are stopped by a rock that is too hard, but which, in one direction at least, prove successful, and break out into the light once more.'[ ] but there life does not stop. 'all tended to mankind, but in completed man begins anew a tendency to god.'[ ] this creative consciousness still pushes on, giving to matter its own life, and drawing from matter its nutriment and strength. the effort is painful, but in making it we feel that it is precious, more precious perhaps than the particular work it results in, because through it we have been making ourselves, 'raising ourselves above ourselves.' and in this there is the true joy of life--the joy which every creator feels--the joy of achievement and triumph. thus not only is the self being created, but the world is being made--original and incalculable--not according to a preconceived plan or logical sequence, but by the free spontaneous will of man. the soul is the creative force--the real productive agent of novelty in the world. the strange thing is that the soul creates not the world only, but itself. whence comes this mystic power? what is the origin of the soul? bergson does not say. but in one passage he suggests that { } possibly the world of matter and consciousness have the same origin--the principle of life which is the great prius of all that is and is to be. but bergson's 'élan vital,' though more satisfactory than the first cause of the naturalist, or the 'great unknown' of the evolutionist, or even than some forms of the absolute, is itself admittedly outside the pale of reason--inexplicable, indefinable, and incalculable. the new 'vitalism' unfolds a living self-evolving universe, a restless, unfinished and never-to-be-finished development--the scope and goal of which cannot be foreseen or explained. an infinite number of possibilities open out; which the soul will follow no one can tell; why it follows this direction rather than that, no one can see. there seems to be no room here for teleology or purposiveness; and though bergson has not yet worked out the theological and ethical implications of his theory, as far as we can at present say the personality and imminence of a divine being are excluded. though bergson never refers to hegel by name, he seems to be specially concerned in refuting the philosophy of the absolute, according to which the world is conceived as the evolution of the infinite mind. if 'tout est donné,' says bergson, if all is given beforehand, 'why do over again what has already been completed, thus reducing life and endeavour to a mere sham.' but even allowing the force of that objection, the idea of a 'world in the making,' though it appeals to the popular mind, is not quite free from ambiguity. in one sense it states a platitude--a truth, indeed, which is not excluded from an absolute or teleological conception of life. but if it is implied that the world, because it is in process of production, may violate reason and take some capricious form, the idea is absurdly false, so long as we are what we are, and the human mind is what it is. the real must always be the rational. all enterprise and effort are based on the faith that we belong to a rational world. though we cannot predict what form the world will ultimately take, we can at least be sure that it can assume no character which will { } contradict the nature of intelligence. even in the making of a world, if life has any moral worth and meaning at all, there must be rational purpose. there are creation and initiative in man assuredly, but they must not be interpreted as activities which deviate into paths of grotesque and arbitrary fancy. our actions and ideas must issue from our world. even a poem or work of art must make its appeal to the universal mind; any other kind of originality would wholly lack human interest and sever all creation and life from their root in human nature. but at least we must acknowledge that bergson has done to the world of thought the great service of liberating us from the bonds of matter and the thraldom of a fatalistic necessity. it is his merit that he has lifted from man the burden of a hard determinism, and vindicated the freedom, choice, and initiative of the human spirit. if he has no distinctly christian message, he has at least disclosed for the soul the possibility of new beginnings, and has shown that there is room in the spiritual life, as the basis of all upward striving, for change of heart and conversion of life. . in the philosophy of eucken there is much that is in harmony with that of bergson; but there are also important differences. common to both is a reaction against formalism and intellectualism. neither claims that we can gain more than 'the knowledge of a direction' in which the solution of the problem may be sought. it is not a 'given' or finished world with which we have to do. 'the triumph of life is expressed by creation,' says eucken, 'i mean the creation of self by self.' 'we live in the conviction,' he says again, 'that the possibilities of the universe have not yet been played out,[ ] but that our spiritual life still finds itself battling in mid-flood with much of the world's work still before us.' while bergson confines himself rigidly to the metaphysical side of thought, eucken is chiefly interested in the ethical and religious aspects of life's problem. moreover, while there is an absence of a distinctly teleological aim in bergson, the purpose and ideal { } of life are prominent elements in eucken. notwithstanding his antagonism to intellectualism, the influence of hegel is evident in the absolutist tendency of his teaching. life for eucken is fundamentally spiritual. self-consciousness is the unifying principle. personality is the keynote of his philosophy. but we are not personalities to begin with: we have the potentiality to become such by our own effort. he bids us therefore forget ourselves, and strive for our highest ideal--the realisation of spiritual personality. the more man 'loses his life' in the pursuit of the ideals of truth, goodness, and beauty the more surely will he 'save it.' he realises himself as a personality, who becomes conscious of his unity with the universal spiritual life. hence there are two fundamental principles underlying eucken's philosophy which give to it its distinguishing character. the first is the metaphysical conception of _a realm of spirit_--an independent spiritual reality, not the product of the natural man, but communicating itself to him as he strives for, and responds to, it. this spiritual reality underlies and transcends the outward world. it may be regarded as an absolute or universal life--the deeper reality of which all visible things are the expression. the second cardinal principle is the _doctrine of activism_. life is action. human duty lies in a world of strife. we have to contend for a spiritual life-content. here eucken has much in common with fichte.[ ] but while fichte starts with self-analysis, and loses sight of error, care, and sin, eucken starts with actual conflict, and ever retains a keen sense of these hampering elements. the evil of the world is not to be solved simply by looking down upon the world from some superior optimistic standpoint, and pronouncing it very good. the only way to solve it is the practical one, to leave the negative standing, and press on to the deeper affirmative--the positive truth, that beneath the world of nature there exists a deeper reality of spirit, of which we become participators by the freedom and activity of our lives. we are here to acquire a new spiritual world, but { } it is a world in which the past is taken up and transfigured. against naturalism, which acquiesces in the present order of the universe, and against mere intellectualism, which simply investigates it, eucken never wearies of protesting. he demands, first, a fundamental cleavage in the inmost being of man, and a deliverance from the natural view of things; and he contends, secondly, for a spiritual awakening and an energetic endeavour to realise our spiritual resources. not by thought but by action is the problem of life to be solved. hence his philosophy is not a mere theory about life, but is itself a factor in the great work of spiritual redemption which gives to life its meaning and aim. that which makes eucken's positive idealism specially valuable is his application of it to religion. religion has been in all ages the mighty uplifting power in human life. it stands for a negation of the finite and fleeting, and an affirmation of the spiritual and the eternal. this is specially true of the christian religion. christianity is the supreme type of religion because it best answers the question, 'what can religion do for life?' but the old forms of its manifestation do not satisfy us to-day. christianity of the present fails to win conviction principally for three reasons: ( ) because it does not distinguish the eternal substance of religion from its temporary forms; ( ) because it professes to be the final expression of all truth, thus closing the door against progress of thought and life; and ( ) while emphasising man's redemption from evil, it forgets the elevation of his nature towards good. there is a tendency to depreciate human nature, and to overlook the joyousness of life. what is needed, therefore, is the expression of christianity in a new form--a reconstruction which shall emphasise the positiveness, activity, and joy of christian morality.[ ] while every one must feel the sublimity and inspiration in this conception of a spiritual world, which it is the task of life to realise, most people will be also conscious of a { } certain vagueness and elusiveness in its presentation. we are constrained to ask what is this independent spiritual life? is it a personal god, or is it only an impersonal spirit, which pervades and interpenetrates the universe? the elusive obscurity of the position and function which eucken assigns to his central conception of the _geistes-leben_ must strike every reader. even more than hegel, eucken seems to deal with an abstraction. the spiritual life, we are told, 'grows,' 'divides,' 'advances'--but it appears to be as much a 'bloodless category' as the hegelian 'idea,' having no connection with any living subject. god, the spirit, may exist, indeed eucken says he does, but there is nowhere any indication of how the spiritual life follows from, or is the creation of, the divine spirit. our author speaks with so great appreciation of christianity that it seems an ungracious thing to find fault with his interpretation of it. yet with so much that is positive and suggestive, there are also some grave omissions. in a work that professes to deal with the christian faith--_the truth of religion_--and which indeed presents a powerful vindication of historical christianity, we miss any philosophical interpretation of the nature and power of prayer, adoration, or worship, or any account, indeed, of the intimacies of the soul which belong to the very essence of the christian faith. while he insists upon the possibility, nay, the necessity, of a new beginning, he fails to reveal the power by which the great decision is made. while he affirms with much enthusiasm and frankness the need of personal decision and surrender, he has nothing to say of the divine authority and power which creates our choice and wins our obedience. nowhere does he show that the creative redemptive force comes not from man's side, but ultimately from the side of god. and finally, his teaching with regard to the person and work of jesus christ, notwithstanding its tender sympathy and fine discrimination, does less than justice to the uniqueness and historical significance of the son of man. with profound appreciation and rare beauty of language he depicts the life of jesus. 'seldom,' { } says a recent writer, 'has the perfect man been limned with so persuasive a combination of strenuous thought and gracious word.'[ ] 'he who makes merely a normal man of jesus,' he says, 'can never do justice to his greatness.'[ ] yet while he protests rightly against emptying our lord's life of all real growth and temptation, and the claim of practical omniscience for his humanity (conceptions of christ's person surely nowhere entertained by first-class theologians), he leaves us in no manner of doubt that he does not attach a divine worth to jesus, nor regard him in the scriptural sense as the supreme revelation and incarnation of god. and hence, while the peerless position of jesus as teacher and religious genius is frankly acknowledged, and his purity, power, and permanence are extolled--the mediatorial and redemptive implicates of his personality are overlooked. but when all is said, no one can study the spiritual philosophy of eucken without realising that he is in contact with a mind which has a sublime and inspiring message for our age. probably more than any modern thinker, eucken reveals in his works deep affinities with the central spirit of christianity. and perhaps his influence may be all the greater because he maintains an attitude of independence towards dogmatic and organised christianity. professor eucken does not attempt to satisfy us with a facile optimism. life is a conflict, a task, an adventure. and he who would engage in it must make the break between the higher and the lower nature. for eucken, as for dante, there must be 'the penitence, the tears, and the plunge into the river of lethe before the new transcendent love begins.' there is no evasion of the complexities of life. he has a profound perception of the contradictions of experience and the seeming paradoxes of religion. for him true liberty is only possible through the 'given,' through god's provenience and grace: genuine self-realisation is only achievable through a continuous self-dedication to, and { } incorporation within, the great realm of spirits; and the immanence within our lives of the transcendent.[ ] in styling the tendencies which we have thus briefly reviewed non-christian, we have had no intention of disparagement. no earnest effort to discover truth, though it may be inadequate and partial, is ever wholly false. in the light of these theories we are able to see more clearly the relation between the good and the useful, and to acknowledge that, just as in nature the laws of economy and beauty have many intimate correspondences, so in the spiritual realm the good, the beautiful, and the true may be harmonised in a higher category of the spirit. we shall see that the christian ideal is not so much antagonistic to, as inclusive of, all that is best in the teaching of science and philosophy. the task therefore now before us is to interpret these general conceptions of the highest good in the light of christian revelation--to define the chief end of life according to christianity. [ ] kasper schmidt, _der einzige und sein eigentum_. [ ] haeckel, _op. cit._, chap. xix. [ ] haeckel, _op. cit._, chap. xix. p. . [ ] hobbes' _leviathan_, chap. vi. [ ] cf. pringle-pattison, _philos. radicals_, and j. seth's _eng. philosophers_, p. . [ ] _utilitarianism_, chap. ii. [ ] _idem_, chap. iii. [ ] cf. spencer, _data of ethics_, p. ; also _social statics_. in the former work an attempt is made to exhibit the biological significance of pleasure and the relation between egoism and altruism. [ ] see _first principles_, p. ff. [ ] see kirkup, _an inquiry into socialism_, p. . [ ] see lütgert, _natur und geist gottes_, for striking chapter on goethe's _ethik_, p. f. [ ] cf. eucken, _main currents of modern thought_, p. f. [ ] macmillan, _the crowning phase of the critical philosophy_, p. . [ ] hegel, _phil. of right_, p. . [ ] bosanquet, _the principles of individuality and value_. [ ] bosanquet, _the principles of individuality and value_. [ ] _pragmatism_, p. . [ ] _main currents of thought_, p. . [ ] _pragmatism_, p. f.; also _varieties of relig. experience_, p. f. [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] the writer regrets that the work of the italian, benedetto croce, _philosophy of the practical, economic and ethic_ (part ii. of _philosophy of the spirit_), came to his knowledge too late to permit a consideration of its ethical teaching in this volume. croce is a thinker of great originality, of whom we are likely to hear much in the future, and whose philosophy will have to be reckoned with. though independent of others, his view of life has affinities with that of hegel. he maintains the doctrine of development of opposites, but avoids hegel's insistence upon the concept of nature as a mode of reality opposed to the spirit. spirit is reality, the whole reality, and therefore the universal. it has two activities, theoretic and practical. with the theoretic man understands the universe; with the practical he changes it. the will is the man, and freedom is finding himself in the whole. [ ] _hibbert journal_, april . [ ] _evol. creat._, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _hibbert journal_. [ ] browning. [ ] _die geistigen strömunyen der gegenwart_, p. . [ ] cf. _problem of life_. [ ] cf. _life's basis and life's ideal_. [ ] hermann, _bergson und eucken_, p. . [ ] _the problem of life_, p. . [ ] cf. von hügel, _hibbert journal_, april . { } chapter viii the christian ideal the highest good is not uniformly described in the new testament, and modern ethical teachers have not always been in agreement as to the chief end of life. while some have found in the teaching of jesus the idea of social redemption alone, and have seen in christ nothing more than a political reformer, others have contended that the gospel is solely a message of personal salvation. an impartial study shows that both views are one-sided. on the one hand, no conception of the life of jesus can be more misleading than that which represents him as a political revolutionist. but, on the other hand, it would be a distinct narrowing of his teaching to assume that it was confined to the aspirations of the individual soul. his care was indeed primarily for the person. his emphasis was put upon the worth of the individual. and it is not too much to say that the uniqueness of jesus' teaching lay in the discovery of the value of the soul. there was in his ministry a new appreciation of the possibilities of neglected lives, and a hitherto unknown yearning to share their confidence. it would be a mistake, however, to represent christ's regard for the individual as excluding all consideration of social relations. the kingdom of god, as we shall see, had a social and corporate meaning for our lord. and if the qualifications for its entrance were personal, its duties were social. the universalism of jesus' teaching implied that the soul had a value not for itself alone, but also for others. the assertion, therefore, that the individual has a value cannot mean that he has a value in isolation. { } rather his value can only be realised in the life of the community to which he truly belongs. the effort to help others is the truest way to reveal the hidden worth of one's own life; and he who withholds his sympathy from the needy has proved himself unworthy of the kingdom. while the writers of the new testament vary in their mode of presenting the ultimate goal of man, they are at one in regarding it as an exalted form of _life_. what they all seek to commend is a condition of being involving a gradual assimilation to, and communion with, god. the distinctive gift of the gospel is the gift of life. 'i am the life,' says christ. and the apostle's confession is in harmony with his master's claim--'for me to live is christ.' salvation is nothing else than the restoration, preservation, and exaltation of life. corresponding, therefore, to the three great conceptions of life in the new testament, and especially in the teaching of jesus--'eternal life,' 'the kingdom of god,' and the perfection of the divine fatherhood, 'perfect as your father in heaven is perfect'--there are three aspects, individual, social, and divine, in which we may view the christian ideal. i self-realisation is not, indeed, a scriptural word. but rightly understood it is a true element in the conception of life, and may, we think, be legitimately drawn from the ethical teaching of the new testament.[ ] though the free full development of the individual personality as we conceive it in modern times does not receive explicit statement,[ ] still one cannot doubt, that before every man our lord does present the vision of a possible and perfect self. christianity does not destroy 'the will to live,' but only the will to live at all costs. even mediaeval piety only inculcated self-mortification as a stage towards a higher { } self-affirmation. christ nowhere condemns the inherent desire for a complete life. the end, indeed, which each man should place before himself is self-mastery and freedom from the world;[ ] but it is a mastery and freedom which are to be gained not by asceticism but by conquest. christ would awaken in every man the consciousness of the priceless worth of his soul, and would have him realise in his own person god's idea of manhood. the ideal of self-realisation includes three distinct elements: . _life as intensity of being_.--'i am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.'[ ] 'more life and fuller' is the passion of every soul that has caught the vision and heard the call of jesus. the supreme good consists not in suppressed vitality, but in power and freedom. life in christ is a full, rich existence. the doctrine of quietism and indifference to joy has no place in the ethic of jesus. life is manifested in inwardness of character, and not in pomp of circumstance. it consists not in what a man has, but in what he is.[ ] the beatitudes, as the primary qualifications for the kingdom of god, emphasise the fundamental principle of the subordination of the material to the spiritual, and the contrast between inward and outward good.[ ] self-mastery is to extend to the inner life of man--to dominate the thoughts and words, and the very heart from which they issue. a divided life is impossible. the severest discipline, even renunciation, may be needful to secure that singleness of heart and strenuousness of aim which are for jesus the very essence of life. 'ye cannot serve god and mammon.'[ ] in harmony with this saying is the opposition in the johannine teaching between 'the world' and 'eternal life.'[ ] the quality of life indeed depends not upon anything contingent or accidental, but upon an intense inward realisation of blessedness in christ in comparison with which even { } the privations and sufferings of this world are but as a shadow.[ ] at the same time life is not a mere negation, not simply an escape from evil. it is a positive good, the enrichment and intensifying of the whole being by the indwelling of a new spiritual power. 'for me to live is christ,' says st. paul. 'this is life eternal,' says st. john, 'that they may know thee the only true god, and him whom thou didst send, even jesus christ.'[ ] . _life as expansion of personality_.--by its inherent power it grows outwards as well as inwards. the new testament conception of life is existence in its fullest expression and fruitfulness. the ideal as presented by christ is no anaemic state of reverie or ascetic withdrawal from human interest. it is by the elevation and consecration of the natural life, and not by its suppression, that the 'good' is to be realised. the natural life is to be transformed, and the very body presented unto god as a living sacrifice.[ ] so far from christianity being opposed to the aim of the individual to find himself in a world of larger interests, it is only in the active and progressive realisation of such a life that blessedness consists. herein is disclosed, however, the defect of the modern ideal of culture which has been associated with the name of goethe. in christ's ideal self-sufficiency has no place. while rightly interpreted the 'good' of life includes everything that enriches existence and contributes to the efficiency and completeness of manhood, mere self-culture and artistic expression are apt to become perverted forms of egoism, if not subordinated to the spirit of service which alone can give to the human faculties their true function and exercise. hence life finds its real utterance not in the isolated development of the self, but in the fullness of personal relationships. only in response to the needs of others can a man realise his own life. in answer to the young ruler who asked a question 'concerning that which is good,' christ replied, 'if thou wilt enter into life keep the { } commandments'; and the particular duties he mentioned were those of the second table of the decalogue.[ ] the abundance of life which christ offers consists in the mutual offices of love and the interchange of service. thus self-realisation is attained only through self-surrender.[ ] the self-centred life is a barren life. not by withholding our seed but by flinging it forth freely upon the broad waters of humanity do we attain to that rich fruition which is 'life indeed.' . _life as eternal good_.--whatever may be the accurate signification of the word 'eternal,' the words 'eternal life,' regarded as the ideal of man, can mean nothing else than life at its highest, the fulfilment of all that personality has within it the potency of becoming. in one sense there is no finality in life. 'it seethes with the morrow for us more and more.' but in another sense, to say that the moral life is never attained is only a half truth. it is always being attained because it is always present as an active reality evolving its own content. in christ we have 'eternal life' now. it is not a thing of quantity but of quality, and is therefore timeless. 'we live in deeds not years, in thoughts not breaths, in feelings, not in figures on a dial.'[ ] he who has entered into fellowship with god has within him now the essence of 'life eternal.' but the conception of life derived from, and sustained by, god involves the idea of immortality. 'no work begun shall ever pause for death.'[ ] to live in god is to live as long as god. the spiritual man pursues his way through conflict and achievement towards a higher and yet a higher goal, ever manifesting, yet ever seeking, the infinite that dwells in him. all knowledge and quest and endeavour, nay existence itself, would be a mockery if man had 'no forever.' scripture corroborates the yearnings of the heart and represents life as a growing good which is to attain to ever higher reaches and fuller realisations in the world to { } come. it is the unextinguishable faith of man that the future must crown the present. no human effort goes to waste, no gift is delusive; but every gift and every effort has its proper place as a stage in the endless process.[ ] 'there shall never be lost one good! what was shall live as before.'[ ] ii the foregoing discussion leads naturally to the second aspect of the highest good, the ideal in its social or corporate form--_the kingdom of god_. properly speaking, there is no such thing as an individual. as biologically man is only a member of a larger organism, so ethically he can only realise himself in a life of brotherhood and service. it is only within the kingdom of god and by recognition of its social relations that the individual can attain to his own blessedness. viewed in the light of the mutual relation of its members the kingdom is a brotherhood in which none is ignored and all have common privileges and responsibilities; viewed in the light of its highest good it is the entire perfection of the whole--a hierarchy of interests subordinated to, and unified by, the sovereignty of the good in the person of god.[ ] . by reason of its comprehensiveness the doctrine of the kingdom has been regarded by many as the most general conception of the ideal of jesus. 'in its unique and unapproachable grandeur it dwarfs all the lesser heights to which the prophetic hopes had risen, and remains to this day the transcendent and commanding ideal of the possible exaltation of our humanity.'[ ] the principles implicitly contained in the teaching of jesus concerning the kingdom have become the common possessions of mankind, and are moulding the thoughts and institutions of the civilised world. kant's theory of a kingdom of ends, comte's idea of humanity, and the modern conceptions of scientific and { } historical evolution are corroborative of the teaching of the new testament. within its conception men have found room for the modern ideas of social and economic order, and under its inspiration are striving for a fuller realisation of the aspirations and hopes of humanity.[ ] though frequently upon his lips the phrase did not originate with jesus. already the baptist had employed it as the note of his preaching, and even before the baptist it had a long history in the annals of the jewish people. indeed the entire story of the hebrews is coloured by this conception, and in the days of their decline it is the idea of the restoration of their nation as the true kingdom of god that dominates their hopes. when earthly institutions did not fulfil their promise, and nothing could be expected by natural means, hope became concentrated upon supernatural power. thus before jesus appeared there had grown up a mass of apocalyptic literature, the object of which was to encourage the national expectation of a sudden and supernatural coming of the kingdom of heaven. men of themselves could do nothing to hasten its advent. they could only wait patiently till the set time was accomplished, and god stretched forth his mighty hand.[ ] a new school of german interpretation has recently arisen, the aim of which is to prove that jesus was largely, if not wholly, influenced by the current apocalyptic notions of his time. jesus believed, it is said, in common with the popular sentiment of the day, that the end of the world was at hand, and that at the close of the present dispensation there would come suddenly and miraculously a new order into which would be gathered the elect of god. johannes weiss, the most pronounced advocate of this view, maintains that jesus' teaching is entirely eschatological. the kingdom is supramundane and still to come. jesus did not inaugurate it; he only predicted its advent. consequently there is no ethics, strictly so called, in his { } preaching; there is only an ethic of renunciation and watchfulness[ ]--an _interimsethik_. the whole problem resolves itself into two crucial questions: ( ) did jesus expect a gradual coming of the kingdom, or did he conceive of it as breaking in suddenly by the immediate act of god? and ( ) did jesus regard the kingdom as purely future, or as already begun? in answer to the first question, while there are undoubtedly numerous and explicit sayings, too much neglected in the past and not to be wholly explained by mere orientalism, suggesting a sudden and miraculous coming, these must be taken in connection with the many other passages implying a gradual process--passages of deep ethical import which seem to colour our lord's entire view of life and its purposes. and in answer to the second question, while there are not a few utterances which certainly point to a future consummation, these are not inconsistent with the immediate inauguration and gradual development of the kingdom. a full discussion of this subject is beyond the scope of this volume.[ ] there are, however, two objections which may be taken to the apocalyptic interpretation of christ's teaching as a whole. ( ) as presented by its most pronounced champions, this view seems to empty the person and teaching of jesus of their originality and universality. it tends to reduce the son of man to the level of a jewish rhapsodist, whose whole function was to encourage his countrymen to look away from the present scene of duty to some future state of felicity, which had no connection with the world of reality, and no bearing upon their present character. it would be surely a caricature to interpret the religion of the new testament from this standpoint alone to the exclusion of those directly ethical and spiritual { } principles in which its originality chiefly appeared, and on which its permanence depends.[ ] as bousset[ ] points out, not renunciation but joy in life is the characteristic thing in jesus' outlook. he does not preach a gloomy asceticism, but proclaims a new righteousness and a new type of duty. he recognises the worth of the present life, and teaches that the world's goods are not in themselves bad. he came as a living man into a dead world, and by inculcating a living idea of god and proclaiming the divine fatherhood gave a new direction and inner elevation to the expectations of his age, showing the true design of god's revelation and the real meaning of the prophetic utterances of the past. to interpret the kingdom wholly from an eschatological point of view would involve a failure to apprehend the spiritual greatness of the personality with which we are dealing.[ ] ( ) this view virtually makes christ a false prophet. for, as a matter of fact, the sudden and catastrophic coming of the kingdom as predicted by the hebrew apocalyptics did not take place. on the contrary the kingdom of god came not as the jews expected in a sudden descent from the clouds, but in the slow and progressive domination of god over the souls and social relationships of mankind. in view of the whole spirit of jesus, his conception of god, and his relation to human life, as well as the attitude of st. paul to the parousia, it is critically unsound to deny that jesus believed in the presence of the kingdom in a real sense during his lifetime.[ ] . if this conception of the kingdom of god be correct we may now proceed to regard it under three aspects, present, progressive, and future--as a _gift_ immediately bestowed by jesus, as a _task_ to be worked out by man in the history of the world, and as a _hope_ to be consummated by god in the future. { } ( ) _the kingdom as a present reality_.--after what has been already said it will not be necessary to dwell upon this aspect. it might be supported by direct sayings of our lord.[ ] but the whole tenor and atmosphere of the gospels, the uniqueness of christ's personality, his claim to heal disease and forgive sin, as well as the conditions of entrance, imply clearly that in jesus' own view the kingdom was an actual fact inaugurated by him and obtaining its meaning and power from his own person and influence. obviously he regarded himself as the bearer of a new message of life, and the originator of a new reign of righteousness and love which was to have immediate application. christ came to make god real to men upon the earth, and to win their allegiance to him at once. no one can fail to recognise the lofty idealism of the son of man. he carries with him everywhere a vision of the perfect life as it exists in the mind of god, and as it will be realised when these earthly scenes have passed away; yet it would be truer to say that his interests were in 'first things' rather than in 'last things,' and would be more justly designated protology than eschatology.[ ] his mission, so far from having an iconoclastic aim, was really to 'make all things new.' he was concerned with the initiation of a new religion, therefore with a movement towards a regeneration of society which would be virtually a reign of god in the hearts of men. 'the kingdom of god is within you.' not in some spot remote from the world, some beautiful land beyond the skies, but in the hearts and homes, in the daily pursuits and common relationships of life must god rule. the beatitudes, while they undoubtedly refer to a future when a fuller realisation of them will be enjoyed, have a present reference as well. they make the promise of the kingdom a present reality dependent upon the inner state of the recipients. not in change of environment but in change { } of heart does the kingdom consist. the lowly and the pure in heart, the merciful and the meek, the seekers after righteousness and the lovers of peace are, in virtue of their disposition and aspiration, already members. ( ) the kingdom as a _gradual development_.--the inward gift prescribes the outward task. it is a power commanding the hearts of men and requiring for its realisation their response. it might be argued that this call to moral effort presented to the first christians was not a summons to transform the present world, but to prepare themselves for the destiny that awaited them in the coming age.[ ] it is true that watchfulness, patience, and readiness are among the great commands of the new testament.[ ] but admitting the importance of these requirements, they do not militate against the view that christians were to work for the betterment of the world. christ did not look upon the world as hopeless and beyond all power of reclaiming; nor did he regard his own or his disciples' ministry within it as without real and positive effects. while his contemporaries were expecting some mighty intervention that would suddenly bring the kingdom ready-made from heaven, he saw it growing up silently and secretly among men. he took his illustrations from organic life. its progress was to be like the seed hidden in the earth, and growing day and night by its own inherent germinating force. the object of the parables of the sower, the tares, the mustard seed, the leaven, was to show that the crude catastrophic conception of the coming of the kingdom must give place to the deeper and worthier idea of growth--an idea in harmony with the entire economy of god's working in the world of nature. in the parable of the fruit-bearing earth jesus shows his faith in the growth of the good, and hence in the adaptation of the truth to the human soul. in the parables of the leaven, the light, and salt jesus illustrates the gradual power of truth to pervade, illumine, and purify the life of humanity. his method of bringing about this { } good is the contagion of the good life. his motive is the sense of the need of men. and his goal is the establishment of the kingdom of love--a kingdom in which all the problems of ambition, wealth, and the relationships of the family, of the industrial sphere, and of the state, are to be transfigured and spiritualised.[ ] it is surely no illegitimate application of the mind of christ if we see in his teaching concerning the kingdom a great social ideal to be realised by the personal activities and mutual services of its citizens. it finds its field and opportunity in the realm of human society, and is a good to be secured in the larger life of humanity. this ideal, though only dimly perceived by the early church, has become gradually operative in the world, and has been creative of all the great liberating movements in history. it lay behind dante's vision of a spiritual monarchy, and has been the inspiring motive of those who, in obedience to christ, have wrought for the uplifting of the hapless and the down-trodden. it has been the soul of all mighty reformations, and is the source of that conception of a new social order which has begun to mean so much for our generation. loyalty to the highest and love for the lowest--love to god and man--these are the marks of the men of all ages who have sought to interpret the mind of christ. mutual service is the law of the kingdom. every man has a worth for christ, therefore reverence for the personality of man, and the endeavour to procure for each full opportunity of making the most of his life, are at once the aim and goal of the new spiritual society of which christ laid the foundations in his own life and ministry. everything that a man is and has, talents and possessions of every kind, are to be used as instruments for the promotion of the kingdom of god. 'for life, with all it yields of joy and woe, and hope and fear . . . is just our chance o' the prize of learning love.' { } ( ) but though the reign of god has begun, it has _yet to be consummated_.--there is not wanting in the new testament an element of futurity and expectancy not inconsistent with, but rather complementary to, the notion of gradual development. the eschatological teaching of jesus has its place along with the ethical, and may be regarded not as annulling, but rather reinforcing the moral ideals which he proclaimed.[ ] there is nothing pessimistic in christ's outlook. his teaching concerning the last things, while inculcating solemnity and earnestness of life as become those to whom has been entrusted a high destiny, and who know not at what hour they may be called to give an account of their stewardship,[ ] bids men look forward with certainty and hope to a glorious consummation of the kingdom. though many of our lord's sayings with regard to his second coming are couched in figurative language, we cannot believe that he intended to teach that the kingdom itself was to be brought about in a spectacular or material way. he bids his disciples take heed lest they be deceived by a visible christ, or led away by merely outward signs.[ ] his coming is to be as 'the lightning which cometh out of the east and shineth even unto the west'[ ]--an emblem not so much of suddenness as of illuminating and convincing, and especially, of progressive force. not in a visible reign or personal return of the son of man does the consummation of the kingdom consist, but in the complete spiritual sovereignty of christ over the hearts and minds of men. when the same love which he himself manifested in his life becomes the feature of his disciples; when his spirit of service and sacrifice pervades the world, and the brotherhood of man and the federation of nations everywhere prevail; then, indeed, shall the sign of the son of man appear in the heavens, and then shall the tribes of { } the earth see him coming in the clouds with power and glory.[ ] jesus does not hesitate to say that there will be a final judgment and an ingathering of the elect from all quarters of the earth.[ ] there will be, as the parable of the ten virgins suggests, a division and a shut door.[ ] but punishment will be automatic. sin will bring its own consequences. those only will be excluded at the last who even now are excluding themselves. for christ is already here, and is judging the world every day. by the common actions of their present life men are being tried; and that which will determine their final relation to christ will not be their mere perception of his bodily presence, but their moral and spiritual likeness to him. amidst the imperfections of the present men have ever looked forward to some glorious consummation, and have lived and worked in the faith of it. 'to the prophets of israel it was the new age of righteousness; to the greek thinkers the world of pure intelligible forms; to augustine and dante the holy theocratic state; to the practical thought of our own time the renovated social order. each successive age will frame its own vision of the great fulfilment; but all the different ideals can find their place in the message of the kingdom which was proclaimed by jesus.'[ ] there is thus opened to our vision a splendid conception of the future of humanity. it stands for all that is highest in our expectations because it is already expressive of all that is best in our present achievements and endeavours. the final hope of mankind requires for its fulfilment a progressive moral discipline. only as christ's twofold command--love to god and love to man--is made the all-pervasive rule of men's lives will the goal of a universally perfected humanity be attained. { } iii the chief good may be regarded finally in its _divine_ aspect--as the endeavour after god-likeness. in this third form of the ideal the two others--the personal and the social--are harmonised and completed. to realise the perfect life as it is revealed in the character and will of god is the supreme aim of man, and it embraces all that is conceivably highest for the individual and for humanity as a whole. this aspiration finds its most explicit expression in the sublime word of christ--'be ye perfect even as your father in heaven is perfect.'[ ] this commandment, unlike so many generalisations of duty, is no cold abstraction. it is pervaded with the warmth of personality and the inspiration of love. in the idea of fatherhood both a standard and motive are implied. because god is our father it is at once natural and possible for us to be like him. he who would imitate another must have already within him something of that other. as there is a community of nature which makes it possible for the child to grow into the likeness of its parent, so there is a kinship in man with god to which our lord here appeals. . among the ethical qualities of divine perfection set forth in scripture for man's imitation _holiness_ stands preeminent. god, the perfect being, is the type of holiness, and men are holy in proportion as their lives are godlike. this conception of holiness is fundamental in the old testament. it is summed up in a command almost identical with that of our lord: 'be ye holy, for i am holy.'[ ] holiness, as christianity understands it, is the name for the undimmed lustre of god's ethical perfection. god is 'the holy one'--the alone 'good' in the absolute sense.[ ] if god's character consists in 'holiness,' then that quality determines the moral end of man. but holiness, as the most comprehensive name for the divine moral perfection--the pure white light of god's being--breaks up into the { } separate rays which we designate the special moral attributes. these have been grouped under 'righteousness' (truth, faithfulness, justice, zeal, etc.), and 'love' (goodness, pity, mercy, etc.), though they are really but expressions of one individual life.[ ] . in the new testament _righteousness_ is almost equivalent to holiness. it is the attribute of god which determines the nature of his kingdom and the condition of man's entrance into it. as comprising obedience to the will of god and the fulfilment of the moral law, it is the basal and central conception of the christian ideal.[ ] it is the keynote of the pauline epistles. life has a supreme sacredness for paul because the righteousness of god is its end. while righteousness is the distinctive note of the pauline conception, it is also fundamental in the ethics of jesus. it is the ruling thought in the sermon on the mount. to be righteous for jesus simply means to be right and true--to be as one ought to be. but human standards are insufficient. a man must order his life by the divine standard. jesus is as emphatic as any old testament prophet in insisting upon the need of absolute righteousness. that, for all who would share in the kingdom of the good, is to be their ideal--the object of their hunger and thirst. it is a 'good' which is essential to the very satisfaction and blessedness of the soul.[ ] it is the supreme desire of the man who would be at peace with god. it involves poverty of spirit, for only those who are emptied of self are conscious of their need. they who, in humility and meekness, acknowledge their sins, are in the way of holiness and are already partakers of the divine nature. christ's teaching in regard to righteousness has both a negative and a positive aspect. it was inevitable that he should begin with a criticism of the morality inculcated by the leaders of his day. the characteristic feature of pharisaism was, as christ shows, its _externalism_. if a man fulfilled the outward requirements of the law he was { } regarded as holy, by himself and others, whatever might be the state of his heart towards god. this outwardness tended to create certain vices of character. foremost amongst these were ( ) _vanity_ or ostentation. to appear well in the opinion of others was the aim of pharisaic conduct. along with ostentation appears ( ) _self-complacency_. flattery leads to self-esteem. he who loves the praise of man naturally begins to praise himself. as a result of self-esteem arises ( ) _censoriousness_, since he who thinks well of himself is apt to think ill of others. as a system pharisaism was wanton hypocrisy--a character of seeming righteousness, but too often of real viciousness. but christ came not to destroy but to fulfil the law.[ ] his aim was to proclaim the true principles of righteousness in contrast to the current notions of it. this he proceeds to do by issuing the law in its ideal and perfected form.[ ] hence jesus unfolds its _positive_ content by bringing into prominence the virtues of the godly character as opposed to the pharisaic vices. _modesty_ and _humility_ are set over against ostentation and self-righteousness.[ ] _single-minded sincerity_ is commended in opposition to hypocrisy.[ ] the vice of censoriousness is met by the duty of _self-judgment_ rather than the judgment of others.[ ] the two positive features of the new law of righteousness as expounded by jesus are--_inwardness_ and _spontaneity_. the righteousness of the gospel, so far from being laxer or easier of fulfilment, was actually to exceed that of the pharisees:[ ] (_a_) in _depth and inwardness_. it is not enough not to kill or steal or commit adultery. these commandments may be outwardly kept yet inwardly broken. something more radical is expected of the man who has set before him the doing of god's will, a righteousness not of appearance but of reality. (_b_) in _freedom and spontaneity_. it is to have its spring in the heart. it is to be a righteousness not of servile obedience, but of willing devotion. the aim of life is no longer the painful effort of the bondsman who { } strives to perform a distasteful task, but the gladsome endeavour of the son who knows and does, because he loves, his father's will. in the ethics of the christian life there is no such thing as mere duty; for a man never fulfils his duty till he has done more than is legally required of him. 'whosoever shall compel you to go with him one mile, go with him twain.'[ ] the 'nicely calculated less or more' is alien to the spirit of him who would do god's will. love is the fulfilling of the law, and love knows nothing of limits. . thus the holiness of god is manifested not in righteousness only, but in the attribute of love. the human mind can attain to no higher conception of the divine character than that which the word 'love' suggests. the thought is the creation of christianity. it was the special contribution of one of the innermost circle of jesus' disciples to give utterance to the new vision of the divine nature which christ had disclosed--'god is love.'[ ] in our lord's teaching the centre of gravity is entirely changed. the jewish idea of god is enriched with a fuller content. he is still the holy one, but the sublimity of his righteousness, though fully recognised, is softened by the gentler radiance of love.[ ] jehovah the sovereign is revealed as god the father. divine righteousness is not simply justice, but goodness manifested in far-reaching activities of mercy and pity and benevolence. a new note is struck in the ethics of jesus. a new relationship is established between god and man--a personal filial relationship which entirely alters man's conception of life. to be perfect as our father in heaven is perfect, to be, and embody in life all that love means, that is the sublime aim which jesus in his own person and teaching sets before the world. as god's love is universal, and his care and compassion world-wide, so, says christ, not by retaliation or even by the performance of strict justice, but in loving your enemies, in returning good for evil and extending your acts of helpfulness and charity to those 'who know not, care not, think { } not, what they do,' shall ye become the children of your father, and realise something of that divine pattern of every man which has been shown him on the holy mount. if the view presented in this chapter of the ethical ideal of christianity be correct, then the doctrine of an _interims-ethik_ advocated by modern eschatologists must be pronounced unsatisfactory as a complete account of the teaching of jesus.[ ] the three features which stand out most clearly in the ethics of christ are, absoluteness, inwardness, and universality. it is an ideal for man as man, for all time, and for all men. the personality of god represents the highest form of existence we know; and the love of god is the sublimest attribute we can conceive. but because god is our father there is a kinship between the divine and the human; and no higher or grander vision of life is thinkable than to be like god--to share that which is most distinctive of the divine fatherhood--his love of all mankind. hence godlikeness involves brotherhood.[ ] in the ideal of love--high as god, broad as the world--the other aspects of the chief good, the individual and the social, are harmonised. in christian ethics, the problem of philosophy how to unite the one and the many, egoism and altruism, has been practically solved. the individual realises his life only as he finds himself in others; and this he can only do as he finds himself in god. the first and last word of all morality and religion is summed up in christ's twofold law of love: 'thou shalt love the lord thy god with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind; and thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.'[ ] [ ] cf. troeltsch, _die sociallehren d. christl. kirchen_, vol. i. p. , where the idea of self-worth and self-consecration is worked out. [ ] wernle, _beginnings of christianity_, vol. i. p. . [ ] wernle, _beginnings of christianity_, pp. f. [ ] john x. . [ ] luke xii. , . [ ] matt. v. [ ] matt. vi. . [ ] john ii. . [ ] luke x. ; matt. xi. - ; mark viii. ; john iii. , x. , xvii. . [ ] john xvii. . [ ] rom. xii. . [ ] matt. xix. . [ ] luke xvii. ; john xii. . [ ] bailey, _festus_. [ ] browning. [ ] jones, _browning as a philosophical and religious teacher_, p. . [ ] abt vogler. [ ] cf. balch, _introd. to the study of christian ethics_, p. . [ ] newman smyth, _christian ethics_, p. . [ ] balch, _introd. to the study of christian ethics_, p. . [ ] see apocalypses of baruch, esdras, enoch, and pss. of solomon, and also daniel and ezekiel. cf. e. f. scott, _the kingdom and the messiah_, for apoc. literature. [ ] j. weiss, _die predigt jesu vom reiche gottes_. cf. also wernle, _die anfänge unsurer religion_, who is not so pronounced. bousset rejects this view, and titius, in his _n. t. doctrine of blessedness_, regards the kingdom of god as a present good. see also moffatt, _the theology of the gospels_. [ ] cf. dobschütz, _the eschatology of the gospels_, also schweitzer, _op. cit._, and sanday, _the life of christ in recent research_, e. scott, _the kingdom of god and the messiah_, and moffatt, _op. cit._ [ ] cf. barbour, _a philos. study of chr. ethics_, p. . [ ] 'jesu predigt in ihrem gegensatz zum judenthum.' [ ] cairns, _christianity in the mod. world_, p. . see schweitzer, _the quest of the historical jesus_, for advocates and opponents of this view, pp. ff. cf. also troeltsch, _op. cit._, vol. i. p. . [ ] cf. moffatt, _op. cit._ [ ] luke iv. , xvii. ; matt. xii. , xi. - , xi. ; luke xvi. . cf. also matt. xiii. - . [ ] our lord never uses the word 'final' or 'last' of anything concerning the kingdom. only in the fourth gospel do we find the phrase 'the last day.' see art., _contemporary review_, sept. . [ ] the view of weiss. [ ] luke xii. ; matt xxiv. ; mark xiii. ; tim. ii. . [ ] king, _the ethics of jesus_, p. . [ ] mark xiii. - has been called the 'little apocalypse' and the hypothesis has been thrown out that a number of verses (fifteen in all) form a document by themselves, 'a fly leaf put into circulation before the fall of jerusalem, and really incorporated by the evangelist himself. see sanday, art., _hibbert journal_, oct. , and _life of christ in recent research_. [ ] matt. xxiv. . [ ] matt. xxiv. . [ ] matt. xxiv. . [ ] matt. xxiv. . [ ] matt. xxiv. . [ ] matt. xxv. [ ] e. f. scott, _the kingdom and the messiah_, p. . [ ] matt. v. . [ ] lev. iv. , xix. . [ ] mark x. . [ ] cf. orr, _sin as a problem of to-day_, chap. iii. [ ] cf. jacoby, _neu-testamentliche ethik_, p. . [ ] matt. v. f. [ ] matt. v. . [ ] matt. v. . [ ] matt. vi. - . [ ] matt. vi. - . [ ] matt. vii. - . [ ] matt. v. . [ ] matt. v. . [ ] john iv. , . [ ] john xvii. ; heb. x. ; rev. xv. . [ ] cf. e. digges la touche, _the person of christ in modern thought_, pp. ff. [ ] john iv. . [ ] matt. xxii. . { } chapter ix the standard and motive of the new life in every system of ethics the three ideas of end, norm, and motive are inseparable. christian ethics is unique in this respect that it presents not merely a code of morals, but an ideal of good embodied in a person who is at once the pattern and inspiration of the new life. in this chapter we propose to consider these two elements of the good. _christ as example_.--the value of 'concrete examples' has been frequently recognised in non-christian systems. in the 'philosopher king' of plato, the 'expert' of aristotle, and the 'wise man' of the stoics we have the imaginary embodiment of the ideal. a similar tendency is apparent in modern theories. comte invests the abstract idea of 'humanity' with certain personal perfections for which he claims homage. but what other systems have conceived in an imaginative form only, christianity has realised in an actual person. the example of christ is not a separate source of authority independent of his teaching, but rather its witness and illustration. word and deed in jesus are in full agreement. he was what he taught, and every truth he uttered flowed directly from his inner nature. he is the prototype and expression of the 'good' as it exists in the mind of god, as well as the perfect representative and standard of it in human life. in him is manifested for all time what is meant by the good. { } . if christ is the normative standard of life it is extremely important to obtain a true perception of him as he dwelt among men. but too often have theology and art presented a christ embellished with fantastic colours or obscured by abstract speculations. recently, however, there has been a revival of interest in the actual life of jesus. men are turning wistfully to the life of the master for guidance in practical matters, and it is beginning to dawn upon the world that the highest ideals of manhood were present in the carpenter of nazareth. we must therefore go back to the gospels if we would know what manner of man jesus was. the difficulty of presenting the man christ jesus as the eternal example to the world must have been almost insurmountable; and we are at once struck with two remarkable features of the synoptics' portrayal of him. ( ) the writers make no attempt to produce a work of art. they never dream that they are drawing a model for all men to copy. there is no effort to touch up or tone down the portrait. they simply reflect what they see without admixture of colours of their own. hence the paradox of his personality--the intense humanness and yet the mystery of godliness ever and anon shining through the commonest incidents of his life. ( ) even more remarkable than the absence of subjectivity on the part of the evangelists is the unconsciousness of jesus that he is being portrayed as an example. we do not receive the impression that the son of man was consciously living for the edification of the world. his mental attitude is not that of an actor playing a part, but of a true and genuine man living his own life and fulfilling his own purpose. there is no seeming or display. goodness to be effectual as an example must be unconscious goodness. we are impressed everywhere with the perfect naturalness and spontaneity of all that christ did and uttered.[ ] the character of jesus has been variously interpreted, and it is one of the evidences of his moral greatness that each age has emphasised some new aspect of his { } personality. in a nature so rich and complex it is difficult to fix upon a single category from which may be deduced the manifold attributes of his character. two conceptions of jesus have generally prevailed down the centuries. one view interprets his character in terms of asceticism; the other in terms of aestheticism.[ ] some regard him as the representative of hebrew sorrow and sacrifice; others see in him the type of hellenic joy and geniality. there are passages in scripture confirmatory of both impressions. on the one hand, there is a whole series of virtues of the passive order which are utterly alien to the greek ideal; and, on the other hand, there is equally prominent a tone of tranquil gladness, of broad sympathy with, and keen appreciation of, the beautiful in nature and life which contrasts with the spirit of hebrew abnegation. but, after all, neither of these traits reveals the secret of jesus. joy and sorrow are but incidents in life. they have only moral value as the vehicles of a profounder spiritual purpose. to help every man to realise the fullness and perfection of his being as a child of god is the aim of his life and ministry, and everything that furthers this end is gratefully recognised by him as a good. he neither courts nor shuns pain. neither joy nor sorrow is for him an end in itself. both are but incidents upon the way of holiness and love which he had chosen to travel. . everywhere there was manifest in the life and teaching of jesus a note of _self-mastery and authority_ which impressed his contemporaries and goes far to explain and unify the various features of his personality and influence. it is remarkable to notice how often the word 'power' is applied to jesus in the new testament.[ ] whether we regard his attitude to god, or his relation to others, it is this note of quiet strength, of vital moral force which arrests our attention. it will be sufficient to mention in passing three directions in which this quality of power is manifest. { } ( ) it is revealed in the consciousness of a _divine mission_. he goes steadily forward with the calmness of one who knows himself and his work. he has no fear or hesitancy. courage, earnestness, and singleness of purpose mark his career. he is conscious that his task has been given him by god, and that he is the chosen instrument of his father's will. life has a greatness and worth for him because it may be made the manifestation and vehicle of the divine purpose. ( ) his power is revealed again in the _realisation of holiness_. holiness is to be differentiated, on the one hand, from innocence; and, on the other, from sinlessness. innocence is untried goodness; sinlessness is negative goodness; holiness is achieved and victorious goodness. it was not mere absence of sin that distinguished jesus. his was a purity won by temptation, an obedience perfected through suffering, a peace and harmony of soul attained not by self-suppression, but by the consecration of his unfolding life to the will of god. ( ) his power is manifested once more in his _sympathy with man_. his purity was pervasive. it flowed forth in acts of love. he went about doing good, invading the world of darkness and sorrow with light and joy. it is the wealth of his interests and the variety of his sympathy which give to the ministry of the son of man its impressiveness and charm. with gladness as with grief, with the playfulness of childhood and the earnestness of maturity, with the innocent festivities and the graver pursuits of his fellow-men, with the cares of the rich and the trials of the poor, he disclosed the most intimate and tender feeling. his parables show that he had an open and observant eye for all the life around him. to every appeal he responded with an insight and delicacy of consideration which betokened that he himself had sounded the depths of human experience and knew what was in man. humour, irony, and pathos in turn are revealed in his human intercourse. but while jesus delighted to give of himself freely he knew also how to withhold himself. there can be no true { } sympathy without restraint. the passive virtues--meekness, patience, forbearance--which appear in the life of christ are 'not the signs of mere self-mortification, they are the signs of power in reserve. they are the marks of one who can afford to wait, who expects to suffer; and that not because he is simply meek and lowly, but because he is also strong and calm.'[ ] the new testament depicts jesus as made in the likeness of men, whose life, though unique in some of its aspects, was in its general conditions normal, passing through the ordinary stages of growth, and participating in the common experiences of mankind. he had to submit to the same laws and limitations of the universe as we have. there was the same call, in his case as in ours, to obedience and endurance. there was the same demand for moral decision. temptation, suffering, and toil, which mean so much for man in the discipline of character, were factors also in the spiritual development of christ. trust, prayer, thanksgiving were exercised by the son of man as by others; confession alone had no place in his life. . the question has been seriously asked, can the example and teaching of jesus be really adopted in modern life as the pattern and rule of conduct? is there not something strangely impracticable in his ethics; and, however admirably suited to meet the needs of his own time, utterly inapplicable to the complex conditions of society to-day? on the one hand, tolstoy would have us follow the example of jesus to the letter, and rigidly practise the precepts of the sermon on the mount, even to the extent of refusing to resist wrong and possess property, and of holding aloof from all culture and enterprise, and the interests of life generally. on the other hand, philosophers like paulsen and bradley, perceiving the utter impracticableness of tolstoy's contentions, yet at the same time recognising his attitude as the only consistent one if the imitation of christ is to have vogue at all, are convinced that the earthly life of jesus is not the model of our { } age, and that to attempt to carry out his precepts consistently would be not only impossible but injurious to all the higher interests of humanity.[ ] but this conclusion is based, it seems to us, upon a two-fold misapprehension. it is founded upon an inadequate interpretation of the life and teaching of christ; and also upon a wholly mechanical understanding of the meaning and value of example. ( ) what was christ's ideal of the christian life? was it that of the monk or the citizen?--the recluse who meditates apart on his own salvation, or the worker who enters the world and contributes to the betterment of mankind? is the kingdom of god a realm apart and separate from all the other domains of activity? or has christianity, according to its essence, room within it for an application of its truth to the complex relations and manifold interests of modern life? both views have found expression in the history of the church. but there can be little doubt as to which is the true interpretation of the mind of jesus.[ ] ( ) but, again, what is meant by the 'imitation of christ' has been also misconceived. imitation is not a literal mechanical copying. to make the character of another your model does not mean that you are to become his mimic or echo. in asking us to follow him, christ does not desire to suppress our individuality, but to enrich and ennoble it. when he says, on the occasion of the feet-washing of his disciples, 'i have given you an example, that ye should do as i have done to you,'[ ] obviously it was not the outward literal performance, but the spirit of humility and service embodied in the act which he desired his disciples to emulate. from another soul we receive incentives rather than rules. no teacher or master, says emerson, can { } realise for us what is good.[ ] within our own souls alone can the decision be made. we cannot hope to interpret the character of another until there be within our own breasts the same moral spirit from which we believe his conduct to proceed. the very nature of goodness forbids slavish reproduction. hence there is a certain sense in which the paradox of kant is true, that 'imitation finds no place at all in morality.'[ ] the question, 'what would jesus do?' as a test of conduct covers a quite inadequate conception of the intimate and vital relations christ bears to our humanity. 'it is not to copy after christ,' says a modern writer, 'but to receive his spirit and make it effective--which is the moral task of the christian.'[ ] christ is indeed our example, but he is more. and unless he were more he could not be so much. we could not strive to be like him if he were not already within us, the principle and spirit of our life, the higher and diviner self of every man. what is meant, then, by saying that christ is the ideal character or norm of life is that he represents to us human nature in its typical or ideal form. as we behold his perfection we feel that this is what we were made for, this is the true end of our being. every one may, in short, see in him the fulfilment of the divine idea and purpose of man--the conception and end of himself.[ ] ii _the christian motive_.--rightly regarded christ is not only the model of the new life, but its motive as well. all the great appeals of the gospel--every persuasion and plea by which god seeks to awaken a responsive love in the hearts of men--are centred in, and find expression through, the person and passion of christ. . the question of motive is a primary one in ethics. { } if, therefore, we ask, what is the deepest spring of action, what is the incentive and motive power for the christian? the answer is: ( ) the love of god, a love which finds its highest expression in _forgiveness_. of all motives the most powerful is the sense of being pardoned. even when it is only one human being who forgives another, nothing strikes so deep into the human heart or evokes penitence so tender and unreserved, or brings a joy so pure and lasting. it not only restores the old relation which wrong had dissolved; it gives the offender a sense of loyalty unknown before. he is now bound not by law but by honour, and it would be a disloyalty worse than the original offence if he wounded such love again. thus it is that god becomes the object of reverence and affection, not because he imposes laws upon us but because he pardons and redeems. the consciousness of forgiveness is far more potent in producing goodness than the consciousness of law. this psychological fact lay at the root of christ's ministry, and was the secret of his hope for man. this, too, is the key to all that is paradoxical, and, at the same time, to all that is most characteristic in st paul's gospel. what the law could not do, forgiveness achieves. it creates the new heart, and with it the new holiness. 'it is not anything statutory which makes saints out of sinful men; it is the forgiveness which comes through the passion of jesus.'[ ] ( ) next to the motive of forgiveness, and indeed arising from it, is the new consciousness of the _fatherhood of god_, and the corresponding idea of sonship. this was a motive to which jesus habitually appealed. he invariably sought not only to create in men confidence in god by revealing his fatherly providence, but also to lift them out of their apathy and thraldom by kindling in their souls a sense of their worth and liberty as sons of god. the same thought is prominent also in the epistles both of st. paul and st. john. as children of god we are no longer menials and hirelings who do their work merely for pay, and without { } intelligent interest, but sons who share our father's possessions and co-operate with him in his purposes.[ ] ( ) closely connected with the idea of sonship is that of life as a _divine vocation_. life is a trust, and as the children of god we are called to serve him with all we have and are. the sense of the vocation and stewardship of life acts as a motive: (_a_) in giving _dignity and stability_ to character, saving us, on the one hand, from fatalism, and on the other from fanaticism, and affording definiteness of purpose to all our endeavours; and (_b_) in promoting _sincerity and fidelity_ in our life-work. thoroughness will permeate every department of our conduct, since whatsoever we do in word or deed we do as unto god. all duty is felt to be one, and as love to god becomes its motive the smallest as well as the greatest act is invested with infinite worth. 'all service ranks the same with god.' ( ) another motive, prominent in the pauline epistles, but present also in the eschatological passages of the synoptics, ought to be mentioned, though it does not now act upon christians in the same form--_the shortness and uncertainty of life_. our lord enjoins men to work while it is day for the night cometh; and in view of the suddenness and unexpectedness of the coming of the son of man he exhorts to watchfulness and preparedness. a similar thought forms the background of the apostle's conception of life. his entire view of duty as well as his estimate of earthly things are tinged with the idea that 'the time is short,' and that 'the lord is at hand.' christians are exhorted, therefore, to sit lightly to all worldly considerations. our true citizenship is in heaven. but neither the apostle nor his master ever urges this fact as a reason for apathy or indifference. life may be brief, but it is not worthless. the thought of life's brevity must not act as an opiate, but rather as a stimulant. if our existence here is short, then there is all the greater necessity that its days should be nobly filled, and its transient opportunities seized and turned into occasions of strenuous service. { } ( ) to the considerations just mentioned must be added a cognate truth which has coloured the whole christian view of life, and has been a most powerful factor in shaping christian conduct--_the idea of immortality_. it is not quite correct to say that we owe this doctrine to christianity alone. long before the christian era it was recognised in egypt, greece, and the orient generally. but it was entertained more as a surmise than a conviction. and among the greeks it was little more than the shadowy speculation of philosophers. plato, in his _phaedo_, puts into the mouth of socrates utterances of great beauty and far-reaching import; yet, notwithstanding their sublimity, they scarcely attain to more than a 'perhaps.' even in hebrew literature, as we have seen, while isolated instances of a larger hope are not wanting, there is no confident or general belief in an after-life. but what was only guessed at by the ancients was declared as a fact by christ, and preached as a sublime and comforting truth by the apostles; and it is not too much to say that survival after death is at once the most distinctive doctrine of christianity and the most precious hope of christendom. the whole moral temperature of the world, says jean paul richter, has been raised immeasurably by the fact that christ by his gospel has brought life and immortality to light. this idea, which has found expression, not only in all the creeds of christendom, but also in the higher literature and poetry of modern times, has given a new motive to action, has founded a new type of heroism, and nerved common men and women to the discharge of tasks from which nature recoils. the assurance that death does not end existence, but that 'man has forever,' has not only exalted and transfigured the common virtues of humanity; but, held in conjunction with the belief in the divine fatherhood and human brotherhood, given to life itself a new solemnity and pathos.[ ] . but if these are the things which actuate men in their service of god and man, can it be legitimately said that the christian motive is pure and disinterested? it is { } somewhat remarkable that two opposite charges have been brought against christian ethics.[ ] in one quarter the reproach has been made that christianity suppresses every natural desire for happiness, and inculcates a life of severe renunciation. and with equally strong insistence there are others who find fault with it because of its hedonism, because it rests morality upon an appeal to selfish interests alone. ( ) the first charge is sufficiently met, we think, by our view of the christian ideal. we have seen that it is a full rich life which christ reveals and commends. the kingdom of god finds its realisation, not in a withdrawal from human interests, but in a larger and fuller participation in all that makes for the highest good of humanity. it is a caricature of christ's whole outlook upon existence to represent him as teaching that this life is an outlying waste, forsaken of god and unblessed, and that the world is so hopelessly bad that it must be wholly renounced. on the contrary, it is for him one of the provinces of the divine kingdom, and the most trivial of our occupations and the most transient of our joys and sorrows find their place in the divine order. it is not necessary to endorse renan's idyllic picture of the galilean ministry to believe that for jesus all life, its ordinary engagements and activities, had a worth for the discipline and perfecting of character, and were capable of being consecrated to the highest ends. there are, indeed, not a few passages in which the call to self-denial is emphasised. but neither christ nor his apostles represent pain and want as in themselves efficacious or meritorious. renunciation is inculcated not for its own sake, but always as a means to fuller realisation. jesus, indeed, transcends the common antithesis of life. for him it is not a question as to whether asceticism or non-asceticism is best. life is for use. it is at once a trust and a privilege. it may seem to some that he chose 'the primrose path,' but if he did so it was not due to an easy-going good-nature. we dare not forget the terrible issues { } he faced without flinching. as professor sanday has finely said, 'if we are to draw a lesson in this respect from our lord's life, it certainly would not be that "he who lets his feelings run in soft luxurious flow, shrinks when hard service must be done, and faints at every woe." it would be rather that the brightest and tenderest human life must have a stern background, must carry with it the possibility of infinite sacrifice, of bearing the cross and the crown of thorns.'[ ] ( ) the second charge, the charge of hedonism, though seemingly opposed to the first, comes into line with it in so far as it is alleged that christianity, while inculcating renunciation in this world, does so for the sake of happiness in the next. it is contended that in regard to purity of motive the ethics of christianity falls below the ethics of philosophy.[ ] this statement, so often repeated, requires some examination. . while it may be acknowledged that unselfishness and disinterestedness are the criterion of moral sublimity, it must be noted at the outset that considerable confusion of thought exists as to the meaning of motive. even in those moral systems in which virtue is represented as wholly disinterested, the motive may be said to reside in the object itself. the maxim, 'virtue for virtue's sake,' really implies what may be called the 'interest of achievement.' if virtue has any meaning it must be regarded as a 'good' which is desirable. perseverance in the pursuit of any good implies the hope of success; in other words, of the reward which lies in the attainment of the object desired. the reward sought may not be foreign to the nature of virtue itself, but none the less, the idea of reward is present, and, in a sense, is the incentive to all virtuous endeavour. this is, indeed, implied by a no less rigorous { } moralist than kant. for as he himself teaches, the question, 'what should i do?' leads inevitably to the further question, 'what may i hope?'[ ] the end striven after cannot be a matter of indifference, if virtue is to have moral value at all. it must be a real and desirable end--an end which fulfils the purpose of a man as a moral being. ( ) but though kant insists with rigorous logic that reverence for the majesty of the moral law must be the only motive of duty, and that all motives springing from personal desire or hope of happiness must be severely excluded, it is curious to find that in the second part of his _critique of practical reason_ he proceeds, with a strange inconsistency, to make room for the other idea, viz., that virtue is not without its reward, and is indeed united in the end with happiness. felicity and holiness shall be ultimately one, he says; and, at the last, virtue shall be seen 'to be worthy of happiness,' and happiness shall be the crown of goodness.[ ] thus those philosophers, of whom kant is typical, who contend for the purity of the moral motive and the disinterested loyalty to the good, bring in, at the end, the notion of happiness, which, as a concomitant or consequence of virtue, cannot fail to be also an active incentive. ( ) when we turn to christian ethics we find that here, not less than in philosophical ethics, the motive lies in the object itself. the end and the motive are really one, and the highest good is to be sought for itself and not for the sake of some ulterior gain. it is true, indeed, that christianity has not always been presented in its purest form; too often have prudence, fear, other-worldliness been set forth as inducements to goodness, as if the gospel cared nothing for the disposition of a man, and was concerned only with his ultimate happiness. even a moralist so acute as paley bases morality upon no higher ground than enlightened self-interest. but the most superficial reader of the gospels must see at a glance the wide variance between such a view and that of christ. nothing could be further from the spirit of jesus than to estimate the { } excellence of an action by the magnitude or the utility of its effects rather than the intrinsic good of its motive. otherwise he would not have ranked the widow's mite above the gifts of vanity, nor esteemed the tribute of the penitent, not so much for the costliness of her offering, as for the sincerity of affection it revealed. christ looked upon the heart alone, and the worth of an action lay essentially for him in its inner quality. sin resided not merely in the overt act, but even more in the secret desire. a man may be outwardly blameless, and yet not really good. he who remains sober or honest simply because of the worldly advantages attaching to such conduct may obtain a certificate of respectability from society; but, judged by the standard of christ, he is not truly a moral man. in an age which is too prone to make outward propriety the gauge of goodness, it cannot be sufficiently insisted upon that the ethic of christianity is an ethic of the inner motive and intention, and that, in this respect, it does not fall a whit behind the demand of the most rigid system of disinterested morality. (_a_) it must, however, be freely admitted that our lord frequently employs the sanctions both of rewards and penalties. in the time of christ the idea of reward, so prominent in the old testament, still held an important place in jewish religion, being specially connected with the messianic hope and the coming of the kingdom. it was not unnatural, therefore, that jesus, trained in hebrew religious modes of thought and expression, should frequently employ the existing conceptions as vehicles of his own teaching; but, at the same time, purifying them of their more materialistic associations and giving to them a richer spiritual content. while the kingdom of god is spoken of as a gift, and promised, indeed, as a reward, the word 'reward' in this connection is not used in the ordinary sense, but 'is rather conceived as belonging to the same order of spiritual experience as the state of heart and mind which ensures its bestowal.'[ ] though jesus does not { } hesitate to point his disciples to the blessings of heaven which they will receive in the future, these are represented for the most part not as material benefits, but as the intensification and enrichment of life itself.[ ] it was usually the difficulties rather than the advantages of discipleship upon which jesus first laid stress. he would not that any one should come to him on false pretences, or without fully counting the cost.[ ] even when he himself called his original disciples, it was of service and not of recompense he spoke. 'follow me, and i will make you fishers of men.'[ ] the privilege consisted not in outward éclat, but in the participation of the master's own purpose and work. still, all service carries with it its own reward, and no one can share the mission of christ without also partaking of that satisfaction and joy which are inseparable from the highest forms of spiritual ministry.[ ] there is, however, one passage recorded by all the synoptists which seems at first sight to point more definitely to a reward of a distinctly material character, and to one that was to be enjoyed not merely in the future, but even in this present life. when peter somewhat boastfully spoke of the sacrifice which he and his brethren had made for the gospel's sake, and asked, 'what shall we have therefor?' jesus replied, 'verily, i say unto you, that no man that hath left home, or brethren, or sisters, or mother, or father, or children, or lands, for my sake and the gospel's sake, but shall receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses and brethren, sisters and mothers, and children and lands, with persecutions; and in the world to come eternal life.'[ ] now, while this is a promise of wide sweep and large generosity, it is neither so arbitrary nor material as it seems. first, the words, 'with persecutions,' indicate that suffering is not only the very condition of the promise, but indeed an essential part of the reward--an element which would of itself be a true test of the sincerity of the sacrifice. { } but, second, even the promise, 'an hundredfold now in this time,' is obviously not intended to be taken in a literal sense, but rather as suggesting that the gain, while apparently of the same nature as the sacrifice, will have a larger spiritual import. for, just as jesus himself looked upon all who shared his own devotion as his mother and brethren; so, in the deepest sense, when a man leaves father and mother, renouncing home and family ties for the sake of bringing his fellow-men to god, he seems to be emptying his life of all affectionate relationships, but in reality he is entering into a wider brotherhood; and, in virtue of his ministry of love, is being knit in bonds stronger than those of earthly kinship, with a great and increasing community of souls which owe to him their lives.[ ] the promise is no arbitrary gift or bribe capriciously bestowed; it is the natural fruition of moral endeavour. for there is nothing so productive as sacrifice. what the man who yields himself to the service of christ actually gives is life; and what he gets back, increased an hundredfold, is just life again, his own life, repeated and reflected in the men and women whom he has won to christ. in some of his parables christ employs the analogy of the work-engagement, in which labour and payment seem to correspond. but the legal element has a very subordinate place in the simile. jesus lifts the whole relationship into a higher region of thought, and transforms the idea of wages into that of a gift of love far transcending the legal claim which can be made by the worker. he who has the bondsman's mind, and works only for the hireling's pay, will only get what he works for. but he who serves from love finds in the service itself that which must always be its truest recompense--the increased power of service, the capacity of larger devotion[ ]--'the wages of going on.'[ ] in his latest volume deissmann has pointed out that we can only do justice to the utterances of the new testament regarding work and wages by examining them _in situ_, { } amidst their natural surroundings. jesus and st. paul spoke with distinct reference to the life and habits of the common people of their day. 'if you elevate such utterances to the level of the kantian moral philosophy, and reproach primitive christianity with teaching for the sake of reward, you not only misunderstand the words, but tear them up by the roots.' . . . 'the sordid ignoble suggestions so liable to arise in the lower classes are altogether absent from the sayings of jesus and his apostles, as shown by the parable of the labourers in the vineyard, and the analogous reliance of st. paul solely upon grace.'[ ] the same inner relation subsists between sin and penalty. but here, again, the award of punishment is not arbitrary, but the natural consequence of disobedience to the law of the spiritual life. he who seeks to save his life shall lose it. he who makes this world his all shall receive as his reward only what this world can give. he who buries his talent shall, by the natural law of disuse, forfeit it. not to believe in christ is to miss eternal life. to refuse him who is the light of the world is to remain in darkness. ( ) an examination of the pauline epistles yields a similar conclusion. st. paul does not disdain to employ the sanctions of hope and fear. 'knowing the terrors of the lord' he persuades men, and 'because of the promises' he urges the corinthians 'to cleanse themselves and perfect holiness.' but in paul's case, as in that of our lord, the charge of hedonism is meaningless. for not only does the conception hold a most subordinate place in his teaching, but the idea loses the sense of merit, and is transmuted into that of a free gift. and in general, in all the passages where the hope of the future is introduced, the idea of reward is merged in the yearning for a fuller life, which the christian, who has once tasted of its joy here, may well expect in richer measure hereafter.[ ] enough has been said to clear christianity of the charge of hedonism. so far from christian ethics falling { } below philosophical ethics in regard to purity of motive, it really surpasses it in the sublimity of its sanctions. the kantian idea of virtue tends to empty the obligation of all moral content. goodness, as the philosopher himself came to see, cannot be represented as a mere impersonal abstraction. virtue has no meaning except in relation to its ultimate end. and life in union with a personal god, in whose image we have been made, is the end and purpose of man's being. noble as it may be to live morally without the thought of god, the man who so strives to live does not attain to such a high conception of life as he who lives with god for his object. motives advance with aims, and the higher the ideal the nobler the incentive. fear of future punishment and the desire for future happiness may prove effective aids to the will at certain stages of moral development, but ultimately the love of god and the beauty of holiness make every other motive superfluous. indeed, the reward of the christian life is such as can only appeal to one who has come to identify himself with the divine will. the christian man is always entering upon his reward. his joy is his master's joy. he has no other interest. his reward, both here and hereafter, is not some external payment, something separable from himself; it is wholly conditioned by what he is, and is simply his own growth of character, his increasing power of being good and doing good. and if it be still asked, what is the great inducement? what is it that makes the life of the christian worth living? the answer can only be--the hope of becoming what christ has set before man as desirable, of growing up to the stature of perfect manhood, of attaining to the likeness of jesus christ himself. but so far from this being a selfish aim, not to seek one's life in god--to be indifferent to all the inherent blessings and joys involved--would be not the mark of pure disinterestedness, but the evidence, rather, of a lack of appreciation of what life really means. the soul that has caught the vision of god and been thrilled with the grace of the son of man cannot but yield itself to the best it knows. [ ] cf. fairbairn, _the phil. of the ch. religion_, pp. ff. [ ] peabody, _christ and the christian character_, p. . [ ] peabody, _op. cit._, pp. f. [ ] peabody, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] see paulsen, _system der ethik_, pp. ff.; also troeltsch, _op. cit._, vol. ii. p. . [ ] cf. ehrhardt, _der grundcharacter d. ethik. jesu_, p. . 'the ascetic element in the ethics of jesus is its transient, the service of god its permanent element.' cf. also strauss, _leben jesu_, who speaks of 'the hellenic quality' in jesus; also keim, _jesus of nazareth, and troeltsch_, _op. cit._, vol. i. pp. ff. [ ] john xiii. . [ ] _conduct of life_. [ ] _metaphysics of ethics_, sect. ii. [ ] schultz, _grundriss d. evang. ethik_, p. . [ ] cf. _ecce homo_, chap. x. [ ] this thought has been beautifully worked out by prof. denney in _british weekly_, jan. , . [ ] luke xv. [ ] cf. knight, _the christian ethic_, p. . [ ] see haering, _ethics of the christian life_, p. . [ ] 'apocalyptic element in the gospels,' _hibbert journal_, oct. . [ ] the question of rewards has been fully discussed by jacoby, _neutestamentliche ethik_, pp. ff.; also barbour, _op. cit._, pp. ff. [ ] cf. _kritik d. prakt. vernunft_, p. . [ ] kant, _idem_. [ ] barbour, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] matt. v. , xix. , xxv. ; luke vi. , xviii. ; mark x. . [ ] mark viii. ; luke ix. . [ ] mark i. , ii. . [ ] luke xxii. f. [ ] mark x. - ; cf. matt. xix. - . [ ] this thought is finely elaborated by barbour. [ ] matt. xxv. ; luke xix. . [ ] tennyson, _wages_. [ ] deissmann, _light from the ancient east_, pp. ff. [ ] see also eph. vi. - ; cor. iii. ; rom. v. - , vi. , viii. . { } chapter x the dynamic of the new life in the dynamic power of the new life we reach the central and distinguishing feature of christian ethics. the uniqueness of christianity consists in its mode of dealing with a problem which all non-christian systems have tended to ignore--the problem of translating the ideal into life. the gospel not only sets before men the highest good, but it imparts the secret of realising it. the ideals of the ancients were but visions of perfection. they had no objective reality. beautiful as these old-time visions of 'good' were, they lacked impelling force, the power to change dreams into realities. they were helpless in the face of the great fact of sin. they could suggest no remedy for moral disease. christianity is not a philosophical dream nor the imagination of a few visionaries. it claims to be a new creative force, a power communicated and received, to be worked out and realised in the actual life and character of common men and women. in this chapter we have to consider the means whereby man is brought into a new spiritual relation with god, and enabled to live the new life as it has been revealed in christ. this reconciliation implies a twofold movement--a redemptive action on god's part, and an appropriating and determinative response on the part of man. i the divine power the urgent problem of the new testament writers was, how can man achieve that good which has been embodied { } in the life and example of jesus christ? a full answer to this question would lead us into the realm of dogmatic theology. and therefore, without entering upon details, it may be said at once that the originality of the gospel lies in this, that it not only reveals the good in a concrete and living form, but discloses the power which makes the good possible in the hitherto unattempted derivation of the new life from a new birth under the influence of the spirit of god. the power to achieve the moral life does not lie in the natural man. no readjustment of circumstances, nor spread of knowledge, is of itself equal to the task of creating that entirely new phenomenon--the christian character. there must be a cause proportionate to the effect. 'nothing availeth,' says paul, 'but a new creature.' this new condition owes its origin to god. it is a life communicated by an act of divine creative activity. but while this regenerative energy is represented generally as the work of god's spirit, it is more particularly set forth as operating through christ who is the power of god unto salvation. there are three great facts in christ's life with which the new testament connects the redemptive work of god. . _the incarnation_.--in christ god shares man's nature, and thus makes possible a union of the divine and human. on its divine side the incarnation is the complete revelation of god in human life, and on the human side it is the supreme expression of the spiritual meaning of human nature itself. christ saves not by a special act of atonement alone, but emphatically by manifesting in himself the union of god and man. in view of the fact of the world's sin, the incarnation, as the revelation of the divine life, includes a gracious purpose. it involves the sacrifice of god, which theologians designate by the theory of _kenosis_. the advent was not only the consummation of the religious history of the race; it was also the inauguration of a new era. the son of man initiated a new type of humanity, to be realised in increasing fullness as men entered into the meaning of the great revelation. 'he { } recapitulated in himself the long unfolding of mankind.'[ ] hence in the very fact of the word becoming flesh atonement is involved. in christ god is revealed in the reality of his love and the persistence of his search for man, while man is disclosed in the greatness of his vision and vocation. . _the death of christ_.--although already implied in the life, the atonement culminates in the death of christ. even by being made in the likeness of men jesus did not escape from, but willingly took up, the burdens of humanity and bore them as the son of man. but his passion upon the cross, as the supreme instance of suffering borne for others, at once illuminated and completed all that he suffered and achieved as man's representative. it is this aspect of christ's redemptive work upon which st. paul delights to dwell. and though naturally not so prominent in our lord's own teaching, yet even there the significance of the redeemer's death is foreshadowed, and in more than one passage explicitly stated.[ ] here we are in the region of dogmatics, and we are not called upon to formulate a doctrine of the atonement. all that we have to do with is the ethical fact that between man and the new life there lies the actuality of sin, the real source of man's failure to achieve righteousness, and the stumbling-block which must be removed before reconciliation with god the father can be effected. the act, at once divine and human, which alone meets the case is represented in scripture as the sacrifice of christ. in reference to the efficacy of the sacrifice upon the cross bishop butler says: 'how and in what particular way it had this efficacy, there are not wanting persons who have endeavoured to explain; but i do not find that the scripture has explained it.'[ ] though, indeed, the fact is independent of any theory, the truth for which the cross stands must be brought by us into some kind of intelligible relation with our view of the world, otherwise it is a piece of magic lying outside of our experience, and { } having no ethical value for life. at the same time no doctrine has suffered more from shallow theorisings, and particularly by the employment of mechanical, legal, and commercial analogies, than the doctrine of the atonement. the very essence of the religious life is incompatible with the idea of an external transference of goodness from one being to another. man can be reconciled to god only by an absolute surrender of himself to god. to assimilate this spiritual act to a commercial or legal transaction is to destroy the very idea of the moral life. no explanation, however, can be considered satisfactory which does not safeguard two ideas of a deeply ethical nature--the voluntariness and the vicariousness of christ's sacrifice. we must be careful to do justice, on the one hand, to the eternal relations in which christ stands to god; and on the other, to the intimate association with man into which jesus has entered. it is the task of theology to bring together the various passages of scripture, and exhibit their systematic connection and relative value for a doctrine of soteriology. for ethics the one significant fact to be recognised is that in a human life was fulfilled perfect obedience, even as far as death, a perfect obedience that completely met and fully satisfied the demand of the very highest, the divine ideal. . _the resurrection of christ_.--if the incarnation naturally issues in the sacrifice unto death, that again is crowned and sealed by christ's risen life. the resurrection is the vindication and completion of the redeemer's work. he who was born of the seed of david according to the flesh was declared to be the son of god by the resurrection. it was the certainty that he had risen that gave to his death, in the apostles' eyes, its sacrificial value. this was the ground of st. paul's conviction that the old order had passed away, and that a new order had been established. 'if christ be not risen ye are yet in your sins.' in virtue of his ascended life christ becomes the indwelling presence and living power within the regenerate man. it is in no external way that the redeemer exerts his influence. he is the principle of life working within the soul. the key { } to the new state is to be found in the mystical union of the christian with the risen lord. the twofold act of death and resurrection has its analogy in the experience of every redeemed man. within the secret sanctuary of the human soul that has passed from death to life, the history of the redeemer is re-enacted. in the several passages which refer to this subject the idea is that the changed life is based upon an ethical dying and rising again with christ.[ ] the christ within the heart is the vital principle and dynamic energy by which the believer lives and triumphs over every obstacle--the world, sin, sorrow, and death itself. 'i live, yet not i, but christ liveth in me.'[ ] all that makes life, 'life indeed'--an exalted, harmonious, and joyous existence--is derived from union with the living lord, who has come to be what he is for man by the earthly experiences through which he has passed. thus by his incarnation, death, and resurrection he is at once the source and goal, the spring and ideal of the new life. 'yea, thro' life, death, sorrow, and through sinning, he shall suffice me for he hath sufficed; christ is the end, for christ was the beginning; christ the beginning, for the end is christ.'[ ] theology may seek to analyse the personality of christ into its elements--the incarnation, death, and resurrection of jesus. but after all it is one and indivisible. it is the whole fact of christ, and not any particular experience taken in its isolation, which is the power of god unto salvation. the question still remains after all our analysis, what was it that gave to these events in the history of jesus their creative and transforming power? and the answer can only be--because christ was what he was. it was the unique character of the being of whom these were but the manifestations which wrought the spell. what bound the new testament christians to the cross was that their master hung there. they saw in that life lived among { } men, and in that sacrifice upon calvary, the perfect consummation of the ideal manhood that lived within their own hearts, and of the love, new upon the earth, which made it possible. the cross stood for the symbol of a truth that pierced to the inner core of their souls. 'he bore our sins.' and thus down the centuries, in their hour of shame, and grief, and death, men have lifted their eyes to the man of sorrows, and have found in his life and sacrifice, apart from all theories of atonement, their peace and triumph. it is this note of absolute surrender towards god and of perfect love for man which, because it answers to a deep yearning of the human heart, has given to the mystery of the incarnation and the cross its lifting and renewing power, ii the human response possession of power involves the obligation to use it. the force is given; it has to be appropriated. the spirit of christ is not offered in order to free a man from the duties of the moral life. man is not simply the recipient of divine energy. he has to make it his own and to work it out by his self-determinative activity. nevertheless the relation of the divine spirit to the human personality is a subject of great perplexity, involving the psychological problem of the connection of the divine and the human in life generally. if in the last resort god is the ultimate source of all life, the absolute being, who 'can rejoice in naught save only in himself and what himself hath wrought'; that truth must be held in harmony with the facts of divine immanence and human experience. the divine spirit holds within his grasp all reality, and by his self-communicating activity makes the world of nature and of life possible. but that being granted, how are we to conceive the relation of that spirit to man with his distinct individuality, with { } his sense of working out a future and a fate in which the absolute may indeed be fulfilling its purpose, but which are none the less man's own achievement? that is the crux of the problem. the outstanding fact which bears upon this problem is the general character of our experience, the growth of which is not the mere laying of additional material upon a passive subject by an external power, but is a true development, a process in which the subject is himself operative in the unfolding of his own potentialities. without dwelling further upon this question it may be well to bear in mind two points: ( ) the growth of experience is a gradual entrance into conscious possession of what we implicitly are and potentially have from the beginning. duty, for example, is not something alien from a man, something superimposed by a power not himself. it lies implicit in his nature as his ideal and vocation. the moral life is the life in which a man comes to 'know himself,' to apprehend himself as he truly is. ( ) in this development of experience we ourselves are active and self-organising. we are really making ourselves, and are conscious, that even while we are the instruments of a higher power, we are working out our own individuality, exercising our own freedom and determination.[ ] the teaching of the new testament is in full accord with this position. if, on the one hand, st. paul states that every moral impulse is due to the inspiration of god, no less emphatic is he in ascribing to man himself full freedom of action. 'the ethical sense of responsibility,' says johannes weiss,[ ] 'the energy for struggle, and the discipline of the will were not paralysed nor absorbed in paul's case by his consciousness of redemption and his profound spiritual experiences.' scripture lends no support to the idea which some forms of augustinian theology assume, that the divine spirit is an irresistible force acting from without upon man and superseding his exertions. it acts as an immanent moral power, not compelling or crushing the will, but quickening and inspiring its efforts. { } if we inquire what constitutes the subjective or human element in the making of the new life, we find that the new testament emphasises three main factors--repentance, faith, and obedience. these are complementary, and together constitute what is commonly called 'conversion.' . _repentance_ is a turning away in sorrow and contrition from a life of sin, a breaking off from evil because a better standard has been accepted. our lord began his ministry with a call to repentance. the first four beatitudes set forth its elements; while the parable of the prodigal illustrates its nature. ethical writers distinguish between a negative and a positive aspect of repentance. on its negative side it is regarded as the emotion of sorrow excited by reflection upon sin. but sorrow, though accompanying repentance, must not be identified with it. mere regret, either in the form of bitterness over one's folly, or chagrin on account of discovery, may be but a weak sentiment which exerts little or no influence upon a man's subsequent conduct. even remorse following the commission of wickedness may only deepen into a paralysing despair which works death rather than repentance unto life. ( ) on its positive side repentance implies action as well as feeling, and involves a determination of will to quit the past and start on a new life. a man repents not merely when he grieves over his misdeed, but when he confesses it and seeks to make what amendment he can. this positive outlook upon the future, rather than the passive brooding over the past, is happily expressed in the new testament term _metanoia_, change of mind, and is enforced in the baptist's counsel, 'bring forth fruits meet for repentance.'[ ] the change of mind here indicated is practically equivalent to what is variously called in the new testament 'conversion,'[ ] 'renewal,'[ ] 'regeneration,'[ ]--words suggestive of the completeness of the change. ( ) the variety of terms employed to describe conversion { } would seem to imply that the scriptures recognise a diversity of mode. all do not enter the kingdom of god by the same way; and the new testament offers examples varying from the sudden conversion of a saul to the almost imperceptible transformation of a nathaniel and a timothy. in modern life something of the same variety of christian experience is manifest. while what is called 'sudden conversion' cannot reasonably be denied,[ ] as little can those cases be ignored in which the truth seems to pervade the mind gradually and almost unconsciously--cases of steady spiritual growth from childhood upwards, in which the believer is unaware of any break in the continuity of his inner history, his days appearing to be 'bound each to each by natural piety.' ( ) the question arises, which is the normal experience? the matter has been put somewhat bluntly by the late professor james,[ ] as to whether the 'twice-born' or the 'once-born' present the natural type of christian experience. is it true, he asks, that the experience of st. paul, which has so long dominated christian teaching, is really the higher or even the healthier mode of approaching religion? does not the example of jesus offer a simpler and more natural ideal? the moral experience of the son of man was not a revolution but an evolution. his own religion was not that of the twice-born, and all that he asked of his disciples was the childlike mind.[ ] paul, the man of cities, feels a kindred turbulence within himself. jesus, the interpreter of nature, feels the steady persuasiveness of the sunshine of god, and grows from childhood in stature, wisdom, and favour with god and man. it is contended by some that the whole pauline conception of sin is a nightmare, and rests upon ideas of god and man which are unworthy and untrue. 'as a matter of fact,' says sir oliver lodge, 'the higher man of to-day is not worrying about his sins at all, still less about their punishment; his mission, if he is good for anything, is to be up and doing.'[ ] { } this amounts to a claim for the superiority of the first of the two types of religious consciousness, the type which james describes as 'sky-blue souls whose affinities are with flowers and birds and all enchanting innocencies than with dark human passions; . . . in whom religious gladness, being in possession from the outset, needs no deliverance from any antecedent burden.'[ ] the second type is marked by a consciousness, similar to st. paul's, of the divided self. it starts from radical pessimism. it only attains to religious peace through great tribulation. it is the religion of the 'sick soul' as contrasted with that of 'healthy-mindedness.' but, morbid as it may appear, to be disturbed by past sin, it is really the 'twice-born' who have sounded the depths of the human heart, and have been the greatest religious leaders. and so far from the sense of the need of repentance being the sign of a diseased mind, the decreasing consciousness of sin in our day may only prove the shallowness of the modern mind. what men need of religion is power. and there is a danger of people to-day losing a sense of the dynamic force of the older gospel.[ ] but whether paul's case is abnormal or the reverse, it is surely a false inference that, because christ grew up without the need of conversion, his life affords in this respect a pattern to sinful men. it is just his perfect union with god which differentiates him entirely from ordinary men; and that which may be necessary for sinful creatures is unthinkable in his case. what he was we are to become. but before we can follow him, there is for us, because of sin, a preliminary step--a breaking with our evil past. and, in all his teaching our lord clearly recognises this. his first call is a call to repentance. it is indeed the childlike mind he requires; but he significantly says that 'except _ye turn_ and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter the kingdom of heaven.'[ ] the decision of will demanded of jesus, while it may not { } necessarily involve a catastrophe of life or convulsion of nature, must be none the less a deliberate and decisive turning from evil to good. by what road a man must travel before he enters the kingdom, through what convulsion of spirit be must pass, so frequently dwelt upon by st. paul and illustrated by his own life, christ does not say. in the fourth gospel there is one reported saying describing a process of spiritual agony, like that of physical child-birth, indicative that the change must be radical, and that at some point of experience the great decision must be made, a decision which is likely to involve deep travail of soul. there are many ways in which a man may become a christian. some men have to undergo, like paul, fierce inward conflict. others glide quietly, almost imperceptibly, into richer and ampler regions of life. but when or how the transition is made, whether the renewal be sudden or gradual, it is the same victory in all cases that must be won, the victory of the spirit over the flesh, the 'putting off of the old man' and the 'putting on of the new.' life cannot be always a compromise. sooner or later it must become an alternative. he who has seen the higher self can be no longer content with the lower. the acts of contrition, confession, and decision--essential and successive steps in repentance--are the immediate effects of the vision of christ. though repentance is indeed a human activity, here, as always, the earlier impulse comes from the divine side. he who truly repents is already in the grip of christ. 'we love him because he first loved us.' . _faith_.--if repentance looks back and forsakes the old, faith looks forward and accepts the new. even in repentance there is already an element of faith, for a man cannot turn away from his evil past without having some sense of contrast between the actual and the possible, some vision of the better life which he feels to be desirable. ( ) while there is no more characteristic word in the new testament than faith, there is none which is used in a greater variety of senses, or whose import it is more difficult to determine. it must not be forgotten at the outset { } that though it is usually regarded as a theological term, it is a purely human act, and represents an element in ordinary life without which the world could not hold together for a single day. we constantly live by faith, and in our common intercourse with our fellows we daily exercise this function. we have an irresistible conviction that we live in a rational world in which effect answers to cause. faith, it has been said, is the capital of all reasoning. break down this principle, and logic itself would be bankrupt. those who have denied the intelligibility of the universe have not been able to dispense with the very organ by which their argument is conducted. hence faith in its religious sense is of the same kind as faith in common life. it is distinguishable only by its _special object_ and its _moral intensity_. ( ) the habitual relationship between christ and his disciples was one of mutual confidence. while jesus evidently trusts them, they regard him as their master on whose word they wholly rely. ever invested with a deep mystery and awe, he is always for his disciples the embodiment of all that is highest and holiest, the supreme object of reverence, the ultimate source of authority. peter but expresses the mind of the company when he says, 'to whom can we go but unto thee, thou hast the words of eternal life.' nor was it only the disciples who manifested this personal trust. many others, the syrophenician woman, the roman centurion, zacchaeus, bartimaeus, also evinced it. it was, indeed, to this element in the human heart that jesus invariably appealed; and while he was quick to detect its presence, he was equally sensitive to its absence. even among the twelve, when, in the face of some new emergency, there was evidence of mistrust, he exclaimed, 'o ye of little faith.' and when, beyond his own immediate circle, he met with suspicion and unbelief, it caused him surprise and pain.[ ] from these and other incidents it is obvious that faith for jesus had a variety of meanings and degrees. { } (_a_) sometimes it meant simply _trust in divine providence_; as when he bids his disciples take no thought for their lives, because he who feeds the ravens and clothes the lilies cares for them. (_b_) it meant again _belief in his own divine power_; as when he assures the recipients of his healing virtue that their faith hath made them whole. (_c_) it is regarded by jesus as _a condition of forgiveness and salvation_. thus to the woman who had sinned he said, 'thy faith hath saved thee,' and to the man who was sick of the palsy, 'son, thy sins be forgiven thee.'[ ] the essential and vital mark in all christ's references is the personal appropriation of the good which he himself had brought to man. in his various modes of activity--in his discourses, his works of healing and forgiveness--it is not too much to say that jesus regarded himself as the embodiment of god's message to the world; and to welcome his word with confidence and joy, and unhesitatingly act upon it, was faith. hence it did not mean merely the mental acceptance of some abstract truth, but, before all else, personal and intimate devotion to himself. it seems the more necessary to emphasise this point since harnack has affirmed 'that, while christ was the special object of faith for paul and the other apostles, he did not enter as an element into his own preaching, and did not solicit faith towards himself.'[ ] it is indeed true that jesus frequently associated himself with his father, whose immediate representative he claims to be. but no one can doubt that he also asserts authority and power on his own account, and solicits faith on his own behalf. nor does he take pains, even when challenged, to explain that he was but the agent of another. on the contrary, as we have seen, he acts in his own right, and pronounces the blessings of healing and forgiveness in his own name. even when the word 'faith' is not mentioned the whole attitude and spirit of jesus impels us to the same conclusion. there was an air of independence and authority { } about him which filled his disciples and others, not merely with confidence, but with wonder and awe. his repeated word is, 'i say unto you.' and there is a class of sayings which clearly indicate the supreme significance which he attached to his own personality as an object of faith. foremost among these is the great invitation, 'come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and i will give you rest.' ( ) if we turn to the epistles, and especially to the pauline, we are struck by the apparently changed meaning of faith. it has become more complex and technical. it is no longer simply the receptive relation of the soul towards christ; it is also a justifying principle. faith not only unites the believer to christ, it also translates him into a new sphere and creates for him a new environment. the past is cancelled. all things have become new. the man of faith has passed out of the dominion of law into the kingdom of grace. the pauline doctrine of justification by faith has received in the history of the church a twofold interpretation. on the one hand, it has been maintained that the sole significance of faith is that it gives to the believer power, by god's supernatural aid, to realise a goodness of which he is naturally incapable. on the other hand, it is held that the peculiarity of faith is that, though he himself is a sinner deserving condemnation, it affords to the believer an assurance of the favour with which a loving father regards him, not on account of his own attainments, but in virtue of the perfect obedience of the son of god with whom each is united by faith. the former is the more distinctively roman view; the latter that of the reformed church. while the catholic form of the doctrine gives to 'works' a place not less important than faith in justification, the protestant exalts 'faith' to the position of priority as more in harmony with the mystery of the atoning sacrifice of christ as expounded by st. paul. faith justifies, because it is for the christian the vision of an ideal. what we admire in another is already implicitly within us. we { } already possess the righteousness we believe in. the moral beauty of christ is ours inasmuch as we are linked to him by faith, and have accepted as our true self all that he is and has achieved. hence faith is not merely the sight of the ideal in christ. it is the energy of the soul as well, by which the believer strives to realise that which he admires. according to the teaching of scripture faith has thus a threefold value. it is a receptive attitude, a justifying principle, and an energising power. it is that by which the believer accepts and appropriates the gift of life offered by god in christ. . _obedience_.--faith contains the power of a new obedience. but faith worketh by love. the soul's surrender to christ is the crowning phase of man's response. the obedience of love is the natural sequel of repentance and faith, the completing act of consecration. as god gives himself in christ to man, so man yields in christ to god all he is and all he has. without enlarging upon the nature of this final act of self-surrender, three points of ethical value ought not to be overlooked. ( ) obedience is an _activity_ of the soul by which the believer appropriates the life of god. life is not merely a gift, it is a task, an achievement. we are not simply passive recipients of the good, but free and determinative agents who react upon what is given, taking it up into our life and working it into the texture of our character. the obedience of love is the practical side of faith. while god imparts the energy of the spirit, we apply it and by strenuous endeavour and unceasing effort mould our souls and make our world. ( ) it is a consecration of the _whole personality_. all the powers of man are engaged in soul-making. religion is not a detached region of experience, a province separate from the incidents and occupations of ordinary existence. obedience must cover the whole of life, and demands the exercise and devotion of every gift. not only is every thought to be brought into subjection to the mind of { } christ, but every passion and desire, every activity and power of body and mind are to be consecrated to god and transformed into instruments of service. 'our wills are ours to make them thine.' but the will is not a separate faculty; it is the whole man. and the obedience of the will is nothing less than the response of our entire manhood to the will of god. ( ) finally, obedience is a _growing power of assimilation_ to christ. we grow in the christian life according to the measure of our faith and the exercise of our love. the spiritual world is potentially ours at the beginning of the christian life, but it has to be worked out in daily experience. like every other form of existence spiritual life is a growth which only attains to strength and fruition through continual conflict and achievement. the soul is not a finished product. in patience it is to be acquired.[ ] by trial and temptation, by toil and expenditure, through all the hardships and hazards of daily life its value is determined and its destiny shaped. and according to the measure in which we use these experiences, and transmute them by obedience to the will of god into means of good, do we grow in christian character and approximate to the full stature of the perfect man. to this self-determining activity eucken has given the name of 'activism.' 'the basis of a true life,' says this writer, 'must be continually won anew.'[ ] activism acquires ethical character inasmuch as it involves the taking up of the spiritual world into our own volition and being. only by this ceaseless endeavour do we advance to fresh attainments of the moral life, and are enabled to assimilate the divine as revealed to us in christ. nor is it merely the individual self that is thus enriched and developed by obedience to the will of god. by personal fidelity to the highest we are aiding the moral development of mankind, and are furthering the advancement of all that is good and true in the world. not only are we making { } our own character, but we are helping to build up the kingdom of god upon the earth. repentance, faith, and obedience are thus the human factors of the new life. they are the moral counterparts of grace. god gives and man appropriates. by repentance we turn from sin and self to the true home of our soul in the fatherhood of god. by faith we behold in christ the vision of the ideal self. by obedience and the daily surrender of ourselves to the divine will we transform the vision into the reality. they are all manifestations of love, the responsive notes of the human heart to the appeal of divine love. [ ] irenaeus, _contra haereses_, iii. xviii. . [ ] matt. xx. ; john xi. ; matt. xxvi. ; mark xiv. , . [ ] _the analogy_, part ii. chap. v. [ ] cor. v. f.; rom. vi.; ephes. iii. , , v. . [ ] gal. ii. . [ ] meyers, _saint paul_. [ ] see blewett, _the christian view of the world_, pp. ff., where this subject is suggestively treated. [ ] _christ and paul_. [ ] matt. iii. ; luke iii. . [ ] acts xxvi. . [ ] rom. xii. ; titus iii. . [ ] cor. v. ; gal. vi. . [ ] see begbie, _broken earthenware_. [ ] _varieties of relig. experience_. [ ] mark x. . [ ] _man and the universe_, p. . [ ] _varieties of religious experience_, p. . [ ] cf. _foundations: a statement of religious belief by seven oxford men_, essay vi., pp. f. [ ] matt. xviii. . [ ] matt. xiii. ; mark vi. . [ ] cf. stalker, _the ethic of jesus_, p. . [ ] _das wesen des christenthums_, p. , quoted by stalker, _idem_, p. . [ ] luke xxi. . [ ] _life's basis and life's ideal_, p. . { } section d conduct { } chapter xi virtues and virtue so far we have gained some conception of the christian ideal as the highest moral good, and have learned also how the christian character is brought into being. we now enter upon a new section--the last stage of our inquiry--and have to consider the 'new man'--his virtues, duties, and relationships. the business lying immediately before us in this chapter is to consider the accepted standards in which the christian good is exhibited--the virtues recognised by the christian consciousness. what, then, are the particular forms or manifestations of character which result from the christian interpretation of life? when we think of man as living in relation to his fellows, and engaging in the common activities of the world, what are the special traits of character which distinguish the christian? these questions suggest one of the most important, and at the same time one of the most difficult, tasks of christian ethics--the classification of the virtues. the difficulty arises in the first instance from the ambiguity attaching to the term 'virtue.' it is often loosely used to signify a meritorious act--as in the phrase, 'making a virtue of a necessity.' it is frequently employed generally for a moral quality or excellency of character, and in this respect is contrasted with vice. finally, virtues are sometimes identified with duties. thus we speak of the virtue of veracity. but obviously we may also refer to the duty of veracity. the word _aretê_; signifies 'force,' and was originally used as a property of bodies, plants, or animals. { } at first it had no ethical import. in attic usage it came to signify aptness or fitness of manhood for public life. and this signification has shaped the future meaning of its latin equivalent--_virtus_ (from _vis_, strength, and not from _vir_, a man). plato gave to the term a certain ethical value in connection with his moral view of the social life, so that ethics came to be designated the doctrine of virtues. in general, however, both by the greek and roman moralists, and particularly the stoics, the word _virtus_ retained something of the sense of force or capacity--a quality prized in the citizen. the english word is a direct transcript of the latin. the german noun, _tugend_ (from _taugen_, to fit) means capability, and is related to worth, honour, manliness. the word _aretê_ does not frequently occur in the new testament.[ ] in the few passages in which it appears it is associated with praiseworthiness. in one passage[ ] it has a more distinctly ethical signification--'add to your faith virtue'--where the idea is that of practical worth or manhood. virtue may be defined as the acquired power or capacity for moral action. from the christian point of view virtue is the complement, or rather the outcome, of grace. hence virtues are graces. in the christian sense a man is not virtuous when he has first appropriated by faith the new principle of life. he has within him, indeed, the promise and potency of all forms of goodness, but not until he has consciously brought his personal impulses and faculties into the service of christ can he be called truly virtuous. hence the christian character is only progressively realised. on the divine side virtue is a gift. on the human side it is an activity. our lord's figure of the vine and the branches represents the relation in which christian character stands to christ. in like manner st. paul regards the manifestations of the christian life as the fruit of the spirit--the inevitable and natural outgrowth of the divine seed of life implanted in the heart. hence arises the importance of { } cultivating the inner life of the spirit which is the root of all moral excellency. on the other hand it must be remembered that christian morality is not of a different sort from natural morality, and the christian virtues are not merely supernatural qualities added on, but simply human virtues coloured and transfigured by grace and raised to a higher value. the power to act morally, the capacity to bring all our faculties into the service of the spiritual life, is the ground of christian virtue just as it is of every natural excellence. from this it follows that the distinction sometimes made between natural goodness and christian goodness is unsound. a virtue is not a superlative act of merit, implying an excess of excellence beyond the requirements of duty. from the christian standpoint there are no works of supererogation, and there is no room in the christian life for excess or margin. as every duty is a bounden duty, so every possible excellence is demanded of the christian. virtues prescribe duties; ideals become laws; and the measure is, 'be ye perfect as your father in heaven is perfect.' the stoic maxim, 'nothing in excess,' is inadequate in reference to moral excellence, and aristotle's doctrine of the 'mean' can hardly be applied without considerable distortion of facts. the only virtue which with truth can be described as a form of moderation is temperance. it has been objected that by his doctrine of the 'mean' aristotle 'obliterates the awful and absolute difference between right and wrong.' if we substitute, as kant suggested, 'law' for 'mean,' some of the ambiguity is obviated. still, after all extenuation is made it may be questioned whether any term implying quantity is a fit expression for a moral attribute.[ ] at the same time the virtues must not be regarded as mere abstractions. moral qualities cannot be isolated from the circumstances in which they are exercised. virtue is character in touch with life, and it is only in contact with actual events that its quality can be determined. actions are not simply good or bad in themselves. they must { } always be valued both by their inner motives and intended ends. courage or veracity, for example, may be exercised from different causes and for the most various ends, and occasionally even for those of an immoral nature.[ ] for these and similar reasons some modern ethical writers have regarded the classification of the virtues as unsatisfactory, involving arbitrary and illogical distinctions in value; and some have even discarded the use of the word 'virtue' altogether, and substituted the word 'character' as the subject of ethical study. but inasmuch as character must manifest itself in certain forms, and approximate at least to certain norms or ideals of conduct, it may not be altogether superfluous to consider in their relation and unity those moral qualities (whether we call them virtues, graces, or norms of excellence) which the christian aims at reproducing in his life. we shall consider therefore, first, the natural elements of virtue as they have been disclosed to us by classical teachers. next, we shall compare these with the christian conception of life, showing how christianity has given to them a new meaning and value. and finally, we shall endeavour to reveal the unifying principle of the virtues by showing that when transformed by the christian spirit they are the expressions or implicates of a single spiritual disposition or totality of character. i _the natural basis of the virtues_.--at a certain stage of reflection there arises an effort not merely to designate, but to co-ordinate the virtues. for it is soon discovered that all the various aspects of the good have a unity, and that the idea of virtue as one and conscious is equivalent to the idea of the good-will or of purity of heart. thus it was seen by the followers of socrates that the virtues are but different expressions of one principle, and that the ultimate good of character can only be realised by the actual pursuit { } of it in the recognised virtues. we do not sufficiently reflect, says green, how great was the service which greek philosophy rendered to mankind. from plato and aristotle comes the connected scheme of virtues and duties within which the educated conscience of christendom still moves when it is impartially reflecting on what ought to be done.[ ] religious teachers may have extended the scope of our obligations, and strengthened the motives which actuate men in the performance of duty, but 'the articulated scheme of what the virtues and duties are, in their difference and their unity, remains for us now in its main outlines what the greek philosophers left it.'[ ] among ancient moralists four virtues, wisdom, courage, temperance, justice were constantly grouped. they were already traditional in plato's time, but he adopts them as fundamental. aristotle retained plato's list, but developed from it some minor excellences. virtue, according to plato, was the health or harmony of the soul; hence the principle of classification was determined by the fitness of the soul for its proper task, which was conceived as the attainment of the good or the morally beautiful. as man has three functions or aspects, a cognitive, active, and appetitive, so there are three corresponding virtues. his function of knowing determines the primal virtue of wisdom; his active power constitutes the virtue of courage; while his appetitive nature calls for the virtue of temperance or self-control. these three virtues have reference to the individual's personal life. but inasmuch as a man is a part of a social organism, and has relations to others beyond himself, justice was conceived by plato as the social virtue, the virtue which regulated and harmonised all the others. for the stoics these four virtues embraced the whole life according to nature. it may be noticed that plato and aristotle did not profess to have created the virtues. wisdom, fortitude, temperance, and justice were, as they believed, radical principles of the moral nature; and all they professed to do was to { } awaken men to the consciousness of their natural capacities. if a man was to attain to fitness of life, then these were the fundamental and essential lines on which his rational life must develop. in every conceivable world these are the basal elements of goodness. related as they are to fundamental functions of personality, they cannot be less or more. they stand for the irreducible principles of conduct, to omit any one of which is to present a maimed or only partial character. in every rational conception of life they must remain the essential and desirable objects of pursuit. it was not wonderful, therefore, when we remember the influence of greek thought upon early christianity, that the four classical virtues should pass over into christian ethics. but the church, recognising that these virtues had reference to man's life in relation to himself and his fellow-men in this world alone, added to these the three pauline graces, faith, hope, and charity, as expressive of the divine element in man, his relation to god and the spiritual world. the first four were called natural, the last three supernatural: or the 'cardinal' (_cardo_, a hinge) and the 'theological' virtues. they make in all seven, the mystic perfect number, and over against these, to complete the symmetry of life, were placed the seven deadly sins. ii _their christian transformation_.--but now if we compare the cardinal virtues with the conception of goodness revealed in scripture, we are at once conscious of a contrast. we seem to move in a new atmosphere, and to be confronted with a view of life in which entirely different values hold. . while in the new testament many virtues are commended, no complete description occurs in any single passage. the beatitudes may be regarded as our lord's catalogue of the typical qualities of life, and a development of virtuous life might be worked out from the sermon on the mount. beginning with poverty of spirit, { } humility, and meekness, and rising up out of the individual struggle of the inner man, we attain to mercifulness and peaceableness--the spirit which bears the poverty of others, and seeks to make others meek and gentle. next the desire for righteousness finds expression in a readiness to endure persecution, to support the burden of duty in the midst of worldly conflict; and finally in the highest stage the light of virtue shines through the clouds of struggle and breaks forth spontaneously, irradiating all who come into contact with it, and constituting man the servant of humanity, the light of the world.[ ] or we might turn to the apostle paul, who regards the virtues as the fruit of the spirit, describing them in general as 'love, joy, peace, long-suffering, goodness, faith, gentleness, humility.'[ ] a rich cluster is also mentioned as 'the fruit of light'--goodness, righteousness, truth. a further enumeration is given in colossians where the apostle commends compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, long-suffering, forbearance, and forgiveness.[ ] and once more there is the often-quoted series in the epistle to the philippians, 'whatsoever things are true, reverent, just, chaste, lovely, and kindly spoken of.'[ ] nor must we forget the characteristics of love presented in the apostle's 'hymn of charity.'[ ] to these descriptions of st. paul there ought to be added the remarkable passage in which st. peter unfolds the process of the moral life from its seed to the perfect flower.[ ] though the authorship of this passage has been disputed, that fact does not make the representation less trustworthy and typical as an exhibition of early christian morality. according to this picture, just as in st. paul's view, the whole moral life has its root in faith, and character is nothing else than the working out of the initial energy of the soul into virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, godliness, brotherly kindness, and charity--all that makes life worthy and excellent. character is not built like a house, by the addition of stone to stone. it is evolved as { } a plant from a seed. given faith, there will ultimately emerge all the successive qualities of true goodness--knowledge, temperance, patience--the personal virtues, rising upwards to godliness or the love of god, and widening out to brotherhood, and thence to charity or a love of mankind--a charity which embraces the whole world, even those who are not christian: the enemy, the outcast, and the alien. these descriptions are not formal or systematic, but are characterised by a remarkable similarity in spirit and tone. they all reflect the mind of christ, and put the emphasis where jesus himself invariably laid it--on love. but the point to which we desire to draw attention is the contrast between the classical and the christian type of virtue. the difference is commonly expressed by saying that the pagan virtues were of a bold masculine order, whereas the christian excellences are of an amiable and passive nature. yet if we carefully examine the lists as given in scripture, we shall see that this is hardly a just distinction. certainly christianity brings to the front some virtues of a gentle type which are apparently wanting in the platonic catalogue. but, on the other hand, the pagan virtues are not excluded from the new testament. they have an acknowledged place in christian morality. fortitude and temperance, not to speak of wisdom and justice, are recognised as essential qualities of the christian character. christianity did not come into the world as the negative of all that was previously noble in human nature; on the contrary, it took over everything that was good and true, and gave to it a legitimate place. whatsoever things, says the apostle, are true and just and fair, if there be any virtue or praise in them, think of these things. courage is not disparaged by christianity. in writing to timothy paul gives to this virtue its original significance. he only raises it to a higher level, and gives to it a nobler end--the determination not to be ashamed of bearing testimony, and the readiness to suffer hardship for the gospel's sake. and though the apostle does not expressly { } commend courage in its active form in any other passage, we may gather from the whole tenor of his life that bravery, fortitude, endurance, occupied a high place in his esteem. while he made no parade of his sufferings his life was a continual warfare for the gospel. the courage of a man is none the less real because it is evinced not on the battlefield, but in the conflict of righteousness. he who devotes himself unnoticed and unrewarded, at the risk of his life and at the sacrifice of every pleasure, to the service of the sick and the debased, possesses courage the same in principle as that of the 'brave man' described by aristotle. life is a battle, and there are other objects for which a man must contend than those peculiar to a military calling. in all circumstances of his existence the christian must quit himself as a man, and without courage no one can fulfil in any tolerable degree the duties of his station. in like manner temperance or self-control is a truly christian virtue, and it finds repeated mention in scripture. when, however, we compare the conception of temperance as formulated by aristotle with the demand of self-denial which the enlightened christian conscience makes upon itself we are struck with a difference both in the motive and the scope of the principle. temperance as aristotle conceived it was a virtue exhibited only in dealing with the animal passions. and the reason why this indulgence ought to be checked was that the lusts of the flesh unfitted a man for his discharge of the civic duties. but, in view of the greek idea that evil resides in the physical constitution of man, the logical deduction would be the total suppression of the animal passions altogether. but from the christian standpoint the physical instincts are not an evil to be crushed, but rather a legitimate element in man which is to be disciplined and brought into the service of the spiritual life. temperance covers the whole range of moral activity. it means the practical mastery of self, and includes the proper control and employment of hand and eye, tongue and temper, tastes and affections, so that they may become effective instruments of righteousness. the practice of { } asceticism for its own sake, or abstinence dictated merely by fear of some painful result of indulgence, we do not now regard as a virtue. the true form of self-denial we deem to be only rendered when we forbid ourselves the enjoyment of certain legitimate inclinations for the sake of some higher interest. thus the scope of the virtue of temperance has been greatly enlarged, and we present to ourselves objects of moral loyalty, for the sake of which we are ready to abandon our desires in a far greater variety of forms than ever occurred to the greek. an indulgence, for example, which a man might legitimately allow himself, he forgoes in consideration of the claims of his family, or fellow-workmen, or for the good of mankind at large, in a way that the ancient world could not understand. christian temperance, while the same in principle with the ancient virtue, penetrates life more deeply, and is fraught with a richer and more positive content than was contemplated by the greek demand. and the same may be said of the virtues of wisdom and justice. wisdom is a new testament grace, but mere calculating prudence or worldly self-regard finds no place in the christian scheme of life. we are enjoined, indeed, to be wise as serpents and harmless as doves in our relations with men; but what we are urged to cultivate is a mind for the right interpretation of the things of god, that spiritual insight which discerns the things of the spirit; and, while recognising life as a divinely given trust, seeks to obtain a wise understanding of our duties toward god and man. while the other virtues are to a certain extent self-regarding, justice is eminently social. at the very lowest it means 'equal consideration' for all, treating, as kant would say, every man as an 'end,' and not as a means. morally no man may disregard the claims of others. it is said, indeed, that we must be 'just before we are generous.' but a full and perfect conception of justice involves generosity. there is no such thing as bare justice. righteousness, which is the new testament equivalent, demands more than negative goodness, and in christian ethics { } passes over into charity, which finds and fulfils itself in others. love here and always is the fulfilling of the law, and mercy, benevolence, kindness are the implicates of true justice. . it is thus evident that the cardinal virtues are essential elements of christian character. christianity, in taking over the moral conceptions of the ancient world, gave to them a new value and range by directing them to new objects and enthusing them with new motives. it has been truly said that the religion of jesus so profoundly modified the character of the moral ideals of the past that they became largely new creations. the old moral currency was still kept in circulation, but it was gradually minted anew.[ ] fortitude is still the cool and steady behaviour of a man in the presence of danger; but its range is widened by the inclusion of perils of the soul as well as the body. temperance is still the control of the physical passions; but it is also the right placing of new affections, and the consecration of our impulses to nobler ends. justice is still the suppression of conflict with the rights of others; but the source of it lies in giving to god the love which is his due, and finding in the objects of his thought the subjects also of our care. wisdom is still the practical sense which chooses the proper course of action; but it is no longer a selfish calculation of advantage, but the wisdom of men who are seeking for themselves and others not merely temporal good, but a kingdom which is not of this world. the real reason, then, why christianity seems by contrast to accentuate the gentler graces is not simply as a protest against the spirit of militarism and the worship of physical power, so prevalent in the ancient world--not merely that they were neglected--but because they and they alone, rightly considered, are of the very essence of that perfection of character which god has revealed to man in christ. what christianity has done is not to give pre-eminence to one class over another, but _to make human character complete_. ancient civilisation was one-sided in its moral { } development. the pagan conceptions of virtue were merely materialistic, temporal, and self-regarding. christ showed that without the spirit of love even such excellences as courage, temperance, and justice did not attain to their true meaning or yield their full implication. paul, as we have seen, did not disparage heroism, but he thought that it was exhibited as much, if not more, in patience and forgiveness as in self-assertion and retaliation. what christianity really revealed was a new type of manliness, a fresh application of temperance, a fuller development of justice. it showed the might of meekness, the power of gentleness, the heroism of sacrifice. . it is thus misleading to say that christian ethics differs from ancient morality in the prominence it gives to what have been called 'the passive virtues.' poverty of spirit, humility, meekness, mercifulness, and peaceableness are indeed the marks of christ's teaching. but as christ conceived them they were not passive qualities, but intensely active energies of the soul. it has been well remarked that[ ] there was a poverty of spirit in the creed of the cynic centuries before christianity. there was a meekness in the doctrine of the stoic long before the advent of jesus. but these tenets were very far from being anticipations of christ's morality. cynic poverty of spirit was but the poor-spiritedness of apathy. stoic meekness was merely the indifference of oblivion. but the humility and lowliness of heart, the mercifulness and peace-seeking which christ inculcated were essentially powers of self-restraint, not negative but positive attitudes to life. the motive was not apathy but love. these qualities were based not on the idea that life was so poor and undesirable that it was not worthy of consideration, but upon the conviction that it was so grand and noble, something so far beyond either pleasure or pain, as to demand the devotion of the entire self--the mastery and consecration of all a man's powers in the fulfilment and service of its divine end. hence what christianity did was not so much to institute { } one type of character for another as to exhibit for the first time the complete conception of what human life should be--a new creature, in whom, as in its great exemplar, strength and tenderness, courage and meekness, justice and mercy were alike combined. for, as st. paul said, in christ jesus there is neither male nor female, but all are as one. and in this character, as the same apostle finely shows, faith, hope, and charity have the primary place, not as special virtues which have been added on, but as the spiritual disposition which penetrates the entire personality and qualifies its every thought and act. iii _the unification of the virtues_.--while it is desirable, then, to exhibit the virtues in detail, it is even more important to trace back the virtues to virtue itself. a man's duties are diverse, as diverse as the various occasions and circumstances of life, and they can only come into being with the various institutions of his time, church and state, home and country, commerce and culture. but the performance of these may be slowly building up in him a consistent personality. it is in character that the unity of the moral life is most clearly expressed. there must be therefore a unity of character underlying the multiplicity of characteristics, one single and commanding principle at work in the formation of life of which every possible virtue is the expression. . a unity of this kind is supplied by man's relation to god. religion cannot be separated from conduct. if it were true, as epicurus said, that the gods take no concern in human affairs, then not religion only, but morality itself would be in danger. as men's conceptions of god are purified and deepened, they tend to exhibit the varied contents of morality in their connection with a diviner order. it is, then, the thought of man's relation to god which gives coherence to the moral life, and brings all its diverse manifestations into unity. { } if we examine the christian consciousness as presented in the new testament, we find three words of frequent occurrence repeatedly grouped together, which may be regarded as the essential marks of christian character in relation to god--faith, hope, and love. so characteristic are these of the new life that they have been called the theological virtues, because, as thomas aquinas says, 'they have god for their object: they bring us into true relation to god, and they are imparted to us by god alone.'[ ] . these graces, however, cannot be separated. a man does not exercise at one time faith, and at another time hope or love. they are all of a piece. they are but different manifestations of one virtue. of these love is the greatest, because it is that without which faith and hope could not exist. love is of the very essence of the christian life. it is its secret and sign. no other term is so expressive of the spirit of christ. it is the first and last word of apostolic christianity. love may be called the discovery of the gospel. it was practically unknown in the ancient world. _eros_, the sensuous instinct and _philia_, the bond of friendship, did exist, but _agapê_ in its spiritual sense is the creation of christ. in christian ethics love is primal and central. here we have got down to the bedrock of virtue. it is not simply one virtue among many. it is the quality in which all the virtues have their setting and unity. from a christian point of view every excellence of character springs directly from love and is the manifestation of it. it is, as st. paul says, 'the bond of perfectness.' the several virtues of the christian life are but facets of this one gem.[ ] love, according to the apostle, is indispensable to character. without it faith is an empty profession; { } knowledge, a mere parade of learning; courage, a boastful confidence; self-denial, a useless asceticism. love is the fruitful source of all else that is beautiful and noble in life. it not only embraces but produces all the other graces. it creates fortitude; it begets wisdom; it prompts self-restraint and temperance; it tempers justice. it manifests itself in humility, meekness, and forgiveness: 'as every hue is light, so every grace is love.' love is, however, closely associated with faith and hope. faith, as we have seen, is theologically the formative and appropriating power by which man makes his own the spirit of christ. but ethically it is a form of love. the christian character is formed by faith, but it lives and works by love. a believing act is essentially a loving act. it is a giving of personal confidence. it implies an outgoing of the self towards another--which is the very nature of love. hope, again, is but a particular form of faith which looks forward to the consummation of the good. the man of hope knows in whom he believes, and he anticipates the fulfilment of his longings. hope is essentially an element of love. like faith it is a form of idealism. it believes in, and looks forward to, a better world because it knows that love is at the heart of the universe. as faith is the special counteragent against materialism in the present, so hope is the special corrective of pessimism in regard to the future. love supplies both with vision. christian hope, because based on faith and prompted by love, is no easy-going complacence which simply accepts the actual as the best of all possible worlds. the christian is a man of hope because in spite of life's sufferings he never loses faith in the ideal which love has revealed to him. 'tribulation,' says st. paul, 'worketh patience, and patience probation, and probation hope.' hope has its social aspect as well as its personal; like faith it is one of the mighty levers of society. men of hope are the saviours of the world. in days of persecution and doubt it is their courage which rallies the wavering hosts and gives others { } heart for the struggle. every christian is an optimist not with the reckless assurance that calls evil good, but with the rational faith, begotten of experience, that good is yet to be the final goal of ill. 'thy kingdom come' is the prayer of faith and hope, and the missionary enterprise is rooted in the confidence begotten of love, that he who has given to man his world-wide commission will give also the continual presence and power of his spirit for its fulfilment. . faith, hope, and charity are at once the root and fruit of all the virtues. they are the attributes of the man whom christ has redeemed. the christian has a threefold outlook. he looks upwards, outwards, and inwards. his horizon is bounded by neither space nor time. he embraces all men in his regard, because he believes that every man has infinite worth in god's eyes. the old barriers of country and caste, which separated men in the ancient world, are broken down by faith in god and hope for man which the love of christ inspires. faith, hope, and love have been called the theological virtues. but if they are to be called virtues at all, it must be in a sense very different from what the ancients understood by virtue. these apostolic graces are not elements of the natural man, but states which come into being through a changed moral character. they connect man with god, and with a new spiritual order in which his life has come to find its place and purpose. they were impossible for a greek, and had no place in ancient ethics. they are related to the new ideal which the gospel has revealed, and obtain their value as elements of character from the fact that they have their object in the distinctive truth of christianity--fellowship with god through christ. these graces are not outward adornments or optional accomplishments. they are the essential conditions of the christian man. they constitute his inmost and necessary character. they do not, however, supersede or render superfluous the other virtues. on the contrary they transmute and transfigure them, giving to them at once their coherence and value. [ ] phil. iv. ; peter ii. . [ ] peter i. . [ ] cf. sir alex. grant, _aristotle's ethics_. [ ] cf. wundt, _ethik_, p. . [ ] green, _proleg. to ethics_, section . [ ] _idem_. [ ] matt. v. - . [ ] gal. v. - . [ ] col. iii. , . [ ] phil. iv. . [ ] cor. xiii. [ ] peter i. . [ ] strong, _christian ethics_. [ ] mathieson, _landmarks of christian morality_. [ ] _summa_, i. ii. [ ] an interesting parallel might be drawn between the pauline conception of love as the supreme passion of the soul and lord of the emotions, and the platonic view of justice as the intimate spirit of order alike in the individual and the state, expressing itself in, and harmoniously binding together, the virtues of temperance, courage, and wisdom. { } chapter xii the realm of duty we have now to see how the virtues issue in their corresponding duties and cover the whole field of life. virtues and duties cannot be strictly distinguished. as paulsen remarks, 'they are but different modes of presenting the same subject-matter.'[ ] virtues are permanent traits of character; duties are particular acts which seek to realise virtues. the word 'duty,' borrowed from stoic philosophy, inadequately describes, both on the side of its obligation and its joy, the service which the christian is pledged to offer to christ. for the christian the two moments of pleasure and duty are united in the higher synthesis of love. in this chapter we shall consider, first, some aspects of christian obligation; and, second, the particular duties which arise therefrom in relation to the self, others, and god. i aspects of duty . _duty and vocation_.--'while duty stands for a universal element there is a personal element in moral requirement which may be called vocation.'[ ] as soon as the youth enters upon the larger world he has to make choice of a profession or life-work. different principles may guide him in his selection. first of all, the circumstances { } of life will help to decide the individual's career. our calling and duties arise immediately out of our station. already by parental influence and the action of home-environment character is being shaped, and tastes and purposes are created which will largely determine the future. next to condition and station, individual capacity and disposition ought to be taken into account. no good work can be accomplished in uncongenial employment. a man must have not only fitness for his task, but also a love for it. proper ambition may also be a determining factor. we have a right to make the most of ourselves, and to strive for that position in which our gifts shall have fullest scope. but the ultimate decision must be made in the light of conscience. self-interest should not be our sole motive in the choice of a vocation. it is not enough to ask what is most attractive, what line of life will ensure the greatest material gain or worldly honour? rather should we ask, where shall i be safest from moral danger, and, above all, in what position of life, open to me, can i do the most good? it is not enough to know that a certain mode of livelihood is permitted by law; i must decide whether it is permitted to me as a christian. for, after all, underlying, and giving purpose and direction to, our earthly vocation is the deeper calling of god into his kingdom. these cannot, indeed, be separated. we cannot divide our life into two sections, a sacred and a secular. nor must we restrict the idea of vocation to definite spheres of work. even those who are precluded by affliction from the activities of the world are still god's servants, and may find in suffering itself their divinely appointed mission. there is a divinity which shapes our ends, and in every life-calling there is something sacred. 'saints,' says george eliot, 'choose not their tasks, they choose but to do them well.' but the decisions of life do not cease with the choice of a calling. at every moment of our career fresh difficulties arise, and new opportunities open up which demand careful thought. our first obligation is to meet faithfully the claims of our station. but in the complexity of life we are { } being constantly brought into wider relations with our fellow-men, which either modify the old, or create entirely new situations. while the rule is to do the duty that lies nearest us, to obey the call of god at each moment, it needs no little wisdom to discern one's immediate duty, and to know what the will of god actually is. . _conflict of duties_.--in the sphere of duty itself a three-fold distinction, having the imprimatur of the romish church, has been made by some moralists: ( ) the problem of colliding interests; ( ) 'counsels of perfection'; and ( ) indifferent acts or 'adiaphora,' actions which, being neither commanded nor forbidden, fall outwith the domain of christian obligation. it will not be necessary to discuss at length these questions. the gospel lends no support to such distinctions, and as schleiermacher points out they ought to have no place in protestant ethics.[ ] ( ) with regard to the 'conflict of duties,' when the collision is really, as it often is, a struggle between inclination and duty, the question answers itself. there are, of course, cases in which perplexity must occur to an honest man. but the difficulty cannot be decided by drawing up a list of axiomatic precepts to fit all conceivable cases. in the dilemma, for example, between self-preservation and self-sacrifice which may present itself in some tragic experience of life, a host of considerations relative to the individual's history and relationships enter in to modify the situation, and the course to be taken can be _finally_ determined by a man's _own_ conscience alone. ultimately there can be no collision of duties as such. once a man recognises a certain mode of conduct to be right for him there is really no choice. in judgment he may err; passion or desire may obscure the issue; but once he has determined what he ought to do there is no alternative, 'er kann nicht anders.' ( ) again, it is a complete misapprehension of the nature of duty to distinguish between the irreducible minimum and acts of supererogatory goodness which outrun duty. { } goodness is one, and admits of no degrees. all duty is absolute. an overplus is unthinkable, since no man can do more than his duty. a christian can only do what he recognises as his obligation, and this he ought to fulfil at every moment and with all his might. love, which is the christian's only law, knows no limit. even when we have done our utmost we are still unprofitable servants. ( ) finally, the question as to whether there are any acts which are indifferent, permissible, but neither enjoined nor forbidden, must also be answered in the negative. if the christian can do no more than his duty, because in every single action he seeks to fulfil the whole will of god, it is clear that there can be no moment of life that can be thought of not determined by the divine will. there is no part of life that is colourless. there must be no dropped stitches in the texture of the christian character. it is most frequently in the domain of amusement that the notion of the 'permissible' is applied. it has been contended that as recreation really lies outwith the christian sphere, it may be allowed to christian people as a concession to human weakness.[ ] but can this position be vindicated? relaxation is as much a need of man as work, and must, equally with it, be brought within the scope of christian conduct. we have no business to engage in any activity, whether involving pleasure or pain, that we cannot justify to our conscience. are not the joys of life, and even its amusements, among god's gifts designed for the enriching of character? and may not they, too, be consecrated to the glory of god? we are to use the world while not abusing it, for all things are ours if we are christ's. over every department of life the law of christ is sovereign, and the ultimate principle applicable to all problems of duty is, 'whatsoever ye do in word or deed do all to the glory of god.' . _rights and duties_.--the foregoing question as to the scope of duty leads naturally to the consideration of the relation of duties and rights. it is usual to distinguish { } between legal and moral rights; but at bottom they are one. the rights which i legally claim for myself i am morally bound to grant to others. a right is expressed in the form of a permission; a duty, of an imperative. i may or may not demand my legal rights; morally, i must perform my duties. but, on the other hand, a right may be secured by legal compulsion; a duty, as a moral obligation, can never be enforced by external power: it needs our own assent.[ ] strictly speaking rights and duties are correlative. every right carries with it an obligation; not merely in the objective sense that when one man has a right other men are under the obligation to respect it, but also in the subjective sense that when a man has a right he is bound to use it for the general good. it is sometimes said, 'a man may do what he likes with his own.' legally that may be true, but morally he is under obligation to employ it for the general good just as strictly as if it were another's. a man's rights are not merely decorations or ends in themselves. they are opportunities, instruments, trusts. and when any man has them, it means that he is placed on a vantage-ground from which, secure of oppression or interference, he may begin to do his duty.[ ] but this moral aspect of right is often lost sight of. people are so enamoured of what they call their rights that they forget that the real value of every right depends upon the use to which they put it. a man's freedom does not consist in having rights, but in fulfilling them. 'after all,' says mazzini, 'the greatest right a man can possess or recognise--the greatest gift of all--is simply the privilege and obligation to do his duty.'[ ] this is the only christian doctrine of rights. it underlies our lord's teaching in the parable of the talents. we only have what we use. ( ) much has been written of the 'natural rights of man.'[ ] this was the claim of a school of political philosophy of { } which paine was the most rigorous exponent. the contentions of paine were met as vigorously by the negations of bentham and burke. and if it be supposed that the individual is born into the world with certain ready-made possessions, fixed and unalterable, the claim is untenable. such an artificial account of man ignores entirely the evolution of moral nature, and denies the possibility of development in man's conception of law and duty. 'it is,' as wundt says, 'to derive all the moral postulates that have been produced in our minds by previous moral development from moral life as it actually exists.'[ ] ( ) but while the 'natural rights of man' cannot be theoretically vindicated, they may still be regarded as ends or ideals to be striven after. 'justifiable or unjustifiable in theory, they may still remain a convenient form in which to couch the ultimatum of determined men.'[ ] they give expression, at least, to a conviction which has grown more clear and articulate with the advance of thought--the conviction of the _dignity and worth of the individual_. this thought was the keynote of the reformation. the enlightenment, with its appeal to reason, as alike in all men, gave support to the idea of equality. descartes claimed it as the philosophical basis of man's nature. rousseau and montesquieu were among its most valiant champions. kant made it the point of departure for the enforcement of human right and duty. fichte but elaborated kant's view when he contended for 'the equality of everything which bears the human visage.'[ ] and hegel has summed up the conception in what he calls 'the mandate of right'--'be a person, and respect others as persons.'[ ] poets sometimes see what others miss. and in our country, at least, it is to wordsworth, tennyson, and browning, and still more, perhaps, to burns, that we are indebted for the insistence upon the native worth of man. but if this claim has only gradually attained to articulate { } expression, and is only now being made the basis of social reconstruction, it must not be forgotten that it is essentially a christian truth. in harnack's language, 'jesus christ was the first to bring the value of every human soul to light, and what he did no one can any more undo.'[ ] when, however, the attempt is made to analyse this ultimate principle of manhood, opinions differ as to its constituents, and a long list of 'rights' claimed by different political thinkers might be made. the famous 'declaration of rights'[ ] included life, liberty, property, security, and 'resistance of oppression.' to these some have added 'manhood suffrage,' 'free access to the soil,' and a common distribution of the benefits of life and means of production. this is a large programme, and certainly no community as yet has recognised all its items without qualification. obviously they are not all of the same quality, nor are they of independent validity; and at best they but roughly describe certain factors, considered by various agitators as desirable, of an ideal social order. ( ) we are on safer ground, and for christian ethics, at least, more in consonance with ultimate christian values, when we describe the primary realities of human nature in terms of the revelation of life as given by the person and teaching of jesus christ. the three great verities upon which he constantly insisted were, man's value for himself, his value for his fellow-men, and his value for god. these correspond generally to the three great ethical ideas of life--personality, freedom, and divine kinship. but although the sense of independence, liberty and divine fellowship is the first aspect of a being who has come to the consciousness of himself, it is incomplete in itself. man plants himself upon his individuality in order that he may set out from thence to take possession, by means of knowledge, action, and service, of his larger world. man's rights are but { } possibilities which must be transmuted by him into achievements. 'this is the honour,--that no thing i know, feel, or conceive, but i can make my own somehow, by use of hand or head or heart.'[ ] rights involve obligations. the right of personality carries with it the duty of treating life, one's own and that of others, as sacred. the right of freedom implies the use of one's liberty for the good of the society of which each is a member. and finally, the sense of divine kinship involves the obligation of making the most of one's life, of realising through and for god all that god intends in the gift of life. in these three values lies the christian doctrine of man.[ ] because of their fullness of implication they open out to our vision the goal of humanity--the principle and purpose of the whole process of human evolution--the perfection of man. given these three christian truths--the sacredness of personality, the brotherhood of man, and the fatherhood of god--and all that is essential in the claim of the 'natural rights of man' is implicitly contained. the one thing needful is that men become alive to their privileges and go forward to 'possess their possessions.' ii spheres of duty we are thus led to a division, natural if not wholly logical, of duties which spring from these rights--duties towards self, others, and god. though, indeed, self-love implies love of others, and all duty is duty to god, still it may be permissible to frame a scheme of duties according as one or other element is prominent in each case. . _duties in relation to self_.--it is obvious that without ( ) _respect_ for self there can be no respect for others. i am { } a part of the moral whole, and an element in the kingdom of god. i cannot make myself of no account. our lord's commandment, 'thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself,' makes a rightly conceived self-love the measure of love to one's neighbour. self-respect involves ( ) _self-preservation_, the care of health, the culture of body and mind. not only is it our duty to see that the efficiency and fitness of the bodily organism is fully maintained, but we must also guard it against everything that would defile and disfigure it, or render it an instrument of sin. christianity requires the strictest personal purity, purity of thought and feeling as well as of deed. it demands, therefore, constant vigilance, self-control, temperance, and even self-denial, so that the body may be, not, as the ancients thought, the prison-house of the soul, but the temple of the holy spirit. christianity is, however, opposed to asceticism. though jesus denied himself to the uttermost in obedience to the voice of god, there is in his presentation of life a complete absence of those austerities which in the history of the church have been so often regarded as marks of superior sanctity.[ ] it is unnecessary here to dwell upon athletics and sport which now so largely occupy the attention of the youth of our land. physical exercise is necessary to the maintenance of bodily fitness, yet it may easily become an all-absorbing pursuit, and instead of being merely a means to an end, may usurp the place in life which belongs to higher things. ( ) self-maintenance involves also the duty of _self-development_, and that not merely of our physical, but also of our mental life. if the body has its place and function in the growth of christian character, still more has the mind its ethical importance. our maker can have no delight in ignorance. he desires that we should present not a fragmentary but complete manhood. specialisation, though a necessity of the age, is fraught with peril to the individual. the exigencies of labour require men to concentrate their energies on their own immediate tasks; but each must seek to be not merely a craftsman, but a man. other sides { } of our nature require to be cultivated besides those which bring us into contact with the ways and means of existence. indeed, it is only by the possession of a well-trained mind that the fullest capacity, even for special pursuits, can be obtained. it has become a commonplace to say that every man should have equality of opportunity to earn a livelihood. but equality of opportunity for education, as something which ought to be within the reach of every youth in the land, is not so frequently insisted upon. beyond the claims of daily occupation every one should have a chance, and, indeed, an inducement, to cultivate his mental and spiritual nature. hence what is called 'culture,' the all-round development of the human faculties, is an essential condition of moral excellence. for, as goethe has said, the object of education ought to be rather the formation of tastes than simply the communication of knowledge. but most important of all the self-regarding aims of life is the obligation of _self-discipline_, and the use of every means of moral culture which the world supplies. it is through the complex conditions of earthly existence that the character of the individual is developed. it will only be possible to indicate briefly some of the aids to the culture of the moral life. among these may be mentioned: (_a_) _the providential experiences of life_. the world itself, as a sphere of work, temptation, and suffering, is a school of character. the affections and cares of the home, the duties and tasks incident to one's calling, the claims of one's fellow-men, the trials and temptations of one's lot--these are the universal and common elements in man's moral education. not to escape from the world's activities and conflicts, but to turn them into conditions of self-mastery, is the duty of each. men do work, but work makes men. the shopkeeper is not merely selling wares; the artisan or mechanic is not simply engaged in his handicraft; the mason and builder are not only erecting a house; each is, in and through his toil, making his own soul. and so, too, suffering and temptation are the tools which god commits to his creatures for the shaping of their own lives. saints { } and sinners are made out of the same material. by what bosanquet has finely called 'the miracle of will' the raw stuff of life is taken up and woven into the texture of the soul. (_b_) the so-called _secular opportunities of culture_. innumerable sources of self-enrichment are available. everything may be made a vehicle of moral education. knowledge generally, and especially the ministry of nature, the influence of art, and the study of literature, are potent factors in the discipline and development of christian character. to these must be added (_c_) _the special religious aids and means of grace_. from an ethical point of view the church is a school of character. it 'guards and keeps alive the characteristic christian ideas, and thereby exhibits and promotes the christian ideal of life.'[ ] its fellowship, worship, and ordinances; its opportunities of brotherly service and missionary activity, as well as the more private spiritual exercises of prayer and meditation--all are means of discipline and gifts committed to the stewardship of individuals in order that they may realise the greatness of life's possibilities, and attain through union with god to the fullness of their stature in christ. but while the truth that the soul has an inalienable worth is repeatedly affirmed, the new testament touches but lightly upon the duties of self-regard. to be occupied constantly with the thought of one's self is a symptom of morbid egoism rather than of healthy personality. the avidity of self-improvement and even zeal for religion may become a refined form of selfishness. we must be willing at times to renounce our personal comfort, to restrain our zest for intellectual and aesthetic enjoyment, to be content to be less cultured and scholarly, less complete as men, and ready to part with something of our own immediate good that others may be ministered to. hence the chief reason probably why the scriptures do not enlarge upon the duties of self-culture is, that according to the spirit of the gospel the true realisation of self is achieved through self-sacrifice. only as a man loses his life does he find it. to horde [transcriber's note: hoard?] one's { } possessions is to waste them. growth is the condition of life. but in all growth there is reciprocity of expenditure and assimilation, of giving and receiving. self-realisation is only gained through self-surrender. not, therefore, by anxiously standing guard over one's soul, but by dedicating it freely to the good of others does one achieve one's true self. . _duties in relation to others_.--we belong to others, and others belong to us. they and we are alike parts of a larger whole. ( ) while this is recognised in scripture, and all men are declared to be brothers in virtue of their common humanity, christianity traces the brotherhood of man to a deeper source. the relation of the individual to christ is the true ground of love to others. in christ all distinctions which in other respects separate men are dissolved. beneath the meanest garb and coarsest features, in spite even of the defacement of sin, we may detect the vast possibilities of the soul for whom christ has died. the law of love is presented by jesus as the highest of all the commandments, and the duty to others is summed up generally in what is known as the golden rule. of the chief manifestations of brotherly love mention must be made (_a_) of the comprehensive duty of _justice_. the ground upon which justice rests is the principle that each individual is an end in himself. hence it is the duty of each to respect the rights of his neighbours, negatively refraining from injury and positively rendering that which our fellow-men have a right to claim. religion makes a man more sensitive to the claims of humanity. mutual respect requires a constant effort on the part of all to secure for each the fullest freedom to be himself. christianity interprets justice to mean emancipation from every condition which crushes or degrades a man. it seeks to create a social conscience, and to arouse in each a sense of responsibility for the good of all. at the same time social justice must not be identified with charity. charity has done much to relieve distress, and it will always form an indispensable element in { } the christian's duty towards his less fortunate brethren; but something more radical than almsgiving is required if the conditions of life are to be appreciably bettered. justice is a demand not for bread alone; it is a claim of humanity to life, and all that life ought to mean. christianity affirms the spirit of human brotherhood--a brotherhood in which every child will have a chance to grow to a noble manhood, and every man and woman will have opportunity and encouragement to live a free, wholesome, and useful life. that is the christian ideal, and to help towards its realisation is the duty laid upon every citizen of the commonwealth. the problems of poverty, housing, unemployment, intemperance, and all questions of fair wages, legitimate profits, and just prices, fall under the regulative principle of social justice. the law is, 'render to all their dues.' the love which worketh no ill to his neighbour will also withhold no good.[ ] (_b_) _truthfulness_.--justice is not confined to acts, but extends to speech and even to thought. we owe to others veracity. even when the motive is good, there can be no greater social disservice than to fail in truthfulness. falsehood, either in the form of hypocrisy or equivocation, and even of unsound workmanship, is not only unjust to others; it is unjust to ourselves, and a wrong to the deeper self--the new man in christ.[ ] is deception under all circumstances morally wrong? moralists have been divided on this question. the instance of war is frequently referred to, in which it is contended that ruse and subterfuge are permissible forms of strategy.[ ] there are, however, many distressing cases of conscience, in which the duties of affection and veracity seemingly conflict. it must be remembered that no command can be carried out to its extreme, or obeyed literally. truth is not always conveyed by verbal accuracy. there may be higher interests at stake which might be prejudiced, and indeed unfairly represented by a merely literal statement. { } the individual conscience must decide in each case. we are to speak the truth in love. courage and kindliness are to commingle. but when all is said it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that in the last analysis lack of truth argues a deficient trust in the ultimate veracities of the universe, and rests upon a practical unbelief in the divine providence which can make 'all things work together for good to them that love god.' (_c_) connected with truthfulness, and also a form of justice, is the duty enjoined by st. paul of forming _just judgments_ of our fellow-men. if we would avoid petty fault-finding and high-minded contempt, we must dismiss all prejudice and passion. the two qualities requisite for proper judgment are knowledge and sympathy. goethe has a fine couplet to the effect that 'it is safe in every case to appeal to the man who knows.'[ ] but to understanding must be added appreciative consideration. we must endeavour to put ourselves in the position of our brother. without a finely blended knowledge and sympathy we grow intolerant and impatient. fairness is the rarest of moral qualities. he who would estimate another truly must have what st. paul calls 'spiritual discernment'--the 'even-balanced soul' of one 'who saw life steadily and who saw it whole.' ( ) brotherly love evinces itself further in _service_, which takes the three forms of compassion, beneficence or practical kindness, and example. (_a_) _compassion_ or sympathy is a readiness to enter into the experiences of others. as christians nothing that concerns our brother can be a matter of indifference to us. as members of the same spiritual community we are participators in each other's joys and sorrows, 'weeping with those that weep, and rejoicing with those that rejoice.' it is no mere natural instinct, but one which grows out of the christian consciousness of organic union with christ. 'when one member suffers, all the members suffer with it.'[ ] { } we fulfil the law of christ by bearing one another's burdens. ( ) _practical beneficence_ is the natural outcome of sympathy. feelings pass into deeds. those redeemed by the love of christ become the agents of his love, gladly dispensing to others what they themselves have received. the ministry of love, whatever shape it may take, must, in the last resort, be a giving of self. no one can do a kindness who does not put something of himself into it. no true service can be done that does not cost us more than money. in modern society it is inevitable that personality should largely find its expression and exercise in material possessions. without entering here upon the question of the institution of private property, it is enough to say that the possession of material goods may be morally defended on the twofold ground, that it ensures the security of existence, and is an essential condition of the development of individual and national resources. the process of acquisition is a moralising influence, since it incites the individual to work, and tends to create and foster among men interchange of service. property, says hegel, is the embodiment and instrument of the will.[ ] but in a civilised community there must be obviously restrictions to the acquisition and use of wealth. unbridled appropriation and irresponsible abuse are alike a peril to society. the state has therefore the right of interference and control in regard to all possessions. even on the lowest ground of expediency the very idea of property involves on the part of all the principle of co-operation and reciprocity--the obligation of contributing to the general weal. it would, however, be most undesirable that the government should undertake everything for the general good of man that is now left to spontaneous effort and liberality. but from the standpoint of christian ethics possessions of all kinds are subject to the law of stewardship.[ ] every gift is { } bestowed by god for the purpose of social service. no man can call the things which he possesses--endowments, wealth, power--his own. he is simply a trustee of life itself. no one may be an idler or parasite, and society has a just claim upon the activity of every man. the forms of such service are various; but the christian spirit will inspire a sense of 'the ultimate unity of all pursuits that contribute to the good of man.'[ ] the ministry of love extends over the whole realm of existence, and varies with every phase of need. physical necessities are to be met in the spirit of charity. st. paul pleads repeatedly the cause of the poor, and commends the grace of liberality. giving is to be cheerful and without stint. but there are needs which material aid cannot meet--desolation, anxiety, grief--to which the loving heart alone can find ways of ministering. and beyond all physical and moral need is the need of the soul; and it lies as a debt upon those who themselves have experienced the grace of christ to seek the renewal and spiritual enrichment of their brethren. (_c_) there is one special form of practical kindness towards others which a follower of christ will often be called upon to exercise--the spirit of _forbearance and forgiveness_. the christian is to speak evil of no man, but to be gentle, showing all meekness unto all men; living peaceably with all men, avoiding everything provocative of strife; even 'forbearing one another and forgiving one another, if any have a quarrel against any; even as christ forgave you so also do ye.' ( ) finally, we may serve others by _example_, by letting the light of life so shine before men that they seeing our good works shall glorify god our father. this duty, however, as fichte points out, 'has often been viewed very incorrectly, as if we could be obliged to do this or that, which otherwise we would not have needed to do, for the sake of a good example.'[ ] that which i am commanded { } to do i must do for its own sake without regard to its effect upon others. esteem can be neither outwardly compelled nor artistically produced; it manifests itself voluntarily and spontaneously. a modern novelist[ ] ironically exposes this form of altruism by putting into the mouth of one of her characters the remark, 'i always make a point of going to church in order to show a good example to the domestics.' at the same time no one can withhold one's influence; and while the supreme motive must be, not to make a display, but to please god, he who is faithful to his station and its duties cannot fail to affect his fellow-men for good. the most effective example is given unconsciously, as the rose exhales its sweetest perfume without effort, or the light sheds its radiance simply by being what it is. . _duties in relation to god_.--here morality runs up into religion, and indeed since all duties are in their last analysis duties toward god, kant and other moralists have objected to the admission into ethics of a special class of religious obligations. it has been well remarked that the genuine christian cannot be known by particular professions or practices, but only by the heavenly spirit of his life.[ ] hence religious duty cannot be formulated in a number of precise rules. love to god finds expression not in mechanical obedience, but in the spontaneous outflow of the heart. the special duties to the divine being may be briefly described under the main heads of recognition, obedience, and worship. ( ) _recognition_.--the acknowledgment of god rests upon knowledge. without some comprehension of what god is there can be no intelligent allegiance to him. we cannot, indeed, by logical reasoning demonstrate the existence of the deity any more than we can demonstrate our own being. but he has not left himself without a witness, and he speaks to man with many voices. the material creation is the primary word of god. the beauty, and still more the sublimity, of nature are a revelation through { } matter of something beyond itself, a message of the spiritual, bearing 'authentic tidings of invisible things.' but nature is symbolic. it is a prophecy rather than an immediate revelation. still it warrants the expectation of a yet fuller manifestation. that fuller utterance we have in man himself. there, spirit reveals itself to spirit; and in the two primary intuitions of man--self-consciousness and the sense of moral obligation--the presence of god is disclosed. but, higher still, the long historic evolution has culminated in a yet clearer manifestation of the deity. in christ, the god-man, the mystery underlying and brooding over the world is unveiled, and to the eye of faith is revealed the fatherhood of god. the first duty, therefore, we owe to god is that of recognition, the acknowledgment of his presence in the world. to feel that he is everywhere, sustaining and vitalising all things; to recognise his will in all the affairs of our daily life, is at once the duty and blessedness of man. ( ) _obedience_ follows acknowledgment. it is partly passive and partly active. (_a_) as _passive_, it takes the form of habitual trust or _acquiescence_, the submissive acceptance of trials which are ultimately, we believe, not really evils, because ordained by god and overruled for good.[ ] this spirit of obedience can be maintained by _constant vigilance_ alone.[ ] while connected with the anticipated coming of the son of man, the obligation had a more general application, and may be regarded as the duty of all in the face of the unknown and unexpected in life. we are therefore to watch for any intimation of the divine will, and commit ourselves trustfully to the absolute disposal of him in whose hands are the issues of our lives. (_b_) but obedience has also an _active_ side. _faithfulness_ is the complement of faith. the believer must exercise fidelity, and go forward with energy and purpose to the tasks committed to him. as stewards of christ we are { } to occupy till he come, employing every talent entrusted to us in his service. work may be worship, and we can glorify god in our daily tasks. no finer tribute can a man give than simply himself. ( ) _worship_.--the special duties of worship belong to the religious rather than the ethical side of life, and do not demand here more than a passing reference. the essence of religion lies in the subordination of the finite self to the infinite; and worship is the conscious outgoing of the man in his weakness and imperfection to his maker, and it attains its fullest exercise in (_a_) _reverence_, humility, and devotion. the feeling of dependence and sense of need, together with the consciousness of utter demerit and inability which man realises as he gazes upon the majesty and grace of god, awaken the (_b_) instinct of _prayer_. 'it is the sublime significance of prayer,' says wuttke, 'that it brings into prominence man's great and high destiny, that it heightens his consciousness of his true moral nature in relation to god; and as morality depends on our relation to god, prayer is the very life-blood of morality.'[ ] the steadfast aspiration of the soul to god, whose will is our law and whose blessing is granted to whatsoever is done in his name, is the habitual temper of the christian life. but prayer must also be particular, definite, and expectant. by a law of our nature, and apart from all supernatural intervention, prayer exercises a reflex influence of a very beneficial character upon the mind of the worshippers. but he who offers his petitions expecting nothing more will not even attain this. 'if prayers,' says mr. lecky, 'were offered up solely with a view to this benefit, they would be absolutely sterile and would speedily cease.'[ ] the purely subjective view of prayer as consisting solely in 'beneficent self-suggestion' empties the term of significance. even frederick meyers, who lays so much stress upon the importance of self-suggestion in other aspects of experience, admits that prayer is something more than a subjective { } phenomenon. 'it is not only a calling up of one's own private resources; it must derive its ultimate efficacy from the increased flow from the infinite life into the life of the suppliant.'[ ] (_c_) prayer attains its highest expression in _thanksgiving and joy_. gratitude is the responsive feeling which wells up in the heart of those who have experienced the goodness of god, and recognise him as the great benefactor. christians are to abound in thankfulness. we live in a world where everything speaks to us of divine love. praise is the complement of prayer. the grateful heart sees life transfigured. it discovers everywhere tokens of grace and hope, 'making the springs of time and sense sweet with eternal good.' peace, trust, joy, hope are the ultimate notes of the christian life. 'rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks.' thanksgiving, says st. bernard, 'is the return of the heart to god in perpetual benediction.' in the kingdom of love duty is swallowed up in joy. life is nothing but the growing realisation of god. with god man's life begins, and to him turns back at last in the wrapt contemplation of his perfect being. in fellowship with god man finds in the end both himself and his brother. 'what is left for us, save, in growth of soul, to rise up, far past both, from the gift looking to the giver, from the cistern to the river, and from the finite to the infinity and from man's dust to god's divinity?'[ ] 'god,' says green, 'is a being with whom we are in principle one, in the sense that he is all which the human spirit is capable of becoming.'[ ] in the worship of god, { } man dies to the temporal interests and narrow ends of the exclusive self, and lives in an ever-expanding life in the life of others, manifesting more and more that spiritual principle which is the life of god, who lives and loves in all things.[ ] [ ] paulsen, _ethics_, bk. iii. chap. i. cf. also wundt, _ethik_, p. . but see also w. wallace, _lectures and essays_, p. , on their confusion. [ ] mackintosh, _chr. ethics_, p. . [ ] cf. haering, _ethics of chr. life_, p. . [ ] this seems to be the position of herrmann; see _ethik_. [ ] cf. eucken, _life's basis_, p. . [ ] maccunn, _ethics of citizenship_, p. . [ ] _duties of man_, chap. i. [ ] see discussion by late w. wallace in _lectures and essays_, pp. ff. [ ] _ethik_, p. . [ ] maccunn, _op. cit._; p. . [ ] cf. eucken, _main currents of modern thought_, p. . [ ] hegel, _philosophy of right_, p. . [ ] _das wesen des christenthums_; cf. also _ecce homo_, p. . [ ] adopted in massachusetts in .--'all men have equal rights to life, liberty, and property.' [ ] browning, _prince hohenstiel-schwangau_. [ ] cf. wheeler robinson, _the christian doctrine of man_, pp. f. [ ] matt. xi. ; luke vii. . [ ] ottley, _ideas and ideals_. [ ] rom. xiii. - . [ ] col. iii. , . [ ] see lecky, _map of life_. [ ] _vor dem wissenden sich stellen, sicher ist's in allen fällen_. [ ] cor. xii. . [ ] _phil. of right_, pp. ff.; see also wundt, _ethik_, pp. f. [ ] cf. ottley, _idem_, p. . [ ] green, _proleg._, p. , quoted by ottley. [ ] _science of ethics_ (trans.), p. . [ ] miss fowler, _concerning isabel carnaby_. [ ] drummond, _via, veritas, vita_, p. . [ ] matt. viii. f., x. ; luke viii. f. [ ] matt. xxv. f.; mark xxiv. ; luke xii. f. [ ] _chr. ethics_ (trans.), vol. ii. p. . [ ] _hist. of europ. morals_, vol. i. p. . [ ] _human personality_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] browning, _christmas eve_. [ ] _proleg._, p. . [ ] cf. jones, _browning as philosophical and religious teacher_, p. . { } chapter xiii social institutions in last chapter we dealt with the rights and duties of the individual as they are conditioned by his relation to himself, others, and to god. in this chapter it remains to speak more particularly of the organised institutions of society in which the moral life is manifested, and by means of which character is moulded. these are the family, the state, and the church. these three types of society, though distinguishable, are closely allied. at first, indeed, they were identical. human society had its origin, most probably, in a primitive condition in which domestic, political, and religious ends were one. even in modern life family, state, and church do not stand for separate interests. so far from their aims colliding they are mutually helpful. an individual may be a member of all three at one time. from a christian point of view each is a divine institution invested with a sacred worth and a holy function, and ordained of god for the advancement of his kingdom. i _the family_ is the fountain-head of all the other social groups, 'the cell of the social organism.' man enters the world not as an isolated being, but by descent and generation. in the family each is cradled and nurtured, and by the domestic environment character is developed. the family has a profound value for the nation. citizenship rests on the sanctity of the home. when the fire on the hearth is quenched, the vigour of a people dies. { } . investigations of great interest and value have been pursued in recent years regarding the origin and evolution of the family. however far back the natural history of the race is carried, it seems scarcely possible to resist the conclusion that some form of family relationship is coeval with human life. widely as social arrangements differ in detail among savage peoples, arbitrary promiscuity can nowhere be detected. certain laws of domestication have been invariably found to exist, based upon definite social and moral restrictions universally acknowledged and rigidly enforced. two primitive conditions are present wherever man is found--the tribe and the family. if the family is never present without the tribe, the tribe is never discovered without 'those intra-tribal distinctions and sexual regulations which lie at the bottom of the institution of the family.'[ ] westermarck indeed says that 'the evidence we possess tends to show that among our earliest human ancestors the family and not the tribe formed the nucleus of every social group, and in many cases was itself perhaps the only social group. the tie that kept together husband and wife, parents and children, was, if not the only, at least the principal factor in the earliest forms of man's social life.'[ ] if the family had been an artificial convention called into being by human will and ingenuity, it might conceivably be destroyed by the same factors. but whatever arguments may be adduced for the abolition of marriage and family life to-day, the appeal to primitive history is not one of them. on the contrary the earliest forms of society show that the family is no invention, that it has existed as long as man himself, and that all social evolution has been a struggle for the preservation of its most valuable features.[ ] . if, even in early times, and especially among the hebrews, greeks, and romans, the family was an important factor in national development, it has been infinitely more so { } since the advent of christianity. christ did not create this relationship. he found it in existence when he came to the earth. but he invested it with a new ethical value. he laid upon it his consecrating touch, and made it the vehicle of all that is most tender and true in human affection, so that among christian people to-day no word is fraught with such hallowed associations as the word 'home.' this he did both by example and teaching. as a member of a human family himself, he participated in its experiences and duties. he spent his early years in the home of nazareth, and was subject unto his parents. he manifested his glory at a marriage feast. by the grave of lazarus he mingled his tears with those of the sorrowing sisters of bethany. he had a tender regard for little children, and when mothers brought their infants to him he welcomed them with gracious encouragement, and, taking the little ones in his arms, blessed them, thus consecrating for all time both childhood and motherhood. throughout his life there are indications of his deep reverence and affection for her who was his mother, and with his latest breath he confided her to the care of his beloved disciple. there are passages indeed which seem to indicate a depreciation of family relationships.[ ] the most important of these are the sayings which deal with the home connections of those whom he called to special discipleship.[ ] not only are father and mother to be loved less than he, but even in comparison with himself are to be hated.[ ] among the sacrifices his servants must be ready to make is the surrender of the home.[ ] but these references ought to be taken in conjunction with, and read in the light of, his more general attitude to the claims of kindred. it was not his indifference to, but his profound regard for, home ties that drew from him these words. he knew that affection may narrow as well as widen the heart, and that our { } tenderest intimacies may bring our most dangerous temptations. there are moments in the history of the heart when the lesser claim must yield to the greater. for the son of man himself, there were interests higher even than those of the family. some men, perhaps even most, are able to fulfil their vocation without a surrender of the joys of kinship. but others are called to a wider sphere and a harder task. for the sake of the larger brotherhood of man, jesus found it necessary to renounce the intimacies of home. what it cost him to do so we, who cannot fathom the depth of his love, know not. even such an abandonment did he demand of his first disciples. and for the follower of christ still there must be the same willingness to make the complete sacrifice of everything, even of home and kindred, if they stand in the way of devotion to the kingdom of god.[ ] ( ) our lord's direct statements regarding the nature of the family leave us in no doubt as to the high place it holds in his conception of life. marriage, upon which the family rests, is, according to jesus, the divinely ordained life-union of a man and woman. in his quotation from genesis he makes reference to that mysterious attraction, deeply founded in the very nature of man, by which members of the opposite sex are drawn to each other. but while acknowledging the sensuous element in marriage, he lifts it up into the spiritual realm and transmutes it into a symbol of soul-communion. our lord does not derive the sanction of wedded life from mosaic legislation. still less does he permit it as a concession to human frailty. it has its ground in creation itself, and while therefore it is the most natural of earthly relationships it is of god's making. to the true ideal of marriage there are several features which our lord regards as indispensable. (_a_) it must be _monogamous_, the fusion of two distinct personalities. 'they two shall be one flesh.' mutual self-impartation demands that the union should be an exclusive one. (_b_) it is a _union of equality_. neither { } personality is to be suppressed. the wedded are partners who share one another's inmost thoughts and most cherished purposes. but this claim of equality does not exclude but rather include the different functions which, by reason of sex and constitution, each is enabled to exercise. 'woman is not undeveloped man but diverse.' and it is in diversity that true unity consists. both will best realise their personality in seeking the perfection of one another. (_c_) it is a _permanent_ union, indissoluble till the parting of death. the only exception which christ acknowledges is that form of infidelity which _ipso facto_ has already ruptured the sacred bond.[ ] according to jesus marriage is clearly intended by god to involve sacred and permanent obligations, a covenant with god, as well as with one another, which dare not be set aside at the dictate of a whim or passion. the positive principle underlying this declaration against divorce is the spirit of universal love that forbids that the wife should be treated, as was the case among the dissolute of our lord's time, as a chattel or slave. nothing could be more abhorrent to christian sentiment than the modern doctrine of 'leasehold marriage' advocated by some.[ ] it has been ingeniously suggested that the record of marital unrest and divorce in america, shameful as it is, may not be in many cases altogether an evil. the very demand to annul a union in which reverence and affection have been forfeited may spring from a growing desire to realise the true ideal of marriage.[ ] (_d_) finally, it is a _spiritual_ union. it is something more than a legal contract, or even an ecclesiastical ordinance. the state must indeed safeguard the civil rights of the parties to the compact, and the church's ceremony ought to be sought as the expression of divine blessing and approval. but of themselves these do not constitute the inner tie which makes the twain one, and binds them together amid all the chances and changes of this earthly life.[ ] in the teaching of both christ and { } the apostles marriage is presented as a high vocation, ordained by god for the enrichment of character, and invested with a holy symbolism. according to st. paul it is the emblem of the mystic union of christ and his church, and is overshadowed by the presence of god, who is the archetype of those sacred ideas which we associate with the name of fatherhood. ( ) though marriage is the most personal of all forms of social intercourse, there are many varied and intricate interests involved which require _legal recognition_ and adjustment. questions as to the legitimacy of offspring, the inheritance of property, the status and rights of the contracting parties, come within the domain of law. the state punishes bigamy, and forbids marriage within certain degrees of consanguinity. many contend that the state should go further, and prevent all unions which endanger the physical vigour and efficiency of the coming generation. it is undoubtedly true that the government has a right to protect its people against actions which tend to the deterioration of the race. to permit those to marry who are suffering from certain maladies of mind or body is to commit a grave crime against society. but care must be taken lest we unduly interfere with the deeper spiritual sympathies and affections upon which a true union is founded. in agitating for state control in the mating of the physically fit, the champions of eugenics are apt to exaggerate the materialistic side of marriage, and overlook those qualities of heart and mind which are not less important for the well-being of the race. in the discipline of humanity weakness and suffering are assets which the world could ill afford to lose.[ ] ( ) in modern times the institution of marriage is menaced by two opposite forces; on the one hand, by a revolutionary type of socialism, and on the other, by the reactionary influence of self-interested individualism. (_a_) it is contended by some advanced socialists that among { } the poor and the toiling home life is practically non-existent; indeed, under present industrial conditions, impossible. marriage and separate family life are insuperable barriers, it is said, to corporate unity and social progress. it is but fair to add that this extreme view is now largely repudiated by the most enlightened advocates of a new social order, who are contending, they tell us, not for the abolition, but for the betterment, of domestic conditions.[ ] (_b_) the stability of social life is being threatened even more seriously by a self-centred individualism. marriage is considered as a merely temporary arrangement which may be terminated at will. it is contended that divorce should be granted on the easiest terms, and the most trifling reasons are seriously put forward as legitimate grounds for the annulling of the holiest of vows. without discussing these disintegrating influences, it is enough to say that the trend of history is against any radical tampering with the institution of marriage, and any attempt to disparage the sanctity of the home or belittle domestic obligations would be to poison at its springs the moral life of man. . the duties of the various members of the family are explicitly, if briefly, stated in the apostolic epistles. they are valid for all times and conditions. though they may be easily elaborated they cannot well be improved. all home obligations are to be fulfilled _in_ and _unto_ the lord. the fear of god is to inspire the nurture of children, and to sanctify the lowliest services of the household. authority is to be blended with affection. ( ) _parents_ are not to provoke their children by harsh and despotic rule, nor yet to spoil them by soft indulgence. _children_ are to render obedience, and, when able, to contribute to the support of their parents.[ ] masters are to treat their servants with equity and respect. servants are exhorted to show fidelity. in short all the relationships of the household are to be hallowed by the spirit of christian love. many questions relative to the family arise, over which { } we may not linger. one might speak of the effect of industrial conditions upon domestic life, the employment of women and children in factories, the evil of sweating, the problem of our city slums, and, generally, of the need of improved environment in order that our labouring classes may have a chance of a healthier and purer home existence. legislation can do much. but even law is ineffective to achieve the highest ends if it is not backed by the public conscience. the final solution of the problem of the family rests not in conditions but in character, not in environment but in education, in the kind of men we are rearing. ( ) this century has been called the _woman's_ century. and certainly there is an obvious trend to-day towards acknowledgment, in all departments of life, of women's equality with men. there is, however, a difference of opinion as to what that equality should mean; and there seems to be a danger in some quarters of overlooking the essential difference of the sexes. no people can achieve what it ought while its wives and mothers are degraded or denied their rights. for her own sake, as well as for the weal of the race, whatever is needful to enable woman to attain to her noblest womanhood must be unhesitatingly granted.[ ] ( ) but this is even more the _children's_ era. a new sense of reverence for the child is one of the most promising notes of our age, and the problems arising out of the care and education of the young have created the new sciences of pedagogy and child-psychology. regard for child-life owes its inspiration directly to the teaching of christ. the child in the simplicity of its nature and innocence of its dependence is, according to the master, the perfect pattern of those who seek after god. it is true that in the art of antiquity child-life was frequently represented. but as burckhardt says it was the drollery and playfulness, even the quarrelsomeness and stealth, and above all the lusty health and animal vigour of young life that was depicted. ancient art did not behold in the child the prophecy of a new and purer world. moreover, it was aesthetic { } feeling and not real sympathy with childhood which animated this movement. as time went on the teaching of christ on this subject was strangely neglected, and the history of the treatment of the young is a tragic tale of neglect and suffering. only now are we recovering the lost message of jesus in regard to the child, and we are beginning to realise that infancy and youth have their rights, and demand of the world both care and affection. ours sons and daughters are the nation's assets. yet it is a parent's question even more than the state's. in a deeper sense than we imagine children are the creation of their parents. it is the effect of soul upon soul, the mother's touch and look, the father's words and ways, that kindle into flame the dull material of humanity, and begin that second birth which should be the anxiety and glory of parenthood. but if the parent makes the child, scarcely less true is it that the child makes the parent. in the give and take of home life a new world is created. when a father really looks into his child's eye he is not as he was before.[ ] indispensable as is the state's education of the young, there is an important part which the community cannot undertake, and there is a danger in curbing individuality by a stereotyped method of instruction. 'all social enactments,' says harnack, 'have a tendency to circumscribe the activities of the individual. if we unduly fetter the free play of individual effort we break the mainspring of progress and enterprise, and create a state of social immobility which is the antecedent of national decay.'[ ] youth ought to be taught self-reliance and strenuousness of will; and this is a work which can only be done in the home by the firm yet kindly influence of the parents. but there is another aspect of the home problem not less pressing. the want of training in working-class families is largely answerable for the waifs and strays with which our cities team. even in middle-class households there are indications of a lack not only of discipline, but of { } that kindly sympathy and affectionate counsel on the part of parents, and of reverence and frankness in the children; with the result that the young people, missing the attachment and interest which the home should supply, seek their satisfaction outside the domestic circle, often with the most disastrous results. the problem of the family is thus the problem of nurturing the very seeds of the moral life. within the precincts of the nation's homes the future of the commonwealth is being determined. ii . the _state_ is the supreme controller of social relationships. as distinguished from the family and the church, it is the realm of organised force working for social ends. its purpose is to secure the conditions of life essential to order and progress, and it can fulfil its function only as it is endowed with power to enforce its authority. the interference of the state with the liberty of the individual has created a reaction in two opposite quarters towards complete abrogation of all state compulsion. on the one side tolstoy pleads for the removal of force, because it violates the principle of love and subverts the teaching of jesus--'resist not evil.' militant anarchism as the other extreme demands the abrogation of authority, because it believes that restraint hinders progress and happiness, and that if governmental force were abolished individuals would be best able to take care of themselves. the aim of anarchism is to destroy force by force; the aim of tolstoy is to allow force to do its worst. such a spirit of non-resistance would mean the overthrow of all security, and the reversion to wild lawlessness. it is an utter travesty of christ's teaching. extremes meet. violence and servility join hands. anarchism and tolstoyism reveal the total bankruptcy of unrestricted individualism. the social order for which the state stands is not so much an interference with the freedom of the subject as the condition under which alone individual liberty can be preserved. { } the view, however, that the state is an artificial relationship into which men voluntarily enter in order to limit their selfish instincts and to secure their mutual advantages--the theory of the 'social contract'--has been discarded in modern times as a fiction of the imagination. it is not of his own choice that the individual becomes a member of society. he is born into it. man is not a whole in himself. he is only complete in his fellows. as he serves others he serves himself. but men are not the unconscious functions of a mechanical system. they are free, living personalities, united by a sense of human obligation and kindredship. the state is more than a physical organism. it is a community of moral aims and ideals. even law, which is the soul of the state, is itself the embodiment of a moral principle; and the commonwealth stands for a great ethical idea, to the fulfilment of which all its citizens are called upon to contribute. . the reciprocal duties of the state and its citizens receive comparatively little prominence in the new testament. but they are never treated with disparagement or contempt. during our lord's earthly life the supreme power belonged to the roman empire. though jesus had to suffer much at the hands of those in authority, his habitual attitude was one of respect. he lived in obedience to the government of the country, and acknowledged the right of caesar to legislate and levy taxes in his own province. while giving all deference to the state officials before whom he was brought, he did not hesitate to remind them of the ideal of truth and justice of which they were the chosen representatives.[ ] st. paul's teaching is in harmony with his master's, and is indeed an expansion of it.[ ] 'the powers that be are ordained of god. render therefore to all their dues, tribute to whom tribute.' beyond, however, enjoining the necessity of work as a means of independence, and recommending that each should remain in the sphere in which he has been placed, and perform conscientiously the duties of his calling, we { } find little direct reference in the epistles to the matter of citizenship. but as has been truly said 'the citizen has but to stand in his station, and perform its duties, in order to fulfil the demands of citizenship.'[ ] st. paul's insistence therefore upon the personal fidelity of every man to the duties of his sphere goes far to recognise that spirit of reciprocal service which is the fundamental idea of the commonwealth. . of the two extreme views as to the meaning of the state between which the verdict of history has wavered--that of augustine, who regarded the state as the result of man's sinful condition and as the direct antithesis of the kingdom of god; and that of hegel, who saw in it the highest ethical form of society, the realisation of the moral ideal--the view of st. paul may be said to have approximated more nearly to the latter. writing to the christians at rome paul does not suggest that it was merely for prudence' sake that they should give to the imperial power unquestioning obedience. he appeals to the loftiest motives. all authority is of god in its origin and ultimate purpose. what does it matter to him whether nero be a devil or a saint? he is the prince upon the throne. he is the symbol of divine authority, 'the minister of god to thee for good.' as a christian paul looks beyond the temporal world-power as actually existing. whatever particular form it may assume, he sees in the state and its rulers only the expression of god's will. rome is his agent, oppressive, and, it may be, unjust, but still the channel through which for the moment the almighty works for the furtherance of his purposes.[ ] the conception of the state as thus formulated involves a twofold obligation--of the state towards its citizens, and of its citizens towards the state. ( ) as the embodiment of public right the state owes protection to its subjects, guarding individual privileges and prohibiting such actions as interfere with the general { } good. its functions, however, are not confined to restrictive measures. its duty is not only to protect the rights of the individual, but to create and maintain such conditions of life as are essential to the development of personality. in its own interests it is bound to foster the growth of character, and to promote culture and social well-being. in modern times we look to the state not only to protect life and property, but to secure for each individual and for all classes of men that basis of material well-being on which alone life in its truest sense can be built up. the government must therefore strike some kind of balance between the extremes of individualism and socialism. while the old theory of _laissez-faire_, which would permit every man to follow his own individual bent without regard to the interests of others, has been generally repudiated, there is still a class of politicians who ridicule the 'night watchman' idea of the state as lassalle calls it. 'let there be as little state as possible,' exclaims nietzsche. according to such thinkers the state has only negative functions. the best government is that which governs least, and allows the utmost scope to untrammelled individual enterprise. but if there is a tendency on the part of some to return to the individualistic principle, the 'paternal' idea as espoused by others is being carried to the verge of socialism. the function of the state is stretched almost to breaking point when it is conceived as the 'guardian angel' who accompanies and guards with perpetual oversight the whole life of the individual from the cradle to the grave. many of the more cautious writers[ ] of the day are exposing the dangers which lurk in the bureaucratic system of government. this tendency is apt to crush individual enterprise, and cause men to place entire reliance upon external aid and centralised power. it is indeed difficult to draw a fast line of demarcation between purely individual and social ends. there are obviously primary interests belonging to society as a whole which the state, if it is to be the instrument of the common good, ought to control; certain { } activities which, if permitted as monopolies, become a menace to the community, and which can be satisfactorily conducted only as departments of the state. national life is a unity, and it can only maintain its integrity as it secures for all its constituents, justice, equity before the law, and freedom of each to be himself. the state ought to protect those who in the competitive struggle of the modern industrial system find themselves at a hopeless disadvantage. it is the duty of the commonwealth to secure for each the opportunity to become what he is capable of being, and to fulfil the functions for which he is best fitted. the state cannot make men moral, but it can interfere with existing conditions so as to make the moral life easier for its citizens. criminal law cannot create saints, but it can punish evil-doers and counteract the forces of lawlessness which threaten the social order. it cannot legislate within the domain of motive, but it can encourage self-restraint and thrift, honesty and temperance. it cannot actually intermeddle with the sanctity of the home, or assume the rôle of paternal authority, but it can insist upon the fulfilment of the conditions of decency and propriety; it can condemn insanitary dwellings, suppress traffic in vice, supervise unhealthy trades, protect the life and health of workmen, and, generally, devise means for the culture and the advancement, intellectually and morally, of the people. the state in some degree embodies the public conscience, and as such it has the prerogative of awakening and stimulating the consciences of individuals. as a divine institution it is one of the channels through which god makes his will known to man. law has an ethical import, and the state which is founded upon just and beneficent laws moulds the customs and forms the characters of its citizens. ( ) but if the state is to fulfil its ideal function it must rely upon the general co-operation of its citizens. the measure of its success or failure will depend upon the extent to which an enlightened sense of moral obligation prevails in the community. men must rise above their { } own immediate interests and realise their corporate being. government makes its will dominant through the voice of the people. it cannot legislate beyond the sympathies of its constituents. as the individuals are, so the commonwealth will be. civil duties vary according to the qualifications and opportunities of individuals. but certain general obligations rest upon all. (_a_) it is the duty of all to take an _interest in public affairs_. what concerns us collectively is the concern of each. everything that touches the public good should be made a matter of intelligent and watchful interest by all. (_b_) it is the duty of all to _conform to the laws_ of the country. it is possible that a particular enactment may conflict with the dictates of conscience, and it may be necessary to protest against what seems to be an injustice. no rule can be laid down for exceptional cases. generally it will be best to submit to the wrong, while at the same time using all legitimate means to secure the repeal of the obnoxious law. and if they will revolt, martyrs must not complain nor be unready to submit to the penalties involved. (_c_) it is the further duty of all to take some _personal part_ in the government--if not by active service, at least by the conscientious recording of one's vote. christians must not leave the direction of the nation's affairs to non-christians. the spirit of christ forbids moral indifference to anything human. all are not fitted for, or called upon to take, public office; but it is incumbent upon every man to maintain an intelligent public spirit, and to exercise all the duties of good citizenship. it has been truly said that they who give most to the state get most from the state. it is the men who play their part as active citizens working for the nation's cause who enrich their own lives and reap the harvest of a full existence. not by withdrawal from social service, but in untiring labour for their country's weal, shall men win for themselves and their brethren the fruits of liberty and peace. for nations as for men emancipation may come with a stroke, but freedom can be earned only by strenuous and united toil. { } ( ) already these ideals have begun to take shape. the most significant feature of modern times is the growing spirit of democracy. men of all classes are awakening to their rights, and are accepting their share in the task of social reconstruction. 'we know how the masses,' says eucken, 'are determined to form a mere dependent body of the so-called higher classes no longer, but to take the problem of life independently into their own hands.'[ ] but while the modern democratic movement is not without its hopeful aspects, it is fraught also with grave perils. it is well that the people should awake to their obligations, and realise the meaning of life, especially in its social implications. but there is a danger that culture may not advance with emancipation, and while the masses demand their rights they may not at the same time discern their duties. for rights involve duties, and emancipation, as we have seen, is not liberty. the appeal of the socialistic party is to the equality of all who bear human features. it sounds plausible. but there never has been, nor never can be, such equality. nature and experience alike reveal a pronounced and insuperable inequality among men. the law of diversity strikes deep down into the very origin and constitution of mankind. the equality proclaimed by the french revolutionists is now regarded as an idle dream. not equality of nature but equity before the law, justice for all, the opportunity for every man to realise himself and make the most of the life and the gifts which god has given him--that is the only claim which can be truly made. 'the only idea,' says eucken, 'which can give to equality any meaning is the conviction that humanity has spiritual relations, that each individual has a value for himself and for the whole because he is a part of a larger spiritual world.' hence if democracy is truly to come to its own and fulfil its high vocation, the pauline figure of the reciprocal influence of the body and its members must be proclaimed anew as the ideal of the body politic--a unity fulfilling itself in difference--an organic life in which the unit finds its { } place of security-and-service in the whole, and the whole lives in and acts through the individual parts. if we are to awaken to the high vocation of the christian state, to realise the possibilities of our membership one with another, a new feeling of manhood and of national brotherhood, a new pride in the community of life, must take possession of our hearts. we need, as one has said, a baptism of religious feeling in our corporate consciousness, a new sense that we are serving god in serving our fellows, which will hallow and hearten the crusade for health and social happiness, and give to every citizen a sense of spiritual service. iii unlike the family and state the _church_ is the creation of jesus christ. it is the witness of his presence in the world. in its ideal form it is world-wide. the redemption for which it stands is a good for all men. though in practice many do not acknowledge its blessing, the church regards no man beyond its pale of grace. it is set in the midst of the world as the symbol and pledge of god's universal love. . the _relation of church and state_ is a difficult question with a long history, and involving much controversy. whatever view may be held as to their legal connection, their interests can never be regarded as inimical. the church cannot be indifferent to the action of the state, nor can the state ignore the work of the church. but since their spheres are not identical nor their aims entirely similar, the trend of modern opinion seems to indicate that, while working in harmony, it is more satisfactory that they should pursue independent paths. there are spiritual ends committed to the church by its head over which the civil power has no jurisdiction. on the other hand there are temporal concerns with which ecclesiastical courts have neither the vocation nor the qualifications to deal. still, the church, as the organ of christian thought { } and activity, has responsibilities with regard to civil matters. while religion is the chief agent in the regeneration of man, religion itself is dependent upon all social means, and the church must regard with sympathy every effort made by the community for moral improvement. the main function of the church in this connection is to keep before its members a high ideal of social life, to create a spirit of fidelity in every sphere of activity, and, particularly, to educate men for the tasks of citizenship. the state, on the other hand, as the instrument of civic life, has obligations towards the church. its duty is hardly exhausted by observing an attitude of non-interference. in its own interests it is bound, not merely to protect, but encourage the church in the fulfilment of its immediate aims. parliament, however, must concede to ecclesiastical bodies complete liberty to govern themselves. the church, as the institution of christ, claims full autonomy; and the state goes beyond its province when it imposes hampering restrictions which interfere with the exercise of its authority and discipline within its own sphere. . as a religious institution the church exists for three main purposes: ( ) the _worship_ of god and the edification of its members; ( ) the _witness_ of christ to mankind; ( ) the _evangelisation_ of the world. ( ) the first of these objects has already been dealt with when treating of the duties to god. it is only needful to add here that the church is more than a centre of worship; it is the home of kindred souls knit together by a common devotion to christ. it is the school of character which seeks the mutual edification of its members 'by provoking one another to love and to good works.' hence among protestants the duty of _church discipline_ is acknowledged, which deals with such sins or lapses from rectitude as constitute 'offences' or 'scandals,' and tend to bring into disrepute the christian name and profession. in the roman church, the confessional, through which moral error is avowed, with its system of penances, has in view the same object--viz., to reprove, correct, and reclaim { } those who have lapsed into sin--thus seeking to fulfil christ's ideal 'to despair of no man.' ( ) but the church is also a rallying place of service. both in its corporate capacity, and through the lives of its individual members, the church seeks to bear constant _witness to the mind of christ_. it proclaims his living example. it reiterates his will and embodies his judgment, approving of what is good, condemning what is evil, and ever more confronting the world with the high ideal of the divine life and word. not all who bear the name of christ are consistent witnesses. but still the aim of the church is to harmonise the profession and practice of its members, and generally to spiritualise secular life by the education of public opinion. before, however, christians can hope to make a profound impression upon the outside world, it is not unnatural to expect that they should exhibit a _spirit of concord_, among themselves, seeking to heal the unhappy schisms by which the church is rent. but while our separations are deplorable--and we ought not to cease our endeavour for the reunion of christendom--we must not forget that there may be harmony of spirit even amid diversity of operation, and that where there is true brotherly sympathy between christians, there already is essential unity.[ ] ( ) the special work of the church to which it is constrained by the express terms of its master's commission, is to _preach the gospel_ to every creature and to bring all men into obedience to christ. a distinction is commonly made between home and foreign missions. while the distinction is useful, it is scarcely valid. the work of the church at home and abroad is one. the claims of the ignorant and hapless of our own land do not exempt us from responsibilities to the heathen world. the lord's prayer for the coming of the kingdom requires of christian men that they shall consecrate their gifts along every line of effort to the fulfilment of the divine will upon the earth. . while all sections of the church are convinced that { } an honest application of the principles of jesus to the practical affairs of life would speedily transform society, there is considerable diversity of opinion as to the proper attitude of christianity to _social problems_. the outward reconstruction of social order was not, it must be admitted, the primary aim of jesus: it was rather the spiritual regeneration of the individual. but such could only become a reality as it transformed the entire fabric of life. ( ) christ's teaching could not but affect the organisation of industry as well as every other section of the social structure. though jesus has many warnings as to the perils of riches, there is no depreciation of wealth (in its truest sense). it is true he refuses to interfere in a dispute between two brothers as to worldly property, and repudiates generally the office of arbiter. it is true also that he warns his disciples against covetousness, and lays down the principle that 'a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.' but these sayings, so far from implying disapproval of earthly possessions, imply rather that property and trading are the indispensable basis upon which the outward fabric of the social order is built. christ does not counsel withdrawal from the activities of the world. he honours work. he recognises the legitimacy of trading. many of his parables would have no meaning if his attitude to the industrial system of his day had been one of uncompromising hostility. he has no grudge against riches in themselves. in the parable of the talents it is the comparatively poor man who is censured while the rich is commended. to sum up what jesus thought about wealth is not easy. many have thought that he condemned the holding of property altogether. but such a conclusion cannot be drawn from his teaching. possessions, both outward and inward, are rather to be brought to the test of his judgment. his influence would rather bring property and commerce under the control of righteousness and brotherhood. his ideal of life is to be attained through learning the right use of wealth rather than through the abolition of it. wealth { } can be used for the kingdom of god, and it is a necessary instrument in the church's work. it may be consecrated like every other gift to the service of christ. but there are mighty forces enlisted against its best usefulness, and only through the fullness of christian grace can its good work be done. what jesus does condemn however is the predatory instinct, that greed of gain which embodies itself everywhere in the spirit of plunder, exploitation, and the impulse to gambling. he can have nothing but condemnation for that great wave of money-love which has swept over christendom in our time, affecting all classes. it has fostered self-indulgence, stimulated depraved appetites, corrupted business and politics, oppressed the poor, materialised our ideals, and weakened religious influences. 'from this craze of the love of money the voice of jesus calls the people back to the sane life in ethics and religion in which he is leader.'[ ] what then ought to be the attitude of the church to the industrial questions of our day? while some contend that the social question is really a religious question, and that the church is untrue to its mission when it holds itself aloof from the economical problems which are agitating men's minds, others view with suspicion, if not with hostility, the deflection of religion from its traditional path of worship, and deem it a mistake for the church to interfere in industrial movements. a recent writer[ ] narrates that in his boyhood he actually heard an old minister of the church of scotland declare in the general assembly, 'we are not here to make the world better: we have only to pass through it on the way to glory.' 'no grosser travesty,' adds the author, 'was ever uttered. we _are_ here to make the world better. we have a commission to stamp out evil and to prevent men from falling into it. if this is not christian work, what is?' at the same time a portion of the clergy have gone to the opposite extreme, identifying the kingdom of god with social propaganda, and thus losing sight of its spiritual { } and eternal, as well as its personal, significance. there has been moreover a tendency on the part of some to associate themselves with a political party, and to claim for the church the office of judge and arbitrator in industrial strife. but surely it is one thing to degrade the church to the level of a secular society, and another, by witness and by effort, to make the law of christ dominant over all the relationships of life. men are impatiently asking, 'has the church no message to the new demands of the age? are christians to stand apart from the coming battle, and preach only the great salvation to individual souls? _that_ the christian minister must never cease to do; but the gospel, if it is to meet the needs of men, must be read in the light of history and experience, and interpreted by the signs of the times. ( ) the ground idea of jesus' teaching was, as troeltsch has pointed out,[ ] the declaration of the kingdom of god. everything indeed is relative to union with god, but in god man's earthly life is involved. two notes were therefore struck by jesus, a note of individualism and a note of universalism--love to god and love to man. these notes do not really conflict, but they became the two opposite voices of the church, and gave rise to different ethical tendencies. the first religious communities consisted of the poor and the enslaved. it never occurred to them that they had civic rights: all they desired was freedom to worship christ. not how to transform the social world, but how to maintain their own religious faith without molestation in the world of unbelief and evil was their problem. ( ) in the early catholic church the spirit of individualism ruled. with the reformation a new type of life was developed, and a new attitude to the social world was established. but while lutheranism sought to exercise its influence upon social life through state regulation, calvinism was more individualistic, and sought rather to { } enforce its teaching by means of the personal life. the attitude of the various sects--baptists, pietists, puritans--has been largely individualistic, and instead of endeavouring to rectify the abuses of industrial life they have been disposed rather to suffer the ills of this evil world, finding in faith alone their compensation and solace. in modern times the tendency of the church, romanist and protestant alike, has been toward social regeneration; and a form of christian socialism has even appeared which however lacks unity of principle and uniformity of action. the mediaeval idea of a holy roman empire, in which all nations and classes were to be consolidated, is now admitted to be a dream incapable of realisation, partly because the idea itself is illusory, but principally because the hold of the papacy upon the people has been weakened. the agitation, 'los von rom' on the one hand, and the 'modernist' movement on the other, have tended to dissipate the unity and energy of catholicism. nevertheless the church, which is really the society of christian people, is coming to see that it cannot close its eyes to questions which concern the daily life of man, nor hold aloof from efforts which are working for the social betterment of the world. to bring in the kingdom of god is the church's work, and it is becoming increasingly evident that the kingdom, if it is to come in any real and living sense, must come where jesus himself founded it--upon the plane of this present life. there are two considerations which make this work on the part of the church at once imperative and hopeful. the first is that the church is specially called upon by the command and example of its founder to range itself on the side of the weak and helpless. it is commanded to bring the principles of brotherly love to bear upon the conditions of life which press most heavily upon the handicapped. it is called on in the spirit of its master to rebuke the greed of gain and the callous selfishness which uses the toil, and even the degradation of others, for its own personal enjoyment. the church only fulfils its function when { } it is not only the consoler of the suffering but also the champion of the oppressed. and the other consideration is that in virtue of its nature and charter the church is enabled to appeal to motives which the state cannot supply. it brings all social obligation under the comprehensive law of love. it exalts the principle of brotherhood. it lifts up the sacrifice of christ, and seeks to make it potent over the hearts of men. it preaches the doctrine of humanity, and strives to win a response in all who are willing to acknowledge their common kinship and equality before god. it appeals to masters and servants, to employers and labourers, to rich and poor, and bids them remember that they are sharers alike of the divine mercy, pensioners together upon their heavenly father's love. . whatever shape the obligation of the church may take in regard to the social problems of the homeland, the duty of christianity to the larger world of humanity admits of no question. the ethical significance of the missionary movement of last century has been pronounced by wundt,[ ] the distinguished historian of morals, as the mightiest factor in modern civilisation. speaking of humanity in its highest sense as having been brought into the world by christianity, he mentions as its first manifestation the care of the sick, and then adds, 'the second great expression of christian humanity is the establishment of missions.' it is unnecessary to dwell upon this modern form of unselfish enthusiasm. it has its roots in the simple necessity, on the part of the morally awakened, of sharing their best with other people. 'man grows with the greatness of his purposes,' and no greater ideal task has ever presented itself to the imagination of man than this mighty attempt to conquer the world for christ, and give to his brother men throughout the earth that which has raised and enriched himself.[ ] 'the two great forming agencies in the world's history,' says a prominent political economist, 'have been the { } religious and the economic.'[ ] on the one hand the economic is required as the basis of civilisation, but on the other the supreme factor is religion. the commercial impulse, carried on independently of any higher motive than self-interest, has however not infrequently reacted favourably on the moral life of the race. mutual understanding, the sense of a common humanity, the virtues of honesty, fairness, and confidence upon which all legitimate commerce is founded, have paved the way in no small degree for the message of brotherhood and mercy. the present hour is the church's opportunity. already the world has been opened up, the nations of the earth are awakening to the greatness of life's possibilities. the danger is that the oriental peoples should become satisfied with the mere externals of civilisation, and miss that which will assure their complete emancipation. christianity was born in the east, though it has become the inheritance of the west. it is adapted by its genius to all men. and undoubtedly the west has no better boon to confer on the east than that on which its own life and hope are founded--the religion of jesus christ. if we do not give that, we are unfaithful to our master's call; we falsify our own history, and wholly miss the purpose for which we have been entrusted with divine enlightenment and power. [ ] lofthouse, _ethics of the family_, p. . [ ] _hist. of human marriage_, p. . [ ] the literature on this subject is enormous. see specially works of westermarck, m'lennan, frazer, hobhouse, andrew lang, and ihering. [ ] see chap. vii. in garvie's _studies in inner life of jesus_. [ ] matt. viii. , ; luke ix. - . [ ] luke xiv. ; matt. x. . [ ] mark x. , . [ ] matt. xix. . [ ] matt. v. , xix. - ; mark x. , . [ ] see forsyth, _marriage: its ethics and religion_. [ ] king, _ethics of jesus_, p. . [ ] stalker, _ethics of jesus_, p. . [ ] though nietzsche does not use the word he may be regarded as the father of modern eugenics. [ ] cf. ramsay macdonald, _socialism_. [ ] mark vii. - . [ ] cf. king, _the moral and religious challenge of our times_, pp. f. [ ] cf. w. wallace, _lects. and addresses_, p. . [ ] _aus leben und wissenschaft_. [ ] matt. xii. - ; john xviii. , xix. f. [ ] rom. xiii. [ ] sir h. jones, _idealism as a practical creed_, p. . [ ] some sentences are here borrowed from author's _ethics of st. paul_. [ ] _e.g._ eucken, kindermann, mallock, and earlier h. spencer. [ ] _life's ideal and life's basis_. [ ] eph. iv. . [ ] clarke, _ideal of jesus_, p. . [ ] watson, _social advance_. [ ] _die soziallehren der christlichen kirchen und gruppen_, a recent work on social ethics of great erudition and importance. [ ] _ethik_, vol. ii. [ ] king, _the moral and religious challenge of our times_, pp. and . [ ] marshall, _principles of economics_. { } chapter xiv conclusion--the permanence of christian ethics in bringing to a close our study of christian ethics, we repeat that the three dominant notes of the christian ideal are--absoluteness, inwardness, and universality. the gospel claims to be supreme in life and morals. the uniqueness and originality of the ethics of christianity are to be sought, however, not so much in the range of its practical application as in the unfolding of an ideal which is at once the power and pattern of the new life. that ideal is christ in whom the perfect life is disclosed, and through whom the power for its realisation is communicated. life is a force, and character a growth arising in and expanding from a hidden seed. hence in christian ethics apathy and passivity, and even asceticism and quietism, which occupy an important place in the moral systems of buddha and neo-platonism, in mediaeval catholicism and the teaching of tolstoy, play only a subsidiary part, and are but preparatory stages towards the realisation of a fuller life. on the contrary all is life, energy, and unceasing endeavour. 'i am come that ye may have life, and that ye may have it more abundantly.' there is no finality in christian ethics. it is not a mechanical and completed code. the ethic of the new testament, just because it has its spring in the living christ, is an inexhaustible fountain of life. 'true christianity,' says edward caird, 'is not something which was published in palestine, and which has been handed down by a dead tradition ever since; it is a living and growing { } spirit, and learns the lessons of history, and is ever manifesting new powers and leading on to new truths.' the teaching of jesus is not merely temporary or local. it is an utter perversion of the gospels to make the eschatology present in them the master-key to their meaning, or to derive the ethical ideal from the utterances which anticipate an abrupt and immediate end. jesus spoke indeed the language of his time and race, and often clothed his spiritual purpose in the form of national expectation. but to base his moral maxims on an 'interim-ethic' adapted to a transitory world is to 'distort the perspective of his teaching, and to rob it of its unity and insight.' on the contrary, the ethics of jesus are everywhere characterised by adaptability, universality, and permanence, and in his attitude to the great problems of life there is a serenity and sympathy which has nothing in common with the nervous and excited expectation of sudden catastrophe. in like manner it is a misinterpretation of the teaching of jesus to represent asceticism as the last word of christian ethics. renunciation and unworldliness are undoubtedly frequently commended in the new testament, but they are urged not as ends in themselves but as means to a fuller self-realisation. such was not the habitual temper and tone of jesus in his relations to the world, nor was the ultimate purpose of his mission to create a type of manhood whose perfection lay in withdrawal from the interests and obligations of life. 'to single out a teaching of non-resistance as the core of the gospels, to retreat from social obligations in the name of one who gladly shared them and was called a friend of wine-bibbers and publicans--all this, however heroic it may be, is not only an impracticable discipleship but a historical perversion. it mistakes the occasionalism of the gospels for universalism.'[ ] finally, there are many details of modern social well-being with which the new testament does not deal, questions of present-day ethics and economics which cannot be decided by a direct reference to chapter and { } verse, either of the gospels or epistles. the problems of life shift with the shifting years, but the nature of life remains unchanged, and responds to the life and the spirit of him who was, and remains down the ages, the light of men. the individual virtues of humility, purity of heart, and self-sacrifice are not evanescent, but are now and always the pillars of christian ethics; while the great principles of human solidarity, of brotherhood and equality in christ, of freedom, of love, and service; the new testament teachings concerning the family, the state, and the kingdom of god; our lord's precepts with regard to the sacredness of the body and the soul, the duty of work, the stewardship of wealth, and the accountability to god for life with its variety of gifts and tasks--contain the germ and potency of all personal and social transformation and renewal. 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s. leathes, _foundations of morality_, ; frank, _system d. christl. sittenlehre_, ; westcott, _social aspects of christianity_, ; w. t. davidson, _the christian conscience_, ; balfour, _the religion of humanity_, ; maccoll, _christianity in relation to science and morals_, ; stanton, _province of christian ethics_, ; hughes, _principles of natural and supernatural morals_, ; w. g. lilly, _right and wrong_, ; bright, _morality in doctrine_, ; schultz, _grundriss d. evangelischen ethik_, ; newman smyth, _christian ethics_, ; dowden, _relation of christian ethics to philos. ethics_, ; jas. drummond, _via, veritas, vita_ (hib. lect.), ; jacoby, _neukstamentliche ethik_, ; salwitz, _das problem d. ethik_, ; knight, _the christian ethic_, ; jas. kidd, _morality and religion_, ; strong, _christian ethics_, ; troeltsch, _die christl. ethik und die heutige gesellschaft_, ; _die sociallehren d. christl. kirchen u. gruppen_ ( vols.), ; _protestantism and progress_, ; lemme, _christl. ethik._ ( vols.), ; kirn, _grundriss d. theol. ethik_, ; _sitlliche lebenanschauungen d. geigenwart_, ; nash, _ethics and revelation_; dobschütz, _the christian life in the primitive church_; clark, _the church and the changing order_; ottley, _christian ideas and ideals_, ; clark murray, _handbook of christian ethics_, ; henry w. clark, _the christian method of ethics_, ; rauschenbusch, _christianity and the social crisis_, ; geo. matheson, _landmarks of new testament morality_, ; j. smith, _christian character and social power_; gladden, _applied christianity_; j. r. campbell, _christianity and the social order_; coe, _education in religion and morals_; peile, _the reproach of the gospel_; gottschick, _ethik_, ; w. schmidt, _der kampf um die sittliche welt_, ; herrmann, _ethik_, ; _faith and morals, communion of the christian with god_; a. e. balch, _introduction to the study of christian ethics_; kirkpatrick, _christian character and conduct_; church, _outlines of christian character_; paget, _christian character_; illingworth, _christian character; personality, human and divine_; r. mackintosh, _christian ethics_, ; haering, _the ethics of the christian life_ (trans.), ; barbour, _a philos. study of christian ethics_, ; stubbs, _christ and economics_; w. s. bruce, _social aspects of christian morality_, ; _formation of christian character_; harper, _christian ethics and social progress_, ; t. c. hall, _social solutions in the light of christian ethics_, . ii. special subjects . _ethics of jesus_. briggs, _ethical teaching of jesus_; p. brooks, _influence of jesus_; dale, _laws of christ for common life_; feddersen, _jesus und die socialen dinge_; gardner, _exploratio evangelica_; ehrhardt, _der grundcharacter d. ethik jesu_, ; grimm, _die ethik jesu_, ; peabody, _jesus christ and the christian character_, ; _jesus christ and the social question_, ; _the approach to the social question_, ; king, _the ethics of jesus_, ; _moral and social challenge of our times_, ; rau, _die ethik jesu_; stalker, _imago christi_, ; _the ethic of jesus_, ; mathews, _the social teaching of jesus_; horton, _the commandments of jesus_; w. n. clarke, _the ideal of jesus_, . . _teaching of jesus and apostles_. _works_ of a. b. bruce; gilbert, _revelation of jesus_; harnack, _what is christianity?_ (das wesen); _sayings of jesus_; jülicher, _gleichnissreden jesu_; denney, _jesus and the gospel_, ; latham, _pastor pastorum_; moorhouse, pullan, ross, von schrenck, stevens, swete; tolstoy, _my religion_; wendt, _lehre jesu_ ( ed.), ; weizsäcker, _the apostolic age_; hausrath, _history of n. t. times_; fairbairn, _christ in modern thought_; d. la touche, _the person of christ in modern thought_, ; pfanmüller, _jesus im urtheil d. jahrhunderte_; bacon, _jesus, the son of god_; dalman, _words of jesus_; baur, _paulinismus_; bosworth, _teaching of jesus and apostles_; pfleiderer, _paulinismus; primitive christianity_; johan-weiss, _paul and jesus_; gardner, _relig. experience of st. paul_; alexander, _ethics of st. paul_. { } c.--history of ethics see histories of philosophy: ueberweg, erdmann, windelband, schwegler, maurice, rogers; alexander, _a short history of philosophy_ ( nd ed.), ; lecky, _hist. of europ. morals_; luthardt, _history of ethics_; rogers, _a short history of ethics_, ; thoma, _geschichte d. christl. sittenlehre in der zeit d. n. t._, ; wundt (_vol. ii. of ethics_); wuttke (_vol. i. of ethics_); sidgwick, _history of ethics_; ziegler, _gesch. d. ethik_; jodl, _gesch. d. ethik in d. neueren philosophie_; t. c. hall, _history of ethics within organized christianity_, . see also relevant articles in bible dictionaries, especially hastings' _encyclopaedia of religion and ethics_. { } index activism, , , . adiaphora, . aestheticism, f., . alquin, . apocalyptic teaching of christ, . aquinas, thomas, , . aristotle, , f., f., , , , , . arnold, matthew, , . asceticism, , , , . assimilation to christ, . atonement, . augustine, , f., , , . aurelius, marcus, , . avenarius, . balch, , . barbour, , , , , . baur, . beatitudes, , , . beneficence, . bentham, , . bergson, , f., f. bernard, . blewett, christian view of god, . bosanquet, , , , , , . bousset, , . brotherhood, , , , . browning, , , , , , , , , , , . bunsen, . burckhardt, . burke, . burkitt, . burnet, . burns, robert, . butcher, . butler, bishop, . caird, e., , , , . ---- j., . cairns, . calixtas, g., . calvinism, , , . cambridge platonists, . campbell, . chamberlain, houston, . character, , , , , , ; making of, . childhood, children, f. christ, , , , f., ; as example, f.; character of, f., . christianity, f. church, , , ff. citizenship, , , f. clarke, . clement, , . coleridge, . collectivism, . compassion, . conduct, , , , , f. conscience, f. conversion, . courage, , , , . cousin, . _creative evolution_, . croce, benedetto, . culture, , , , , , , , . daemon of socrates, . danaeus, . dante, , . darwin, . david, psalms, f., . davidson, , . death of christ, . decalogue, , , . deissmann, . democracy, . denney on forgiveness, . descartes, . determinism, f. dewey, professor, . disinterestedness of motive, f. divorce, . dobschütz, . dogmatics, , f. dorner, f. drew, . duty, duties, , , , ff. dynamic of new life, f. 'ecce homo,' , . ecclesiasticism, , . economics, , . ehrhardt, . emerson on example, . empire, roman, ; 'holy,' . engels, . epictetus, , . epicureans, . erinnyes of aeschylus, . eschatology, f. eternal life, . ethics, christian, f., , , ff; philos., , f., ; permanence of, . ---- of israel, ff. eucken, , , , , , f., , , , . eugenics, , . euripides, . evil, f., , . evolutionalism, f., f. example, human, , f.; of jesus, , f. externalism, f. fairbairn, a. m., . faith, , , f., , ; pauline doct., . faithfulness, , , , , . faith healing, . family, f.; relationships, , . fatherhood of god, , , , . feuerbach, . fichte, , , . forgiveness, divine, ; human, . forsyth, . 'foundations,' . frazer, , . garvie, . god, idea of, ; sovereignty of, ; fatherhood of, ; love of, ; recognition of, ; obedience to, ; worship of, . godlikeness, , . goethe, , , , , . grace, means of, . graces, . grant, sir a., on 'mean,' . greece, ancient, , . greeks, , , . green, t. h., , , , , , . haeckel, , . haering, , , , . harnack, , , . hebrew, , . hedonism, . hegel, , , , , f., , , , . heraclitus, . hermann, e., . herrmann, . hobbes, , . hobhouse, . holiness, ; of jesus, . hope, , f. hügel, von, . hume, . hypnotism, . hyslop, . ideals, , ; idealism, , f. ihering, . immanence of god, , . immortality, . incarnation, f. indeterminism, . individualism, , , . inge, . intellect and intuition, , . intellectualism, , , , . intensity of life, f. _interimsethik_, f., . intuitionalism, . irenaeus, . israel, , , . jacoby, , , . james, st., . ---- w., , , , f., f., . jones, sir h., , , . judaeism, ethics of, . judgment, final, ; just judgment, . justice, , , , f., , . justification by faith, . kant, , f., , f., , , , , . keim, . king, , , , . kingdom of god, f. kirkup, . knight, . lassalle, . law, mosaic, f., . lecky, , , , . lemme, , f. leonardo, . lidgett, . life, , ; as ideal, ; as vocation, ; regard for, ; as godlikeness, ; sacredness of, ; christ as standard of, ; brevity of, ; 'eternal,' . lodge, sir o., . lofthouse, . logic, , . lotze, . love, supremacy of, , f; divine, , . lütgert, . maccabean age, . maccunn, . macdonald, ramsay, . mach, f. machiavelli, . mackenzie, , , . mackintosh, , . macmillan, . mallock, . man, estimate of, ff.; primitive, . mark, st., . marriage, , . marshall, . martensen, . marx, . massachusetts, 'declaration of rights,' . matheson, geo., . mazzini on rights, . 'mean' of aristotle, , . metaphysics, , , f., , . meyers, st. paul, , . micah, . mill, j. s., , . millar, hugh, . milton, . mission of jesus, . missionary movement, . moffatt, . morality, , f. morals, . see ethics. morris, . motives, , ; christian, f. muirhead, . murray, , . müller, max, . nativism, . naturalism, ff. nemesis, . neo-platonism, f., , , . 'new ethic,' . nietzsche, , , , . nine foundation pillars of schmiedel, . norm, normative, , . novalis, , . obedience, . old dispensation, . origin, . orr, j., . oswald, . ottley, , , , . 'ought,' , , . paine, . parables of the kingdom, . parents, . parker, theodore, . pascal, , . passions, , , . paul, st., , , f., , , f., , , , f., , , . paulsen, , , . peabody, , , . pelagius, . penalty, . _pensées_, . perfection, spiritual, , . permissible, . personality, , f., , , , , , . pfleiderer, . pharisaism, . philosophy, , , , f. plato, f., ff., , , , . pluralism, . poetry of old testament, f., . politics, f. postulates, , , , , . power, divine, f. pragmatism, , f. prayer, . pringle-pattison, . property, . rashdall, . realisation of self, . reformation, , , . regeneration, . regret, . renewal, . renunciation of gospel, . repentance, . response, human, . responsibility of man, . see will. resurrection of christ, . revolution, french, , . rewards, f. richter, jean paul, . righteousness, f., , , . risen life, . ritschlian school, , . romanticism, . rome, ; romanist, . rousseau, f., . ruskin, . sabatier, . sacrifice of christ, ; self, , , , . sanday, professor, , . schelling, . schiller, , . schleiermacher, , , , . schmidt, . schmiedel, . schopenhauer, . schultz on copying christ, . schweitzer, . science, f., . scott, e., , . seeley, . self-regard, . self-restraint of jesus, . self-sufficiency, . seneca, , . sermon on (the) mount, . seth, jas., . sin, f., . sinlessness of jesus, . smith, adam, . smyth, newman, , , . socialism, ; social problems, f., . society. social institutions, ff. socrates, , f., , , . sonship, . sophists, , , . sophocles, . soul, , . sovereignty of god, , , . specialisation, . spencer, f., , . spinoza, . sport, . stalker, , . standard of new life, f. state, ff. stephen, leslie, . stoics, , , , , . strauss, . strong, . sudermann, . suffering, , . _summum bonum_, . see ideal. symonds, . sympathy of jesus, . synoptic gospels, . tasso, . temperance, , , . temptation, . tennyson, , ; wages, . testament, new, , f., , , . ---- old, , . thanksgiving, . _theologia moralis_, . titius, . touche, e. d. la, . troeltsch, , , . truthfulness, . utilitarianism, f., . virtue. virtues, , , ff., ff. vitalism, , . vocation, , f. wages, . watson, . wealth, . weiss, johannus, , . _welt-anschauung_, , . wenley, . wernle, , . westcott, bishop, . westermarck, . will, ff., f. wisdom, , , , , . wordsworth, , . work, , . worship, , . wundt, , f., , , . wuttke, , , . confessio amantis or tales of the seven deadly sins by john gower - a.d. the following electronic text is based on that edition published in the works of john gower, ed. prof. g.c. macauley. prologus torpor, ebes sensus, scola parua labor minimusque causant quo minimus ipse minora canam: qua tamen engisti lingua canit insula bruti anglica carmente metra iuuante loquar. ossibus ergo carens que conterit ossa loquelis absit, et interpres stet procul oro malus. of hem that writen ous tofore the bokes duelle, and we therfore ben tawht of that was write tho: forthi good is that we also in oure tyme among ous hiere do wryte of newe som matiere, essampled of these olde wyse so that it myhte in such a wyse, whan we ben dede and elleswhere, beleve to the worldes eere in tyme comende after this. bot for men sein, and soth it is, that who that al of wisdom writ it dulleth ofte a mannes wit to him that schal it aldai rede, for thilke cause, if that ye rede, i wolde go the middel weie and wryte a bok betwen the tweie, somwhat of lust, somewhat of lore, that of the lasse or of the more som man mai lyke of that i wryte: and for that fewe men endite in oure englissh, i thenke make a bok for engelondes sake, the yer sextenthe of kyng richard. what schal befalle hierafterward god wot, for now upon this tyde men se the world on every syde in sondry wyse so diversed, that it welnyh stant al reversed, as forto speke of tyme ago. the cause whi it changeth so it needeth nought to specifie, the thing so open is at ije that every man it mai beholde: and natheles be daies olde, whan that the bokes weren levere, wrytinge was beloved evere of hem that weren vertuous; for hier in erthe amonges ous, if noman write hou that it stode, the pris of hem that weren goode scholde, as who seith, a gret partie be lost: so for to magnifie the worthi princes that tho were, the bokes schewen hiere and there, wherof the world ensampled is; and tho that deden thanne amis thurgh tirannie and crualte, right as thei stoden in degre, so was the wrytinge of here werk. thus i, which am a burel clerk, purpose forto wryte a bok after the world that whilom tok long tyme in olde daies passed: bot for men sein it is now lassed, in worse plit than it was tho, i thenke forto touche also the world which neweth every dai, so as i can, so as i mai. thogh i seknesse have upon honde and longe have had, yit woll i fonde to wryte and do my bisinesse, that in som part, so as i gesse, the wyse man mai ben avised. for this prologe is so assised that it to wisdom al belongeth: what wysman that it underfongeth, he schal drawe into remembrance the fortune of this worldes chance, the which noman in his persone mai knowe, bot the god al one. whan the prologe is so despended, this bok schal afterward ben ended of love, which doth many a wonder and many a wys man hath put under. and in this wyse i thenke trete towardes hem that now be grete, betwen the vertu and the vice which longeth unto this office. bot for my wittes ben to smale to tellen every man his tale, this bok, upon amendment to stonde at his commandement, with whom myn herte is of accord, i sende unto myn oghne lord, which of lancastre is henri named: the hyhe god him hath proclamed ful of knyhthode and alle grace. so woll i now this werk embrace with hol trust and with hol believe; god grante i mot it wel achieve. if i schal drawe in to my mynde the tyme passed, thanne i fynde the world stod thanne in al his welthe: tho was the lif of man in helthe, tho was plente, tho was richesse, tho was the fortune of prouesse, tho was knyhthode in pris be name, wherof the wyde worldes fame write in cronique is yit withholde; justice of lawe tho was holde, the privilege of regalie was sauf, and al the baronie worschiped was in his astat; the citees knewen no debat, the poeple stod in obeissance under the reule of governance, and pes, which ryhtwisnesse keste, with charite tho stod in reste: of mannes herte the corage was schewed thanne in the visage; the word was lich to the conceite withoute semblant of deceite: tho was ther unenvied love, tho was the vertu sett above and vice was put under fote. now stant the crop under the rote, the world is changed overal, and therof most in special that love is falle into discord. and that i take to record of every lond for his partie the comun vois, which mai noght lie; noght upon on, bot upon alle it is that men now clepe and calle, and sein the regnes ben divided, in stede of love is hate guided, the werre wol no pes purchace, and lawe hath take hire double face, so that justice out of the weie with ryhtwisnesse is gon aweie: and thus to loke on every halve, men sen the sor withoute salve, which al the world hath overtake. ther is no regne of alle outtake, for every climat hath his diel after the tornynge of the whiel, which blinde fortune overthroweth; wherof the certain noman knoweth: the hevene wot what is to done, bot we that duelle under the mone stonde in this world upon a weer, and namely bot the pouer of hem that ben the worldes guides with good consail on alle sides be kept upriht in such a wyse, that hate breke noght thassise of love, which is al the chief to kepe a regne out of meschief. for alle resoun wolde this, that unto him which the heved is the membres buxom scholden bowe, and he scholde ek her trowthe allowe, with al his herte and make hem chiere, for good consail is good to hiere. althogh a man be wys himselve, yit is the wisdom more of tuelve; and if thei stoden bothe in on, to hope it were thanne anon that god his grace wolde sende to make of thilke werre an ende, which every day now groweth newe: and that is gretly forto rewe in special for cristes sake, which wolde his oghne lif forsake among the men to yeve pes. but now men tellen natheles that love is fro the world departed, so stant the pes unevene parted with hem that liven now adaies. bot forto loke at alle assaies, to him that wolde resoun seche after the comun worldes speche it is to wondre of thilke werre, in which non wot who hath the werre; for every lond himself deceyveth and of desese his part receyveth, and yet ne take men no kepe. bot thilke lord which al may kepe, to whom no consail may ben hid, upon the world which is betid, amende that wherof men pleigne with trewe hertes and with pleine, and reconcile love ayeyn, as he which is king sovereign of al the worldes governaunce, and of his hyhe porveaunce afferme pes betwen the londes and take her cause into hise hondes, so that the world may stonde apppesed and his godhede also be plesed. to thenke upon the daies olde, the lif of clerkes to beholde, men sein how that thei weren tho ensample and reule of alle tho whiche of wisdom the vertu soughten. unto the god ferst thei besoughten as to the substaunce of her scole, that thei ne scholden noght befole her wit upon none erthly werkes, which were ayein thestat of clerkes, and that thei myhten fle the vice which simon hath in his office, wherof he takth the gold in honde. for thilke tyme i understonde the lumbard made non eschange the bisschopriches forto change, ne yet a lettre for to sende for dignite ne for provende, or cured or withoute cure. the cherche keye in aventure of armes and of brygantaille stod nothing thanne upon bataille; to fyhte or for to make cheste it thoghte hem thanne noght honeste; bot of simplesce and pacience thei maden thanne no defence: the court of worldly regalie to hem was thanne no baillie; the vein honour was noght desired, which hath the proude herte fyred; humilite was tho withholde, and pride was a vice holde. of holy cherche the largesse yaf thanne and dede gret almesse to povere men that hadden nede: thei were ek chaste in word and dede, wherof the poeple ensample tok; her lust was al upon the bok, or forto preche or forto preie, to wisse men the ryhte weie of suche as stode of trowthe unliered. lo, thus was petres barge stiered of hem that thilke tyme were, and thus cam ferst to mannes ere the feith of crist and alle goode thurgh hem that thanne weren goode and sobre and chaste and large and wyse. bot now men sein is otherwise, simon the cause hath undertake, the worldes swerd on honde is take; and that is wonder natheles, whan crist him self hath bode pes and set it in his testament, how now that holy cherche is went, of that here lawe positif hath set to make werre and strif for worldes good, which may noght laste. god wot the cause to the laste of every right and wrong also; but whil the lawe is reuled so that clerkes to the werre entende, i not how that thei scholde amende the woful world in othre thinges, to make pes betwen the kynges after the lawe of charite, which is the propre duete belongende unto the presthode. bot as it thenkth to the manhode, the hevene is ferr, the world is nyh, and veine gloire is ek so slyh, which coveitise hath now withholde, that thei non other thing beholde, bot only that thei myhten winne. and thus the werres thei beginne, wherof the holi cherche is taxed, that in the point as it is axed the disme goth to the bataille, as thogh crist myhte noght availe to don hem riht be other weie. in to the swerd the cherche keie is torned, and the holy bede into cursinge, and every stede which scholde stonde upon the feith and to this cause an ere leyth, astoned is of the querele. that scholde be the worldes hele is now, men sein, the pestilence which hath exiled pacience fro the clergie in special: and that is schewed overal, in eny thing whan thei ben grieved. bot if gregoire be believed, as it is in the bokes write, he doth ous somdel forto wite the cause of thilke prelacie, wher god is noght of compaignie: for every werk as it is founded schal stonde or elles be confounded; who that only for cristes sake desireth cure forto take, and noght for pride of thilke astat, to bere a name of a prelat, he schal be resoun do profit in holy cherche upon the plit that he hath set his conscience; bot in the worldes reverence ther ben of suche manie glade, whan thei to thilke astat ben made, noght for the merite of the charge, bot for thei wolde hemself descharge of poverte and become grete; and thus for pompe and for beyete the scribe and ek the pharisee of moises upon the see in the chaiere on hyh ben set; wherof the feith is ofte let, which is betaken hem to kepe. in cristes cause alday thei slepe, bot of the world is noght foryete; for wel is him that now may gete office in court to ben honoured. the stronge coffre hath al devoured under the keye of avarice the tresor of the benefice, wherof the povere schulden clothe and ete and drinke and house bothe; the charite goth al unknowe, for thei no grein of pite sowe: and slouthe kepeth the libraire which longeth to the saintuaire; to studie upon the worldes lore sufficeth now withoute more; delicacie his swete toth hath fostred so that it fordoth of abstinence al that ther is. and forto loken over this, if ethna brenne in the clergie, al openly to mannes ije at avynoun thexperience therof hath yove an evidence, of that men sen hem so divided. and yit the cause is noght decided; bot it is seid and evere schal, betwen tuo stoles lyth the fal, whan that men wenen best to sitte: in holy cherche of such a slitte is for to rewe un to ous alle; god grante it mote wel befalle towardes him which hath the trowthe. bot ofte is sen that mochel slowthe, whan men ben drunken of the cuppe, doth mochel harm, whan fyr is uppe, bot if somwho the flamme stanche; and so to speke upon this branche, which proud envie hath mad to springe, of scisme, causeth forto bringe this newe secte of lollardie, and also many an heresie among the clerkes in hemselve. it were betre dike and delve and stonde upon the ryhte feith, than knowe al that the bible seith and erre as somme clerkes do. upon the hond to were a schoo and sette upon the fot a glove acordeth noght to the behove of resonable mannes us: if men behielden the vertus that crist in erthe taghte here, thei scholden noght in such manere, among hem that ben holden wise, the papacie so desguise upon diverse eleccioun, which stant after thaffeccioun of sondry londes al aboute: bot whan god wole, it schal were oute, for trowthe mot stonde ate laste. bot yet thei argumenten faste upon the pope and his astat, wherof thei falle in gret debat; this clerk seith yee, that other nay, and thus thei dryve forth the day, and ech of hem himself amendeth of worldes good, bot non entendeth to that which comun profit were. thei sein that god is myhti there, and schal ordeine what he wile, ther make thei non other skile where is the peril of the feith, bot every clerk his herte leith to kepe his world in special, and of the cause general, which unto holy cherche longeth, is non of hem that underfongeth to schapen eny resistence: and thus the riht hath no defence, bot ther i love, ther i holde. lo, thus tobroke is cristes folde, wherof the flock withoute guide devoured is on every side, in lacke of hem that ben unware schepherdes, whiche her wit beware upon the world in other halve. the scharpe pricke in stede of salve thei usen now, wherof the hele thei hurte of that thei scholden hele; and what schep that is full of wulle upon his back, thei toose and pulle, whil ther is eny thing to pile: and thogh ther be non other skile bot only for thei wolden wynne, thei leve noght, whan thei begynne, upon her acte to procede, which is no good schepherdes dede. and upon this also men sein, that fro the leese which is plein into the breres thei forcacche her orf, for that thei wolden lacche with such duresce, and so bereve that schal upon the thornes leve of wulle, which the brere hath tore; wherof the schep ben al totore of that the hierdes make hem lese. lo, how thei feignen chalk for chese, for though thei speke and teche wel, thei don hemself therof no del: for if the wolf come in the weie, her gostly staf is thanne aweie, wherof thei scholde her flock defende; bot if the povere schep offende in eny thing, thogh it be lyte, they ben al redy forto smyte; and thus, how evere that thei tale, the strokes falle upon the smale, and upon othre that ben grete hem lacketh herte forto bete. so that under the clerkes lawe men sen the merel al mysdrawe, i wol noght seie in general, for ther ben somme in special in whom that alle vertu duelleth, and tho ben, as thapostel telleth, that god of his eleccioun hath cleped to perfeccioun in the manere as aaron was: thei ben nothing in thilke cas of simon, which the foldes gate hath lete, and goth in othergate, bot thei gon in the rihte weie. ther ben also somme, as men seie, that folwen simon ate hieles, whos carte goth upon the whieles of coveitise and worldes pride, and holy cherche goth beside, which scheweth outward a visage of that is noght in the corage. for if men loke in holy cherche, betwen the word and that thei werche ther is a full gret difference: thei prechen ous in audience that noman schal his soule empeire, for al is bot a chirie feire this worldes good, so as thei telle; also thei sein ther is an helle, which unto mannes sinne is due, and bidden ous therfore eschue that wikkid is, and do the goode. who that here wordes understode, it thenkth thei wolden do the same; bot yet betwen ernest and game ful ofte it torneth other wise. with holy tales thei devise how meritoire is thilke dede of charite, to clothe and fede the povere folk and forto parte the worldes good, bot thei departe ne thenken noght fro that thei have. also thei sein, good is to save with penance and with abstinence of chastite the continence; bot pleinly forto speke of that, i not how thilke body fat, which thei with deynte metes kepe and leyn it softe forto slepe, whan it hath elles al his wille, with chastite schal stonde stille: and natheles i can noght seie, in aunter if that i misseye. touchende of this, how evere it stonde, i here and wol noght understonde, for therof have i noght to done: bot he that made ferst the mone, the hyhe god, of his goodnesse, if ther be cause, he it redresce. bot what as eny man accuse, this mai reson of trowthe excuse; the vice of hem that ben ungoode is no reproef unto the goode: for every man hise oghne werkes schal bere, and thus as of the clerkes the goode men ben to comende, and alle these othre god amende: for thei ben to the worldes ije the mirour of ensamplerie, to reulen and to taken hiede betwen the men and the godhiede. now forto speke of the comune, it is to drede of that fortune which hath befalle in sondri londes: bot often for defalte of bondes al sodeinliche, er it be wist, a tonne, whanne his lye arist, tobrekth and renneth al aboute, which elles scholde noght gon oute; and ek fulofte a litel skar upon a banke, er men be war, let in the strem, which with gret peine, if evere man it schal restreigne. wher lawe lacketh, errour groweth, he is noght wys who that ne troweth, for it hath proeved ofte er this; and thus the comun clamour is in every lond wher poeple dwelleth, and eche in his compleignte telleth how that the world is al miswent, and ther upon his jugement yifth every man in sondry wise. bot what man wolde himself avise, his conscience and noght misuse, he may wel ate ferste excuse his god, which evere stant in on: in him ther is defalte non, so moste it stonde upon ousselve nought only upon ten ne twelve, bot plenerliche upon ous alle, for man is cause of that schal falle. and natheles yet som men wryte and sein that fortune is to wyte, and som men holde oppinion that it is constellacion, which causeth al that a man doth: god wot of bothe which is soth. the world as of his propre kynde was evere untrewe, and as the blynde improprelich he demeth fame, he blameth that is noght to blame and preiseth that is noght to preise: thus whan he schal the thinges peise, ther is deceipte in his balance, and al is that the variance of ous, that scholde ous betre avise; for after that we falle and rise, the world arist and falth withal, so that the man is overal his oghne cause of wel and wo. that we fortune clepe so out of the man himself it groweth; and who that other wise troweth, behold the poeple of irael: for evere whil thei deden wel, fortune was hem debonaire, and whan thei deden the contraire, fortune was contrariende. so that it proeveth wel at ende why that the world is wonderfull and may no while stonde full, though that it seme wel besein; for every worldes thing is vein, and evere goth the whiel aboute, and evere stant a man in doute, fortune stant no while stille, so hath ther noman al his wille. als fer as evere a man may knowe, ther lasteth nothing bot a throwe; the world stant evere upon debat, so may be seker non astat, now hier now ther, now to now fro, now up now down, this world goth so, and evere hath don and evere schal: wherof i finde in special a tale writen in the bible, which moste nedes be credible; and that as in conclusioun seith that upon divisioun stant, why no worldes thing mai laste, til it be drive to the laste. and fro the ferste regne of alle into this day, hou so befalle, of that the regnes be muable the man himself hath be coupable, which of his propre governance fortuneth al the worldes chance. the hyhe almyhti pourveance, in whos eterne remembrance fro ferst was every thing present, he hath his prophecie sent, in such a wise as thou schalt hiere, to daniel of this matiere, hou that this world schal torne and wende, till it be falle to his ende; wherof the tale telle i schal, in which it is betokned al. as nabugodonosor slepte, a swevene him tok, the which he kepte til on the morwe he was arise, for he therof was sore agrise. to daniel his drem he tolde, and preide him faire that he wolde arede what it tokne may; and seide: "abedde wher i lay, me thoghte i syh upon a stage wher stod a wonder strange ymage. his hed with al the necke also thei were of fin gold bothe tuo; his brest, his schuldres and his armes were al of selver, bot the tharmes, the wombe and al doun to the kne, of bras thei were upon to se; the legges were al mad of stiel, so were his feet also somdiel, and somdiel part to hem was take of erthe which men pottes make; the fieble meynd was with the stronge, so myhte it wel noght stonde longe. and tho me thoghte that i sih a gret ston from an hull on hyh fel doun of sodein aventure upon the feet of this figure, with which ston al tobroke was gold, selver, erthe, stiel and bras, that al was in to pouldre broght, and so forth torned into noght." this was the swevene which he hadde, that daniel anon aradde, and seide him that figure strange betokneth how the world schal change and waxe lasse worth and lasse, til it to noght al overpasse. the necke and hed, that weren golde, he seide how that betokne scholde a worthi world, a noble, a riche, to which non after schal be liche. of selver that was overforth schal ben a world of lasse worth; and after that the wombe of bras tokne of a werse world it was. the stiel which he syh afterward a world betokneth more hard: bot yet the werste of everydel is last, whan that of erthe and stiel he syh the feet departed so, for that betokneth mochel wo. whan that the world divided is, it moste algate fare amis, for erthe which is meynd with stiel togedre may noght laste wiel, bot if that on that other waste; so mot it nedes faile in haste. the ston, which fro the hully stage he syh doun falle on that ymage, and hath it into pouldre broke, that swevene hath daniel unloke, and seide how that is goddes myht, which whan men wene most upryht to stonde, schal hem overcaste. and that is of this world the laste, and thanne a newe schal beginne, fro which a man schal nevere twinne; or al to peine or al to pes that world schal lasten endeles. lo thus expondeth daniel the kynges swevene faire and wel in babiloyne the cite, wher that the wiseste of caldee ne cowthen wite what it mente; bot he tolde al the hol entente, as in partie it is befalle. of gold the ferste regne of alle was in that kinges time tho, and laste manye daies so, therwhiles that the monarchie of al the world in that partie to babiloyne was soubgit; and hield him stille in such a plit, til that the world began diverse: and that was whan the king of perse, which cirus hyhte, ayein the pes forth with his sone cambises of babiloine al that empire, ryht as thei wolde hemself desire, put under in subjeccioun and tok it in possessioun, and slayn was baltazar the king, which loste his regne and al his thing. and thus whan thei it hadde wonne, the world of selver was begonne and that of gold was passed oute: and in this wise it goth aboute in to the regne of darius; and thanne it fell to perse thus, that alisaundre put hem under, which wroghte of armes many a wonder, so that the monarchie lefte with grecs, and here astat uplefte, and persiens gon under fote, so soffre thei that nedes mote. and tho the world began of bras, and that of selver ended was; bot for the time thus it laste, til it befell that ate laste this king, whan that his day was come, with strengthe of deth was overcome. and natheles yet er he dyde, he schop his regnes to divide to knyhtes whiche him hadde served, and after that thei have deserved yaf the conquestes that he wan; wherof gret werre tho began among hem that the regnes hadde, thurgh proud envie which hem ladde, til it befell ayein hem thus: the noble cesar julius, which tho was king of rome lond, with gret bataille and with strong hond al grece, perse and ek caldee wan and put under, so that he noght al only of thorient bot al the marche of thoccident governeth under his empire, as he that was hol lord and sire, and hield thurgh his chivalerie of al this world the monarchie, and was the ferste of that honour which tok the name of emperour. wher rome thanne wolde assaille, ther myhte nothing contrevaille, bot every contre moste obeie: tho goth the regne of bras aweie, and comen is the world of stiel, and stod above upon the whiel. as stiel is hardest in his kynde above alle othre that men finde of metals, such was rome tho the myhtieste, and laste so long time amonges the romeins til thei become so vileins, that the fals emperour leo with constantin his sone also the patrimoine and the richesse, which to silvestre in pure almesse the ferste constantinus lefte, fro holy cherche thei berefte. bot adrian, which pope was, and syh the meschief of this cas, goth in to france forto pleigne, and preith the grete charlemeine, for cristes sake and soule hele that he wol take the querele of holy cherche in his defence. and charles for the reverence of god the cause hath undertake, and with his host the weie take over the montz of lombardie; of rome and al the tirandie with blodi swerd he overcom, and the cite with strengthe nom; in such a wise and there he wroghte, that holy cherche ayein he broghte into franchise, and doth restore the popes lost, and yaf him more: and thus whan he his god hath served, he tok, as he wel hath deserved, the diademe and was coroned. of rome and thus was abandoned thempire, which cam nevere ayein into the hond of no romein; bot a long time it stod so stille under the frensche kynges wille, til that fortune hir whiel so ladde, that afterward lombardz it hadde, noght be the swerd, bot be soffrance of him that tho was kyng of france, which karle calvus cleped was; and he resigneth in this cas thempire of rome unto lowis his cousin, which a lombard is. and so hit laste into the yeer of albert and of berenger; bot thanne upon dissencioun thei felle, and in divisioun among hemself that were grete, so that thei loste the beyete of worschipe and of worldes pes. bot in proverbe natheles men sein, ful selden is that welthe can soffre his oghne astat in helthe; and that was on the lombardz sene, such comun strif was hem betwene thurgh coveitise and thurgh envie, that every man drowh his partie, which myhte leden eny route, withinne burgh and ek withoute: the comun ryht hath no felawe, so that the governance of lawe was lost, and for necessite, of that thei stode in such degre al only thurgh divisioun, hem nedeth in conclusioun of strange londes help beside. and thus for thei hemself divide and stonden out of reule unevene, of alemaine princes sevene thei chose in this condicioun, that upon here eleccioun thempire of rome scholde stonde. and thus thei lefte it out of honde for lacke of grace, and it forsoke, that alemans upon hem toke: and to confermen here astat, of that thei founden in debat thei token the possessioun after the composicioun among hemself, and therupon thei made an emperour anon, whos name as the cronique telleth was othes; and so forth it duelleth, fro thilke day yit unto this thempire of rome hath ben and is to thalemans. and in this wise, as ye tofore have herd divise how daniel the swevene expondeth of that ymage, on whom he foundeth the world which after scholde falle, come is the laste tokne of alle; upon the feet of erthe and stiel so stant this world now everydiel departed; which began riht tho, whan rome was divided so: and that is forto rewe sore, for alway siththe more and more the world empeireth every day. wherof the sothe schewe may, at rome ferst if we beginne: the wall and al the cit withinne stant in ruine and in decas, the feld is wher the paleis was, the toun is wast; and overthat, if we beholde thilke astat which whilom was of the romeins, of knyhthode and of citezeins, to peise now with that beforn, the chaf is take for the corn, as forto speke of romes myht: unethes stant ther oght upryht of worschipe or of worldes good, as it before tyme stod. and why the worschipe is aweie, if that a man the sothe seie, the cause hath ben divisioun, which moder of confusioun is wher sche cometh overal, noght only of the temporal bot of the spirital also. the dede proeveth it is so, and hath do many day er this, thurgh venym which that medled is in holy cherche of erthly thing: for crist himself makth knowleching that noman may togedre serve god and the world, bot if he swerve froward that on and stonde unstable; and cristes word may noght be fable. the thing so open is at ije, it nedeth noght to specefie or speke oght more in this matiere; bot in this wise a man mai lere hou that the world is gon aboute, the which welnyh is wered oute, after the forme of that figure which daniel in his scripture expondeth, as tofore is told. of bras, of selver and of gold the world is passed and agon, and now upon his olde ton it stant of brutel erthe and stiel, the whiche acorden nevere a diel; so mot it nedes swerve aside as thing the which men sen divide. thapostel writ unto ous alle and seith that upon ous is falle thende of the world; so may we knowe, this ymage is nyh overthrowe, be which this world was signified, that whilom was so magnefied, and now is old and fieble and vil, full of meschief and of peril, and stant divided ek also lich to the feet that were so, as i tolde of the statue above. and this men sen, thurgh lacke of love where as the lond divided is, it mot algate fare amis: and now to loke on every side, a man may se the world divide, the werres ben so general among the cristene overal, that every man now secheth wreche, and yet these clerkes alday preche and sein, good dede may non be which stant noght upon charite: i not hou charite may stonde, wher dedly werre is take on honde. bot al this wo is cause of man, the which that wit and reson can, and that in tokne and in witnesse that ilke ymage bar liknesse of man and of non other beste. for ferst unto the mannes heste was every creature ordeined, bot afterward it was restreigned: whan that he fell, thei fellen eke, whan he wax sek, thei woxen seke; for as the man hath passioun of seknesse, in comparisoun so soffren othre creatures. lo, ferst the hevenly figures, the sonne and mone eclipsen bothe, and ben with mannes senne wrothe; the purest eir for senne alofte hath ben and is corrupt fulofte, right now the hyhe wyndes blowe, and anon after thei ben lowe, now clowdy and now clier it is: so may it proeven wel be this, a mannes senne is forto hate, which makth the welkne to debate. and forto se the proprete of every thyng in his degree, benethe forth among ous hiere al stant aliche in this matiere: the see now ebbeth, now it floweth, the lond now welketh, now it groweth, now be the trees with leves grene, now thei be bare and nothing sene, now be the lusti somer floures, now be the stormy wynter shoures, now be the daies, now the nyhtes, so stant ther nothing al upryhtes, now it is lyht, now it is derk; and thus stant al the worldes werk after the disposicioun of man and his condicioun. forthi gregoire in his moral seith that a man in special the lasse world is properly: and that he proeveth redely; for man of soule resonable is to an angel resemblable, and lich to beste he hath fielinge, and lich to trees he hath growinge; the stones ben and so is he: thus of his propre qualite the man, as telleth the clergie, is as a world in his partie, and whan this litel world mistorneth, the grete world al overtorneth. the lond, the see, the firmament, thei axen alle jugement ayein the man and make him werre: therwhile himself stant out of herre, the remenant wol noght acorde: and in this wise, as i recorde, the man is cause of alle wo, why this world is divided so. division, the gospell seith, on hous upon another leith, til that the regne al overthrowe: and thus may every man wel knowe, division aboven alle is thing which makth the world to falle, and evere hath do sith it began. it may ferst proeve upon a man; the which, for his complexioun is mad upon divisioun of cold, of hot, of moist, of drye, he mot be verray kynde dye: for the contraire of his astat stant evermore in such debat, til that o part be overcome, ther may no final pes be nome. bot other wise, if a man were mad al togedre of o matiere withouten interrupcioun, ther scholde no corrupcioun engendre upon that unite: bot for ther is diversite withinne himself, he may noght laste, that he ne deieth ate laste. bot in a man yit over this full gret divisioun ther is, thurgh which that he is evere in strif, whil that him lasteth eny lif: the bodi and the soule also among hem ben divided so, that what thing that the body hateth the soule loveth and debateth; bot natheles fulofte is sene of werre which is hem betwene the fieble hath wonne the victoire. and who so drawth into memoire what hath befalle of old and newe, he may that werre sore rewe, which ferst began in paradis: for ther was proeved what it is, and what desese there it wroghte; for thilke werre tho forth broghte the vice of alle dedly sinne, thurgh which division cam inne among the men in erthe hiere, and was the cause and the matiere why god the grete flodes sende, of al the world and made an ende bot noe with his felaschipe, which only weren saulf be schipe. and over that thurgh senne it com that nembrot such emprise nom, whan he the tour babel on heihte let make, as he that wolde feihte ayein the hihe goddes myht, wherof divided anon ryht was the langage in such entente, ther wiste non what other mente, so that thei myhten noght procede. and thus it stant of every dede, wher senne takth the cause on honde, it may upriht noght longe stonde; for senne of his condicioun is moder of divisioun and tokne whan the world schal faile. for so seith crist withoute faile, that nyh upon the worldes ende pes and acord awey schol wende and alle charite schal cesse, among the men and hate encresce; and whan these toknes ben befalle, al sodeinly the ston schal falle, as daniel it hath beknowe, which al this world schal overthrowe, and every man schal thanne arise to joie or elles to juise, wher that he schal for evere dwelle, or straght to hevene or straght to helle. in hevene is pes and al acord, bot helle is full of such descord that ther may be no loveday: forthi good is, whil a man may, echon to sette pes with other and loven as his oghne brother; so may he winne worldes welthe and afterward his soule helthe. bot wolde god that now were on an other such as arion, which hadde an harpe of such temprure, and therto of so good mesure he song, that he the bestes wilde made of his note tame and milde, the hinde in pes with the leoun, the wolf in pes with the moltoun, the hare in pees stod with the hound; and every man upon this ground which arion that time herde, als wel the lord as the schepherde, he broghte hem alle in good acord; so that the comun with the lord, and lord with the comun also, he sette in love bothe tuo and putte awey malencolie. that was a lusti melodie, whan every man with other low; and if ther were such on now, which cowthe harpe as he tho dede, he myhte availe in many a stede to make pes wher now is hate; for whan men thenken to debate, i not what other thing is good. bot wher that wisdom waxeth wod, and reson torneth into rage, so that mesure upon oultrage hath set his world, it is to drede; for that bringth in the comun drede, which stant at every mannes dore: bot whan the scharpnesse of the spore the horse side smit to sore, it grieveth ofte. and now nomore, as forto speke of this matiere, which non bot only god may stiere. explicit prologus incipit liber primus naturatus amor nature legibus orbem subdit, et vnanimes concitat esse feras: huius enim mundi princeps amor esse videtur, cuius eget diues, pauper et omnis ope. sunt in agone pares amor et fortuna, que cecas plebis ad insidias vertit vterque rotas. est amor egra salus, vexata quies, pius error, bellica pax, vulnus dulce, suaue malum. i may noght strecche up to the hevene min hand, ne setten al in evene this world, which evere is in balance: it stant noght in my sufficance so grete thinges to compasse, bot i mot lete it overpasse and treten upon othre thinges. forthi the stile of my writinges fro this day forth i thenke change and speke of thing is noght so strange, which every kinde hath upon honde, and wherupon the world mot stonde, and hath don sithen it began, and schal whil ther is any man; and that is love, of which i mene to trete, as after schal be sene. in which ther can noman him reule, for loves lawe is out of reule, that of tomoche or of tolite welnyh is every man to wyte, and natheles ther is noman in al this world so wys, that can of love tempre the mesure, bot as it falth in aventure: for wit ne strengthe may noght helpe, and he which elles wolde him yelpe is rathest throwen under fote, ther can no wiht therof do bote. for yet was nevere such covine, that couthe ordeine a medicine to thing which god in lawe of kinde hath set, for ther may noman finde the rihte salve of such a sor. it hath and schal ben everemor that love is maister wher he wile, ther can no lif make other skile; for wher as evere him lest to sette, ther is no myht which him may lette. bot what schal fallen ate laste, the sothe can no wisdom caste, bot as it falleth upon chance; for if ther evere was balance which of fortune stant governed, i may wel lieve as i am lerned that love hath that balance on honde, which wol no reson understonde. for love is blind and may noght se, forthi may no certeinete be set upon his jugement, bot as the whiel aboute went he yifth his graces undeserved, and fro that man which hath him served fulofte he takth aweye his fees, as he that pleieth ate dees, and therupon what schal befalle he not, til that the chance falle, wher he schal lese or he schal winne. and thus fulofte men beginne, that if thei wisten what it mente, thei wolde change al here entente. and forto proven it is so, i am miselven on of tho, which to this scole am underfonge. for it is siththe go noght longe, as forto speke of this matiere, i may you telle, if ye woll hiere, a wonder hap which me befell, that was to me bothe hard and fell, touchende of love and his fortune, the which me liketh to comune and pleinly forto telle it oute. to hem that ben lovers aboute fro point to point i wol declare and wryten of my woful care, mi wofull day, my wofull chance, that men mowe take remembrance of that thei schall hierafter rede: for in good feith this wolde i rede, that every man ensample take of wisdom which him is betake, and that he wot of good aprise to teche it forth, for such emprise is forto preise; and therfore i woll wryte and schewe al openly how love and i togedre mette, wherof the world ensample fette mai after this, whan i am go, of thilke unsely jolif wo, whos reule stant out of the weie, nou glad and nou gladnesse aweie, and yet it may noght be withstonde for oght that men may understonde. upon the point that is befalle of love, in which that i am falle, i thenke telle my matiere: now herkne, who that wol it hiere, of my fortune how that it ferde. this enderday, as i forthferde to walke, as i yow telle may,- and that was in the monthe of maii, whan every brid hath chose his make and thenkth his merthes forto make of love that he hath achieved; bot so was i nothing relieved, for i was further fro my love than erthe is fro the hevene above, as forto speke of eny sped: so wiste i me non other red, bot as it were a man forfare unto the wode i gan to fare, noght forto singe with the briddes, for whanne i was the wode amiddes, i fond a swote grene pleine, and ther i gan my wo compleigne wisshinge and wepinge al myn one, for other merthes made i none. so hard me was that ilke throwe, that ofte sithes overthrowe to grounde i was withoute breth; and evere i wisshide after deth, whanne i out of my peine awok, and caste up many a pitous lok unto the hevene, and seide thus: "o thou cupide, o thou venus, thou god of love and thou goddesse, wher is pite? wher is meknesse? now doth me pleinly live or dye, for certes such a maladie as i now have and longe have hadd, it myhte make a wisman madd, if that it scholde longe endure. o venus, queene of loves cure, thou lif, thou lust, thou mannes hele, behold my cause and my querele, and yif me som part of thi grace, so that i may finde in this place if thou be gracious or non." and with that word i sawh anon the kyng of love and qweene bothe; bot he that kyng with yhen wrothe his chiere aweiward fro me caste, and forth he passede ate laste. bot natheles er he forth wente a firy dart me thoghte he hente and threw it thurgh myn herte rote: in him fond i non other bote, for lenger list him noght to duelle. bot sche that is the source and welle of wel or wo, that schal betide to hem that loven, at that tide abod, bot forto tellen hiere sche cast on me no goodly chiere: thus natheles to me sche seide, "what art thou, sone?" and i abreide riht as a man doth out of slep, and therof tok sche riht good kep and bad me nothing ben adrad: bot for al that i was noght glad, for i ne sawh no cause why. and eft scheo asketh, what was i: i seide, "a caitif that lith hiere: what wolde ye, my ladi diere? schal i ben hol or elles dye?" sche seide, "tell thi maladie: what is thi sor of which thou pleignest? ne hyd it noght, for if thou feignest, i can do the no medicine." "ma dame, i am a man of thyne, that in thi court have longe served, and aske that i have deserved, some wele after my longe wo." and sche began to loure tho, and seide, "ther is manye of yow faitours, and so may be that thow art riht such on, and be feintise seist that thou hast me do servise." and natheles sche wiste wel, mi world stod on an other whiel withouten eny faiterie: bot algate of my maladie sche bad me telle and seie hir trowthe. "ma dame, if ye wolde have rowthe," quod i, "than wolde i telle yow." "sey forth," quod sche, "and tell me how; schew me thi seknesse everydiel." "ma dame, that can i do wel, be so my lif therto wol laste." with that hir lok on me sche caste, and seide: "in aunter if thou live, mi will is ferst that thou be schrive; and natheles how that it is i wot miself, bot for al this unto my prest, which comth anon, i woll thou telle it on and on, bothe all thi thoght and al thi werk. o genius myn oghne clerk, com forth and hier this mannes schrifte," quod venus tho; and i uplifte min hefd with that, and gan beholde the selve prest, which as sche wolde was redy there and sette him doun to hiere my confessioun. this worthi prest, this holy man to me spekende thus began, and seide: "benedicite, mi sone, of the felicite of love and ek of all the wo thou schalt thee schrive of bothe tuo. what thou er this for loves sake hast felt, let nothing be forsake, tell pleinliche as it is befalle." and with that word i gan doun falle on knees, and with devocioun and with full gret contricioun i seide thanne: "dominus, min holi fader genius, so as thou hast experience of love, for whos reverence thou schalt me schriven at this time, i prai the let me noght mistime mi schrifte, for i am destourbed in al myn herte, and so contourbed, that i ne may my wittes gete, so schal i moche thing foryete: bot if thou wolt my schrifte oppose fro point to point, thanne i suppose, ther schal nothing be left behinde. bot now my wittes ben so blinde, that i ne can miselven teche." tho he began anon to preche, and with his wordes debonaire he seide tome softe and faire: "thi schrifte to oppose and hiere, my sone, i am assigned hiere be venus the godesse above, whos prest i am touchende of love. bot natheles for certein skile i mot algate and nedes wile noght only make my spekynges of love, bot of othre thinges, that touchen to the cause of vice. for that belongeth to thoffice of prest, whos ordre that i bere, so that i wol nothing forbere, that i the vices on and on ne schal thee schewen everychon; wherof thou myht take evidence to reule with thi conscience. bot of conclusion final conclude i wol in special for love, whos servant i am, and why the cause is that i cam. so thenke i to don bothe tuo, ferst that myn ordre longeth to, the vices forto telle arewe, bot next above alle othre schewe of love i wol the propretes, how that thei stonde be degrees after the disposicioun of venus, whos condicioun i moste folwe, as i am holde. for i with love am al withholde, so that the lasse i am to wyte, thogh i ne conne bot a lyte of othre thinges that ben wise: i am noght tawht in such a wise; for it is noght my comun us to speke of vices and vertus, bot al of love and of his lore, for venus bokes of nomore me techen nowther text ne glose. bot for als moche as i suppose it sit a prest to be wel thewed, and schame it is if he be lewed, of my presthode after the forme i wol thi schrifte so enforme, that ate leste thou schalt hiere the vices, and to thi matiere of love i schal hem so remene, that thou schalt knowe what thei mene. for what a man schal axe or sein touchende of schrifte, it mot be plein, it nedeth noght to make it queinte, for trowthe hise wordes wol noght peinte: that i wole axe of the forthi, my sone, it schal be so pleinly, that thou schalt knowe and understonde the pointz of schrifte how that thei stonde." betwen the lif and deth i herde this prestes tale er i answerde, and thanne i preide him forto seie his will, and i it wolde obeie after the forme of his apprise. tho spak he tome in such a wise, and bad me that i scholde schrive as touchende of my wittes fyve, and schape that thei were amended of that i hadde hem misdispended. for tho be proprely the gates, thurgh whiche as to the herte algates comth alle thing unto the feire, which may the mannes soule empeire. and now this matiere is broght inne, mi sone, i thenke ferst beginne to wite how that thin yhe hath stonde, the which is, as i understonde, the moste principal of alle, thurgh whom that peril mai befalle. and forto speke in loves kinde, ful manye suche a man mai finde, whiche evere caste aboute here yhe, to loke if that thei myhte aspie fulofte thing which hem ne toucheth, bot only that here herte soucheth in hindringe of an other wiht; and thus ful many a worthi knyht and many a lusti lady bothe have be fulofte sythe wrothe. so that an yhe is as a thief to love, and doth ful gret meschief; and also for his oghne part fulofte thilke firy dart of love, which that evere brenneth, thurgh him into the herte renneth: and thus a mannes yhe ferst himselve grieveth alther werst, and many a time that he knoweth unto his oghne harm it groweth. mi sone, herkne now forthi a tale, to be war therby thin yhe forto kepe and warde, so that it passe noght his warde. ovide telleth in his bok ensample touchende of mislok, and seith hou whilom ther was on, a worthi lord, which acteon was hote, and he was cousin nyh to him that thebes ferst on hyh up sette, which king cadme hyhte. this acteon, as he wel myhte, above alle othre caste his chiere, and used it fro yer to yere, with houndes and with grete hornes among the wodes and the thornes to make his hunting and his chace: where him best thoghte in every place to finde gamen in his weie, ther rod he forto hunte and pleie. so him befell upon a tide on his hunting as he cam ride, in a forest al one he was: he syh upon the grene gras the faire freisshe floures springe, he herde among the leves singe the throstle with the nyhtingale: thus er he wiste into a dale he cam, wher was a litel plein, all round aboute wel besein with buisshes grene and cedres hyhe; and ther withinne he caste his yhe. amidd the plein he syh a welle, so fair ther myhte noman telle, in which diana naked stod to bathe and pleie hire in the flod with many a nimphe, which hire serveth. bot he his yhe awey ne swerveth fro hire, which was naked al, and sche was wonder wroth withal, and him, as sche which was godesse, forschop anon, and the liknesse sche made him taken of an hert, which was tofore hise houndes stert, that ronne besiliche aboute with many an horn and many a route, that maden mochel noise and cry: and ate laste unhappely this hert his oghne houndes slowhe and him for vengance al todrowhe. lo now, my sone, what it is a man to caste his yhe amis, which acteon hath dere aboght; be war forthi and do it noght. for ofte, who that hiede toke, betre is to winke than to loke. and forto proven it is so, ovide the poete also a tale which to this matiere acordeth seith, as thou schalt hiere. in metamor it telleth thus, how that a lord which phorce�s was hote, hadde dowhtres thre. bot upon here nativite such was the constellacion, that out of mannes nacion fro kynde thei be so miswent, that to the liknesse of serpent thei were bore, and so that on of hem was cleped stellibon, that other soster suriale, the thridde, as telleth in the tale, medusa hihte, and natheles of comun name gorgones in every contre ther aboute, as monstres whiche that men doute, men clepen hem; and bot on yhe among hem thre in pourpartie thei hadde, of which thei myhte se, now hath it this, now hath it sche; after that cause and nede it ladde, be throwes ech of hem it hadde. a wonder thing yet more amis ther was, wherof i telle al this: what man on hem his chiere caste and hem behield, he was als faste out of a man into a ston forschape, and thus ful manyon deceived were, of that thei wolde misloke, wher that thei ne scholde. bot perse�s that worthi knyht, whom pallas of hir grete myht halp, and tok him a schield therto, and ek the god mercurie also lente him a swerd, he, as it fell, beyende athlans the hihe hell these monstres soghte, and there he fond diverse men of thilke lond thurgh sihte of hem mistorned were, stondende as stones hiere and there. bot he, which wisdom and prouesse hadde of the god and the godesse, the schield of pallas gan enbrace, with which he covereth sauf his face, mercuries swerd and out he drowh, and so he bar him that he slowh these dredful monstres alle thre. lo now, my sone, avise the, that thou thi sihte noght misuse: cast noght thin yhe upon meduse, that thou be torned into ston: for so wys man was nevere non, bot if he wel his yhe kepe and take of fol delit no kepe, that he with lust nys ofte nome, thurgh strengthe of love and overcome. of mislokynge how it hath ferd, as i have told, now hast thou herd, my goode sone, and tak good hiede. and overthis yet i thee rede that thou be war of thin heringe, which to the herte the tidinge of many a vanite hath broght, to tarie with a mannes thoght. and natheles good is to hiere such thing wherof a man may lere that to vertu is acordant, and toward al the remenant good is to torne his ere fro; for elles, bot a man do so, him may fulofte mysbefalle. i rede ensample amonges alle, wherof to kepe wel an ere it oghte pute a man in fere. a serpent, which that aspidis is cleped, of his kynde hath this, that he the ston noblest of alle, the which that men carbuncle calle, berth in his hed above on heihte. for which whan that a man be sleyhte, the ston to winne and him to daunte, with his carecte him wolde enchaunte, anon as he perceiveth that, he leith doun his on ere al plat unto the ground, and halt it faste, and ek that other ere als faste he stoppeth with his tail so sore, that he the wordes lasse or more of his enchantement ne hiereth; and in this wise himself he skiereth, so that he hath the wordes weyved and thurgh his ere is noght deceived. an othre thing, who that recordeth, lich unto this ensample acordeth, which in the tale of troie i finde. sirenes of a wonder kynde ben monstres, as the bokes tellen, and in the grete se thei duellen: of body bothe and of visage lik unto wommen of yong age up fro the navele on hih thei be, and doun benethe, as men mai se, thei bere of fisshes the figure. and overthis of such nature thei ben, that with so swete a stevene lik to the melodie of hevene in wommanysshe vois thei singe, with notes of so gret likinge, of such mesure, of such musike, wherof the schipes thei beswike that passen be the costes there. for whan the schipmen leie an ere unto the vois, in here avys thei wene it be a paradys, which after is to hem an helle. for reson may noght with hem duelle, whan thei tho grete lustes hiere; thei conne noght here schipes stiere, so besiliche upon the note thei herkne, and in such wise assote, that thei here rihte cours and weie foryete, and to here ere obeie, and seilen til it so befalle that thei into the peril falle, where as the schipes be todrawe, and thei ben with the monstres slawe. bot fro this peril natheles with his wisdom king uluxes ascapeth and it overpasseth; for he tofor the hond compasseth that noman of his compaignie hath pouer unto that folie his ere for no lust to caste; for he hem stoppede alle faste, that non of hem mai hiere hem singe. so whan they comen forth seilinge, ther was such governance on honde, that thei the monstres have withstonde and slain of hem a gret partie. thus was he sauf with his navie, this wise king, thurgh governance. wherof, my sone, in remembrance thou myht ensample taken hiere, as i have told, and what thou hiere be wel war, and yif no credence, bot if thou se more evidence. for if thou woldest take kepe and wisly cowthest warde and kepe thin yhe and ere, as i have spoke, than haddest thou the gates stoke fro such sotie as comth to winne thin hertes wit, which is withinne, wherof that now thi love excedeth mesure, and many a peine bredeth. bot if thou cowthest sette in reule tho tuo, the thre were eth to reule: forthi as of thi wittes five i wole as now nomore schryve, bot only of these ilke tuo. tell me therfore if it be so, hast thou thin yhen oght misthrowe? mi fader, ye, i am beknowe, i have hem cast upon meduse, therof i may me noght excuse: min herte is growen into ston, so that my lady therupon hath such a priente of love grave, that i can noght miselve save. what seist thou, sone, as of thin ere? mi fader, i am gultyf there; for whanne i may my lady hiere, mi wit with that hath lost his stiere: i do noght as uluxes dede, bot falle anon upon the stede, wher as i se my lady stonde; and there, i do yow understonde, i am topulled in my thoght, so that of reson leveth noght, wherof that i me mai defende. my goode sone, god thamende: for as me thenketh be thi speche thi wittes ben riht feer to seche. as of thin ere and of thin yhe i woll nomore specefie, bot i woll axen overthis of othre thing how that it is. mi sone, as i thee schal enforme, ther ben yet of an other forme of dedly vices sevene applied, wherof the herte is ofte plied to thing which after schal him grieve. the ferste of hem thou schalt believe is pride, which is principal, and hath with him in special ministres five ful diverse, of whiche, as i the schal reherse, the ferste is seid ypocrisie. if thou art of his compaignie, tell forth, my sone, and schrif the clene. i wot noght, fader, what ye mene: bot this i wolde you beseche, that ye me be som weie teche what is to ben an ypocrite; and thanne if i be forto wyte, i wol beknowen, as it is. mi sone, an ypocrite is this,- a man which feigneth conscience, as thogh it were al innocence, withoute, and is noght so withinne; and doth so for he wolde winne of his desir the vein astat. and whanne he comth anon therat, he scheweth thanne what he was, the corn is torned into gras, that was a rose is thanne a thorn, and he that was a lomb beforn is thanne a wolf, and thus malice under the colour of justice is hid; and as the poeple telleth, these ordres witen where he duelleth, as he that of here conseil is, and thilke world which thei er this forsoken, he drawth in ayein: he clotheth richesse, as men sein, under the simplesce of poverte, and doth to seme of gret decerte thing which is litel worth withinne: he seith in open, fy! to sinne, and in secre ther is no vice of which that he nis a norrice: and evere his chiere is sobre and softe, and where he goth he blesseth ofte, wherof the blinde world he dreccheth. bot yet al only he ne streccheth his reule upon religioun, bot next to that condicioun in suche as clepe hem holy cherche it scheweth ek how he can werche among tho wyde furred hodes, to geten hem the worldes goodes. and thei hemself ben thilke same that setten most the world in blame, bot yet in contraire of her lore ther is nothing thei loven more; so that semende of liht thei werke the dedes whiche are inward derke. and thus this double ypocrisie with his devolte apparantie a viser set upon his face, wherof toward this worldes grace he semeth to be riht wel thewed, and yit his herte is al beschrewed. bot natheles he stant believed, and hath his pourpos ofte achieved of worschipe and of worldes welthe, and takth it, as who seith, be stelthe thurgh coverture of his fallas. and riht so in semblable cas this vice hath ek his officers among these othre seculers of grete men, for of the smale as for tacompte he set no tale, bot thei that passen the comune with suche him liketh to comune, and where he seith he wol socoure the poeple, there he woll devoure; for now aday is manyon which spekth of peter and of john and thenketh judas in his herte. ther schal no worldes good asterte his hond, and yit he yifth almesse and fasteth ofte and hiereth messe: with mea culpa, which he seith, upon his brest fullofte he leith his hond, and cast upward his yhe, as thogh he cristes face syhe; so that it seemeth ate syhte, as he al one alle othre myhte rescoue with his holy bede. bot yet his herte in other stede among hise bedes most devoute goth in the worldes cause aboute, how that he myhte his warisoun encresce. and in comparisoun ther ben lovers of such a sort, that feignen hem an humble port, and al is bot ypocrisie, which with deceipte and flaterie hath many a worthi wif beguiled. for whanne he hath his tunge affiled, with softe speche and with lesinge, forth with his fals pitous lokynge, he wolde make a womman wene to gon upon the faire grene, whan that sche falleth in the mir. for if he may have his desir, how so falle of the remenant, he halt no word of covenant; bot er the time that he spede, ther is no sleihte at thilke nede, which eny loves faitour mai, that he ne put it in assai, as him belongeth forto done. the colour of the reyni mone with medicine upon his face he set, and thanne he axeth grace, as he which hath sieknesse feigned. whan his visage is so desteigned, with yhe upcast on hire he siketh, and many a contenance he piketh, to bringen hire in to believe of thing which that he wolde achieve, wherof he berth the pale hewe; and for he wolde seme trewe, he makth him siek, whan he is heil. bot whanne he berth lowest the seil, thanne is he swiftest to beguile the womman, which that ilke while set upon him feith or credence. mi sone, if thou thi conscience entamed hast in such a wise, in schrifte thou thee myht avise and telle it me, if it be so. min holy fader, certes no. as forto feigne such sieknesse it nedeth noght, for this witnesse i take of god, that my corage hath ben mor siek than my visage. and ek this mai i wel avowe, so lowe cowthe i nevere bowe to feigne humilite withoute, that me ne leste betre loute with alle the thoghtes of myn herte; for that thing schal me nevere asterte, i speke as to my lady diere, to make hire eny feigned chiere. god wot wel there i lye noght, mi chiere hath be such as my thoght; for in good feith, this lieveth wel, mi will was betre a thousendel than eny chiere that i cowthe. bot, sire, if i have in my yowthe don other wise in other place, i put me therof in your grace: for this excusen i ne schal, that i have elles overal to love and to his compaignie be plein withoute ypocrisie; bot ther is on the which i serve, althogh i may no thonk deserve, to whom yet nevere into this day i seide onlyche or ye or nay, bot if it so were in my thoght. as touchende othre seie i noght that i nam somdel forto wyte of that ye clepe an ypocrite. mi sone, it sit wel every wiht to kepe his word in trowthe upryht towardes love in alle wise. for who that wolde him wel avise what hath befalle in this matiere, he scholde noght with feigned chiere deceive love in no degre. to love is every herte fre, bot in deceipte if that thou feignest and therupon thi lust atteignest, that thow hast wonne with thi wyle, thogh it thee like for a whyle, thou schalt it afterward repente. and forto prove myn entente, i finde ensample in a croniqe of hem that love so beswike. it fell be olde daies thus, whil themperour tiberius the monarchie of rome ladde, ther was a worthi romein hadde a wif, and sche pauline hihte, which was to every mannes sihte of al the cite the faireste, and as men seiden, ek the beste. it is and hath ben evere yit, that so strong is no mannes wit, which thurgh beaute ne mai be drawe to love, and stonde under the lawe of thilke bore frele kinde, which makth the hertes yhen blinde, wher no reson mai be comuned: and in this wise stod fortuned this tale, of which i wolde mene; this wif, which in hire lustes grene was fair and freissh and tendre of age, sche may noght lette the corage of him that wole on hire assote. ther was a duck, and he was hote mundus, which hadde in his baillie to lede the chivalerie of rome, and was a worthi knyht; bot yet he was noght of such myht the strengthe of love to withstonde, that he ne was so broght to honde, that malgre wher he wole or no, this yonge wif he loveth so, that he hath put al his assay to wynne thing which he ne may gete of hire graunt in no manere, be yifte of gold ne be preiere. and whanne he syh that be no mede toward hir love he myhte spede, be sleyhte feigned thanne he wroghte; and therupon he him bethoghte how that ther was in the cite a temple of such auctorite, to which with gret devocioun the noble wommen of the toun most comunliche a pelrinage gon forto preie thilke ymage which the godesse of childinge is, and cleped was be name ysis: and in hire temple thanne were, to reule and to ministre there after the lawe which was tho, above alle othre prestes tuo. this duck, which thoghte his love gete, upon a day hem tuo to mete hath bede, and thei come at his heste; wher that thei hadde a riche feste, and after mete in prive place this lord, which wolde his thonk pourchace, to ech of hem yaf thanne a yifte, and spak so that be weie of schrifte he drowh hem unto his covine, to helpe and schape how he pauline after his lust deceive myhte. and thei here trowthes bothe plyhte, that thei be nyhte hire scholden wynne into the temple, and he therinne schal have of hire al his entente: and thus acorded forth thei wente. now lest thurgh which ypocrisie ordeigned was the tricherie, wherof this ladi was deceived. these prestes hadden wel conceived that sche was of gret holinesse; and with a contrefet simplesse, which hid was in a fals corage, feignende an hevenely message thei come and seide unto hir thus: "pauline, the god anubus hath sent ous bothe prestes hiere, and seith he woll to thee appiere be nyhtes time himself alone, for love he hath to thi persone: and therupon he hath ous bede, that we in ysis temple a stede honestely for thee pourveie, wher thou be nyhte, as we thee seie, of him schalt take avisioun. for upon thi condicioun, the which is chaste and ful of feith, such pris, as he ous tolde, he leith, that he wol stonde of thin acord; and forto bere hierof record he sende ous hider bothe tuo." glad was hire innocence tho of suche wordes as sche herde, with humble chiere and thus answerde, and seide that the goddes wille sche was al redy to fulfille, that be hire housebondes leve sche wolde in ysis temple at eve upon hire goddes grace abide, to serven him the nyhtes tide. the prestes tho gon hom ayein, and sche goth to hire sovereign, of goddes wille and as it was sche tolde him al the pleine cas, wherof he was deceived eke, and bad that sche hire scholde meke al hol unto the goddes heste. and thus sche, which was al honeste to godward after hire entente, at nyht unto the temple wente, wher that the false prestes were; and thei receiven hire there with such a tokne of holinesse, as thogh thei syhen a godesse, and al withinne in prive place a softe bedd of large space thei hadde mad and encourtined, wher sche was afterward engined. bot sche, which al honour supposeth, the false prestes thanne opposeth, and axeth be what observance sche myhte most to the plesance of godd that nyhtes reule kepe: and thei hire bidden forto slepe liggende upon the bedd alofte, for so, thei seide, al stille and softe god anubus hire wolde awake. the conseil in this wise take, the prestes fro this lady gon; and sche, that wiste of guile non, in the manere as it was seid to slepe upon the bedd is leid, in hope that sche scholde achieve thing which stod thanne upon bilieve, fulfild of alle holinesse. bot sche hath failed, as i gesse, for in a closet faste by the duck was hid so prively that sche him myhte noght perceive; and he, that thoghte to deceive, hath such arrai upon him nome, that whanne he wolde unto hir come, it scholde semen at hire yhe as thogh sche verrailiche syhe god anubus, and in such wise this ypocrite of his queintise awaiteth evere til sche slepte. and thanne out of his place he crepte so stille that sche nothing herde, and to the bedd stalkende he ferde, and sodeinly, er sche it wiste, beclipt in armes he hire kiste: wherof in wommanysshe drede sche wok and nyste what to rede; bot he with softe wordes milde conforteth hire and seith, with childe he wolde hire make in such a kynde that al the world schal have in mynde the worschipe of that ilke sone; for he schal with the goddes wone, and ben himself a godd also. with suche wordes and with mo, the whiche he feigneth in his speche, this lady wit was al to seche, as sche which alle trowthe weneth: bot he, that alle untrowthe meneth, with blinde tales so hire ladde, that all his wille of hire he hadde. and whan him thoghte it was ynowh, ayein the day he him withdrowh so prively that sche ne wiste wher he becom, bot as him liste out of the temple he goth his weie. and sche began to bidde and preie upon the bare ground knelende, and after that made hire offrende, and to the prestes yiftes grete sche yaf, and homward be the strete. the duck hire mette and seide thus: "the myhti godd which anubus is hote, he save the, pauline, for thou art of his discipline so holy, that no mannes myht mai do that he hath do to nyht of thing which thou hast evere eschuied. bot i his grace have so poursuied, that i was mad his lieutenant: forthi be weie of covenant fro this day forth i am al thin, and if thee like to be myn, that stant upon thin oghne wille." sche herde his tale and bar it stille, and hom sche wente, as it befell, into hir chambre, and ther sche fell upon hire bedd to wepe and crie, and seide: "o derke ypocrisie, thurgh whos dissimilacion of fals ymaginacion i am thus wickedly deceived! bot that i have it aperceived i thonke unto the goddes alle; for thogh it ones be befalle, it schal nevere eft whil that i live, and thilke avou to godd i yive." and thus wepende sche compleigneth, hire faire face and al desteigneth with wofull teres of hire ije, so that upon this agonie hire housebonde is inne come, and syh how sche was overcome with sorwe, and axeth what hire eileth. and sche with that hirself beweileth welmore than sche dede afore, and seide, "helas, wifhode is lore in me, which whilom was honeste, i am non other than a beste, now i defouled am of tuo." and as sche myhte speke tho, aschamed with a pitous onde sche tolde unto hir housebonde the sothe of al the hole tale, and in hire speche ded and pale sche swouneth welnyh to the laste. and he hire in hise armes faste uphield, and ofte swor his oth that he with hire is nothing wroth, for wel he wot sche may ther noght: bot natheles withinne his thoght his herte stod in sori plit, and seide he wolde of that despit be venged, how so evere it falle, and sende unto hise frendes alle. and whan thei weren come in fere, he tolde hem upon this matiere, and axeth hem what was to done: and thei avised were sone, and seide it thoghte hem for the beste to sette ferst his wif in reste, and after pleigne to the king upon the matiere of this thing. tho was this wofull wif conforted be alle weies and desported, til that sche was somdiel amended; and thus a day or tuo despended, the thridde day sche goth to pleigne with many a worthi citezeine, and he with many a citezein. whan themperour it herde sein, and knew the falshed of the vice, he seide he wolde do justice: and ferst he let the prestes take, and for thei scholde it noght forsake, he put hem into questioun; bot thei of the suggestioun ne couthen noght a word refuse, bot for thei wolde hemself excuse, the blame upon the duck thei leide. bot therayein the conseil seide that thei be noght excused so, for he is on and thei ben tuo, and tuo han more wit then on, so thilke excusement was non. and over that was seid hem eke, that whan men wolden vertu seke, men scholde it in the prestes finde; here ordre is of so hyh a kinde, that thei be duistres of the weie: forthi, if eny man forsueie thurgh hem, thei be noght excusable. and thus be lawe resonable among the wise jugges there the prestes bothe dampned were, so that the prive tricherie hid under fals ipocrisie was thanne al openliche schewed, that many a man hem hath beschrewed. and whan the prestes weren dede, the temple of thilke horrible dede thei thoghten purge, and thilke ymage, whos cause was the pelrinage, thei drowen out and als so faste fer into tibre thei it caste, wher the rivere it hath defied: and thus the temple purified thei have of thilke horrible sinne, which was that time do therinne. of this point such was the juise, bot of the duck was other wise: for he with love was bestad, his dom was noght so harde lad; for love put reson aweie and can noght se the rihte weie. and be this cause he was respited, so that the deth him was acquited, bot for al that he was exiled, for he his love hath so beguiled, that he schal nevere come ayein: for who that is to trowthe unplein, he may noght failen of vengance. and ek to take remembrance of that ypocrisie hath wroght on other half, men scholde noght to lihtly lieve al that thei hiere, bot thanne scholde a wisman stiere the schip, whan suche wyndes blowe: for ferst thogh thei beginne lowe, at ende thei be noght menable, bot al tobreken mast and cable, so that the schip with sodein blast, whan men lest wene, is overcast; as now fulofte a man mai se: and of old time how it hath be i finde a gret experience, wherof to take an evidence good is, and to be war also of the peril, er him be wo. of hem that ben so derk withinne, at troie also if we beginne, ipocrisie it hath betraied: for whan the greks hadde al assaied, and founde that be no bataille ne be no siege it myhte availe the toun to winne thurgh prouesse, this vice feigned of simplesce thurgh sleyhte of calcas and of crise it wan be such a maner wise. an hors of bras thei let do forge of such entaile, of such a forge, that in this world was nevere man that such an other werk began. the crafti werkman epius it made, and forto telle thus, the greks, that thoghten to beguile the kyng of troie, in thilke while with anthenor and with enee, that were bothe of the cite and of the conseil the wiseste, the richeste and the myhtieste, in prive place so thei trete with fair beheste and yiftes grete of gold, that thei hem have engined; togedre and whan thei be covined, thei feignen forto make a pes, and under that yit natheles thei schopen the destruccioun bothe of the kyng and of the toun. and thus the false pees was take of hem of grece and undertake, and therupon thei founde a weie, wher strengthe myhte noght aweie, that sleihte scholde helpe thanne; and of an ynche a large spanne be colour of the pees thei made, and tolden how thei weren glade of that thei stoden in acord; and for it schal ben of record, unto the kyng the gregois seiden, be weie of love and this thei preiden, as thei that wolde his thonk deserve, a sacrifice unto minerve, the pes to kepe in good entente, thei mosten offre er that thei wente. the kyng conseiled in this cas be anthenor and eneas therto hath yoven his assent: so was the pleine trowthe blent thurgh contrefet ipocrisie of that thei scholden sacrifie. the greks under the holinesse anon with alle besinesse here hors of bras let faire dihte, which was to sen a wonder sihte; for it was trapped of himselve, and hadde of smale whieles twelve, upon the whiche men ynowe with craft toward the toun it drowe, and goth glistrende ayein the sunne. tho was ther joie ynowh begunne, for troie in gret devocioun cam also with processioun ayein this noble sacrifise with gret honour, and in this wise unto the gates thei it broghte. bot of here entre whan thei soghte, the gates weren al to smale; and therupon was many a tale, bot for the worschipe of minerve, to whom thei comen forto serve, thei of the toun, whiche understode that al this thing was do for goode, for pes, wherof that thei ben glade, the gates that neptunus made a thousend wynter ther tofore, thei have anon tobroke and tore; the stronge walles doun thei bete, so that in to the large strete this hors with gret solempnite was broght withinne the cite, and offred with gret reverence, which was to troie an evidence of love and pes for everemo. the gregois token leve tho with al the hole felaschipe, and forth thei wenten into schipe and crossen seil and made hem yare, anon as thogh thei wolden fare: bot whan the blake wynter nyht withoute mone or sterre lyht bederked hath the water stronde, al prively thei gon to londe ful armed out of the navie. synon, which mad was here aspie withinne troie, as was conspired, whan time was a tokne hath fired; and thei with that here weie holden, and comen in riht as thei wolden, ther as the gate was tobroke. the pourpos was full take and spoke: er eny man may take kepe, whil that the cite was aslepe, thei slowen al that was withinne, and token what thei myhten wynne of such good as was sufficant, and brenden up the remenant. and thus cam out the tricherie, which under fals ypocrisie was hid, and thei that wende pees tho myhten finde no reles of thilke swerd which al devoureth. fulofte and thus the swete soureth, whan it is knowe to the tast: he spilleth many a word in wast that schal with such a poeple trete; for whan he weneth most beyete, thanne is he schape most to lese. and riht so if a womman chese upon the wordes that sche hiereth som man, whan he most trewe appiereth, thanne is he forthest fro the trowthe: bot yit fulofte, and that is rowthe, thei speden that ben most untrewe and loven every day a newe, wherof the lief is after loth and love hath cause to be wroth. bot what man that his lust desireth of love, and therupon conspireth with wordes feigned to deceive, he schal noght faile to receive his peine, as it is ofte sene. forthi, my sone, as i thee mene, it sit the wel to taken hiede that thou eschuie of thi manhiede ipocrisie and his semblant, that thou ne be noght deceivant, to make a womman to believe thing which is noght in thi bilieve: for in such feint ipocrisie of love is al the tricherie, thurgh which love is deceived ofte; for feigned semblant is so softe, unethes love may be war. forthi, my sone, as i wel dar, i charge thee to fle that vice, that many a womman hath mad nice; bot lok thou dele noght withal. iwiss, fader, nomor i schal. now, sone, kep that thou hast swore: for this that thou hast herd before is seid the ferste point of pride: and next upon that other side, to schryve and speken overthis touchende of pride, yit ther is the point seconde, i thee behote, which inobedience is hote. this vice of inobedience ayein the reule of conscience al that is humble he desalloweth, that he toward his god ne boweth after the lawes of his heste. noght as a man bot as a beste, which goth upon his lustes wilde, so goth this proude vice unmylde, that he desdeigneth alle lawe: he not what is to be felawe, and serve may he noght for pride; so is he badde on every side, and is that selve of whom men speke, which wol noght bowe er that he breke. i not if love him myhte plie, for elles forto justefie his herte, i not what mihte availe. forthi, my sone, of such entaile if that thin herte be disposed, tell out and let it noght be glosed: for if that thou unbuxom be to love, i not in what degree thou schalt thi goode world achieve. mi fader, ye schul wel believe, the yonge whelp which is affaited hath noght his maister betre awaited, to couche, whan he seith "go lowe," that i, anon as i may knowe mi ladi will, ne bowe more. bot other while i grucche sore of some thinges that sche doth, wherof that i woll telle soth: for of tuo pointz i am bethoght, that, thogh i wolde, i myhte noght obeie unto my ladi heste; bot i dar make this beheste, save only of that ilke tuo i am unbuxom of no mo. whan ben tho tuo? tell on, quod he. mi fader, this is on, that sche comandeth me my mowth to close, and that i scholde hir noght oppose in love, of which i ofte preche, bot plenerliche of such a speche forbere, and soffren hire in pes. bot that ne myhte i natheles for al this world obeie ywiss; for whanne i am ther as sche is, though sche my tales noght alowe, ayein hir will yit mot i bowe, to seche if that i myhte have grace: bot that thing may i noght enbrace for ought that i can speke or do; and yit fulofte i speke so, that sche is wroth and seith, "be stille." if i that heste schal fulfille and therto ben obedient, thanne is my cause fully schent, for specheles may noman spede. so wot i noght what is to rede; bot certes i may noght obeie, that i ne mot algate seie somwhat of that i wolde mene; for evere it is aliche grene, the grete love which i have, wherof i can noght bothe save my speche and this obedience: and thus fulofte my silence i breke, and is the ferste point wherof that i am out of point in this, and yit it is no pride. now thanne upon that other side to telle my desobeissance, ful sore it stant to my grevance and may noght sinke into my wit; for ofte time sche me bit to leven hire and chese a newe, and seith, if i the sothe knewe how ferr i stonde from hir grace, i scholde love in other place. bot therof woll i desobeie; for also wel sche myhte seie, "go tak the mone ther it sit," as bringe that into my wit: for ther was nevere rooted tre, that stod so faste in his degre, that i ne stonde more faste upon hire love, and mai noght caste min herte awey, althogh i wolde. for god wot, thogh i nevere scholde sen hir with yhe after this day, yit stant it so that i ne may hir love out of my brest remue. this is a wonder retenue, that malgre wher sche wole or non min herte is everemore in on, so that i can non other chese, bot whether that i winne or lese, i moste hire loven til i deie; and thus i breke as be that weie hire hestes and hir comandinges, bot trewliche in non othre thinges. forthi, my fader, what is more touchende to this ilke lore i you beseche, after the forme that ye pleinly me wolde enforme, so that i may myn herte reule in loves cause after the reule. toward this vice of which we trete ther ben yit tweie of thilke estrete, here name is murmur and compleignte: ther can noman here chiere peinte, to sette a glad semblant therinne, for thogh fortune make hem wynne, yit grucchen thei, and if thei lese, ther is no weie forto chese, wherof thei myhten stonde appesed. so ben thei comunly desesed; ther may no welthe ne poverte attempren hem to the decerte of buxomnesse be no wise: for ofte time thei despise the goode fortune as the badde, as thei no mannes reson hadde, thurgh pride, wherof thei be blinde. and ryht of such a maner kinde ther be lovers, that thogh thei have of love al that thei wolde crave, yit wol thei grucche be som weie, that thei wol noght to love obeie upon the trowthe, as thei do scholde; and if hem lacketh that thei wolde, anon thei falle in such a peine, that evere unbuxomly thei pleigne upon fortune, and curse and crie, that thei wol noght here hertes plie to soffre til it betre falle. forthi if thou amonges alle hast used this condicioun, mi sone, in thi confessioun now tell me pleinly what thou art. mi fader, i beknowe a part, so as ye tolden hier above of murmur and compleignte of love, that for i se no sped comende, ayein fortune compleignende i am, as who seith, everemo: and ek fulofte tyme also, whan so is that i se and hiere or hevy word or hevy chiere of my lady, i grucche anon; bot wordes dar i speke non, wherof sche myhte be desplesed, bot in myn herte i am desesed: with many a murmur, god it wot, thus drinke i in myn oghne swot, and thogh i make no semblant, min herte is al desobeissant; and in this wise i me confesse of that ye clepe unbuxomnesse. now telleth what youre conseil is. mi sone, and i thee rede this, what so befalle of other weie, that thou to loves heste obeie als ferr as thou it myht suffise: for ofte sithe in such a wise obedience in love availeth, wher al a mannes strengthe faileth; wherof, if that the list to wite in a cronique as it is write, a gret ensample thou myht fynde, which now is come to my mynde. ther was whilom be daies olde a worthi knyht, and as men tolde he was nevoeu to themperour and of his court a courteour: wifles he was, florent he hihte, he was a man that mochel myhte, of armes he was desirous, chivalerous and amorous, and for the fame of worldes speche, strange aventures forto seche, he rod the marches al aboute. and fell a time, as he was oute, fortune, which may every thred tobreke and knette of mannes sped, schop, as this knyht rod in a pas, that he be strengthe take was, and to a castell thei him ladde, wher that he fewe frendes hadde: for so it fell that ilke stounde that he hath with a dedly wounde feihtende his oghne hondes slain branchus, which to the capitain was sone and heir, wherof ben wrothe the fader and the moder bothe. that knyht branchus was of his hond the worthieste of al his lond, and fain thei wolden do vengance upon florent, bot remembrance that thei toke of his worthinesse of knyhthod and of gentilesse, and how he stod of cousinage to themperour, made hem assuage, and dorsten noght slen him for fere: in gret desputeisoun thei were among hemself, what was the beste. ther was a lady, the slyheste of alle that men knewe tho, so old sche myhte unethes go, and was grantdame unto the dede: and sche with that began to rede, and seide how sche wol bringe him inne, that sche schal him to dethe winne al only of his oghne grant, thurgh strengthe of verray covenant withoute blame of eny wiht. anon sche sende for this kniht, and of hire sone sche alleide the deth, and thus to him sche seide: "florent, how so thou be to wyte of branchus deth, men schal respite as now to take vengement, be so thou stonde in juggement upon certein condicioun, that thou unto a questioun which i schal axe schalt ansuere; and over this thou schalt ek swere, that if thou of the sothe faile, ther schal non other thing availe, that thou ne schalt thi deth receive. and for men schal thee noght deceive, that thou therof myht ben avised, thou schalt have day and tyme assised and leve saufly forto wende, be so that at thi daies ende thou come ayein with thin avys. this knyht, which worthi was and wys, this lady preith that he may wite, and have it under seales write, what questioun it scholde be for which he schal in that degree stonde of his lif in jeupartie. with that sche feigneth compaignie, and seith: "florent, on love it hongeth al that to myn axinge longeth: what alle wommen most desire this wole i axe, and in thempire wher as thou hast most knowlechinge tak conseil upon this axinge." florent this thing hath undertake, the day was set, the time take, under his seal he wrot his oth, in such a wise and forth he goth hom to his emes court ayein; to whom his aventure plein he tolde, of that him is befalle. and upon that thei weren alle the wiseste of the lond asent, bot natheles of on assent thei myhte noght acorde plat, on seide this, an othre that. after the disposicioun of naturel complexioun to som womman it is plesance, that to an other is grevance; bot such a thing in special, which to hem alle in general is most plesant, and most desired above alle othre and most conspired, such o thing conne thei noght finde be constellacion ne kinde: and thus florent withoute cure mot stonde upon his aventure, and is al schape unto the lere, as in defalte of his answere. this knyht hath levere forto dye than breke his trowthe and forto lye in place ther as he was swore, and schapth him gon ayein therfore. whan time cam he tok his leve, that lengere wolde he noght beleve, and preith his em he be noght wroth, for that is a point of his oth, he seith, that noman schal him wreke, thogh afterward men hiere speke that he par aventure deie. and thus he wente forth his weie alone as knyht aventurous, and in his thoght was curious to wite what was best to do: and as he rod al one so, and cam nyh ther he wolde be, in a forest under a tre he syh wher sat a creature, a lothly wommannysch figure, that forto speke of fleisch and bon so foul yit syh he nevere non. this knyht behield hir redely, and as he wolde have passed by, sche cleped him and bad abide; and he his horse heved aside tho torneth, and to hire he rod, and there he hoveth and abod, to wite what sche wolde mene. and sche began him to bemene, and seide: "florent be thi name, thou hast on honde such a game, that bot thou be the betre avised, thi deth is schapen and devised, that al the world ne mai the save, bot if that thou my conseil have." florent, whan he this tale herde, unto this olde wyht answerde and of hir conseil he hir preide. and sche ayein to him thus seide: "florent, if i for the so schape, that thou thurgh me thi deth ascape and take worschipe of thi dede, what schal i have to my mede?" "what thing," quod he, "that thou wolt axe." "i bidde nevere a betre taxe," quod sche, "bot ferst, er thou be sped, thou schalt me leve such a wedd, that i wol have thi trowthe in honde that thou schalt be myn housebonde." "nay," seith florent, "that may noght be." "ryd thanne forth thi wey," quod sche, "and if thou go withoute red, thou schalt be sekerliche ded." florent behihte hire good ynowh of lond, of rente, of park, of plowh, bot al that compteth sche at noght. tho fell this knyht in mochel thoght, now goth he forth, now comth ayein, he wot noght what is best to sein, and thoghte, as he rod to and fro, that chese he mot on of the tuo, or forto take hire to his wif or elles forto lese his lif. and thanne he caste his avantage, that sche was of so gret an age, that sche mai live bot a while, and thoghte put hire in an ile, wher that noman hire scholde knowe, til sche with deth were overthrowe. and thus this yonge lusti knyht unto this olde lothly wiht tho seide: "if that non other chance mai make my deliverance, bot only thilke same speche which, as thou seist, thou schalt me teche, have hier myn hond, i schal thee wedde." and thus his trowthe he leith to wedde. with that sche frounceth up the browe: "this covenant i wol allowe," sche seith: "if eny other thing bot that thou hast of my techyng fro deth thi body mai respite, i woll thee of thi trowthe acquite, and elles be non other weie. now herkne me what i schal seie. whan thou art come into the place, wher now thei maken gret manace and upon thi comynge abyde, thei wole anon the same tide oppose thee of thin answere. i wot thou wolt nothing forbere of that thou wenest be thi beste, and if thou myht so finde reste, wel is, for thanne is ther nomore. and elles this schal be my lore, that thou schalt seie, upon this molde that alle wommen lievest wolde be soverein of mannes love: for what womman is so above, sche hath, as who seith, al hire wille; and elles may sche noght fulfille what thing hir were lievest have. with this answere thou schalt save thiself, and other wise noght. and whan thou hast thin ende wroght, com hier ayein, thou schalt me finde, and let nothing out of thi minde." he goth him forth with hevy chiere, as he that not in what manere he mai this worldes joie atteigne: for if he deie, he hath a peine, and if he live, he mot him binde to such on which of alle kinde of wommen is thunsemlieste: thus wot he noght what is the beste: bot be him lief or be him loth, unto the castell forth he goth his full answere forto yive, or forto deie or forto live. forth with his conseil cam the lord, the thinges stoden of record, he sende up for the lady sone, and forth sche cam, that olde mone. in presence of the remenant the strengthe of al the covenant tho was reherced openly, and to florent sche bad forthi that he schal tellen his avis, as he that woot what is the pris. florent seith al that evere he couthe, bot such word cam ther non to mowthe, that he for yifte or for beheste mihte eny wise his deth areste. and thus he tarieth longe and late, til that this lady bad algate that he schal for the dom final yive his answere in special of that sche hadde him ferst opposed: and thanne he hath trewly supposed that he him may of nothing yelpe, bot if so be tho wordes helpe, whiche as the womman hath him tawht; wherof he hath an hope cawht that he schal ben excused so, and tolde out plein his wille tho. and whan that this matrone herde the manere how this knyht ansuerde, sche seide: "ha treson, wo thee be, that hast thus told the privite, which alle wommen most desire! i wolde that thou were afire." bot natheles in such a plit florent of his answere is quit: and tho began his sorwe newe, for he mot gon, or ben untrewe, to hire which his trowthe hadde. bot he, which alle schame dradde, goth forth in stede of his penance, and takth the fortune of his chance, as he that was with trowthe affaited. this olde wyht him hath awaited in place wher as he hire lefte: florent his wofull heved uplefte and syh this vecke wher sche sat, which was the lothlieste what that evere man caste on his yhe: hire nase bass, hire browes hyhe, hire yhen smale and depe set, hire chekes ben with teres wet, and rivelen as an emty skyn hangende doun unto the chin, hire lippes schrunken ben for age, ther was no grace in the visage, hir front was nargh, hir lockes hore, sche loketh forth as doth a more, hire necke is schort, hir schuldres courbe, that myhte a mannes lust destourbe, hire body gret and nothing smal, and schortly to descrive hire al, sche hath no lith withoute a lak; bot lich unto the wollesak sche proferth hire unto this knyht, and bad him, as he hath behyht, so as sche hath ben his warant, that he hire holde covenant, and be the bridel sche him seseth. bot godd wot how that sche him pleseth of suche wordes as sche spekth: him thenkth welnyh his herte brekth for sorwe that he may noght fle, bot if he wolde untrewe be. loke, how a sek man for his hele takth baldemoine with canele, and with the mirre takth the sucre, ryht upon such a maner lucre stant florent, as in this diete: he drinkth the bitre with the swete, he medleth sorwe with likynge, and liveth, as who seith, deyinge; his youthe schal be cast aweie upon such on which as the weie is old and lothly overal. bot nede he mot that nede schal: he wolde algate his trowthe holde, as every knyht therto is holde, what happ so evere him is befalle: thogh sche be the fouleste of alle, yet to thonour of wommanhiede him thoghte he scholde taken hiede; so that for pure gentilesse, as he hire couthe best adresce, in ragges, as sche was totore, he set hire on his hors tofore and forth he takth his weie softe; no wonder thogh he siketh ofte. bot as an oule fleth be nyhte out of alle othre briddes syhte, riht so this knyht on daies brode in clos him hield, and schop his rode on nyhtes time, til the tyde that he cam there he wolde abide; and prively withoute noise he bringth this foule grete coise to his castell in such a wise that noman myhte hire schappe avise, til sche into the chambre cam: wher he his prive conseil nam of suche men as he most troste, and tolde hem that he nedes moste this beste wedde to his wif, for elles hadde he lost his lif. the prive wommen were asent, that scholden ben of his assent: hire ragges thei anon of drawe, and, as it was that time lawe, she hadde bath, sche hadde reste, and was arraied to the beste. bot with no craft of combes brode thei myhte hire hore lockes schode, and sche ne wolde noght be schore for no conseil, and thei therfore, with such atyr as tho was used, ordeinen that it was excused, and hid so crafteliche aboute, that noman myhte sen hem oute. bot when sche was fulliche arraied and hire atyr was al assaied, tho was sche foulere on to se: bot yit it may non other be, thei were wedded in the nyht; so wo begon was nevere knyht as he was thanne of mariage. and sche began to pleie and rage, as who seith, i am wel ynowh; bot he therof nothing ne lowh, for sche tok thanne chiere on honde and clepeth him hire housebonde, and seith, "my lord, go we to bedde, for i to that entente wedde, that thou schalt be my worldes blisse:" and profreth him with that to kisse, as sche a lusti lady were. his body myhte wel be there, bot as of thoght and of memoire his herte was in purgatoire. bot yit for strengthe of matrimoine he myhte make non essoine, that he ne mot algates plie to gon to bedde of compaignie: and whan thei were abedde naked, withoute slep he was awaked; he torneth on that other side, for that he wolde hise yhen hyde fro lokynge on that foule wyht. the chambre was al full of lyht, the courtins were of cendal thinne, this newe bryd which lay withinne, thogh it be noght with his acord, in armes sche beclipte hire lord, and preide, as he was torned fro, he wolde him torne ayeinward tho; "for now," sche seith, "we ben bothe on." and he lay stille as eny ston, bot evere in on sche spak and preide, and bad him thenke on that he seide, whan that he tok hire be the hond. he herde and understod the bond, how he was set to his penance, and as it were a man in trance he torneth him al sodeinly, and syh a lady lay him by of eyhtetiene wynter age, which was the faireste of visage that evere in al this world he syh: and as he wolde have take hire nyh, sche put hire hand and be his leve besoghte him that he wolde leve, and seith that forto wynne or lese he mot on of tuo thinges chese, wher he wol have hire such on nyht, or elles upon daies lyht, for he schal noght have bothe tuo. and he began to sorwe tho, in many a wise and caste his thoght, bot for al that yit cowthe he noght devise himself which was the beste. and sche, that wolde his hertes reste, preith that he scholde chese algate, til ate laste longe and late he seide: "o ye, my lyves hele, sey what you list in my querele, i not what ansuere i schal yive: bot evere whil that i may live, i wol that ye be my maistresse, for i can noght miselve gesse which is the beste unto my chois. thus grante i yow myn hole vois, ches for ous bothen, i you preie; and what as evere that ye seie, riht as ye wole so wol i." "mi lord," sche seide, " grant merci, for of this word that ye now sein, that ye have mad me soverein, mi destine is overpassed, that nevere hierafter schal be lassed mi beaute, which that i now have, til i be take into my grave; bot nyht and day as i am now i schal alwey be such to yow. the kinges dowhter of cizile i am, and fell bot siththe awhile, as i was with my fader late, that my stepmoder for an hate, which toward me sche hath begonne, forschop me, til i hadde wonne the love and sovereinete of what knyht that in his degre alle othre passeth of good name: and, as men sein, ye ben the same, the dede proeveth it is so; thus am i youres evermo." tho was plesance and joye ynowh, echon with other pleide and lowh; thei live longe and wel thei ferde, and clerkes that this chance herde thei writen it in evidence, to teche how that obedience mai wel fortune a man to love and sette him in his lust above, as it befell unto this knyht. forthi, my sone, if thou do ryht, thou schalt unto thi love obeie, and folwe hir will be alle weie. min holy fader, so i wile: for ye have told me such a skile of this ensample now tofore, that i schal evermo therfore hierafterward myn observance to love and to his obeissance the betre kepe: and over this of pride if ther oght elles is, wherof that i me schryve schal, what thing it is in special, mi fader, axeth, i you preie. now lest, my sone, and i schal seie: for yit ther is surquiderie, which stant with pride of compaignie; wherof that thou schalt hiere anon, to knowe if thou have gult or non upon the forme as thou schalt hiere: now understond wel the matiere. surquiderie is thilke vice of pride, which the thridde office hath in his court, and wol noght knowe the trowthe til it overthrowe. upon his fortune and his grace comth "hadde i wist" fulofte aplace; for he doth al his thing be gesse, and voideth alle sikernesse. non other conseil good him siemeth bot such as he himselve diemeth; for in such wise as he compasseth, his wit al one alle othre passeth; and is with pride so thurghsoght, that he alle othre set at noght, and weneth of himselven so, that such as he ther be nomo, so fair, so semly, ne so wis; and thus he wolde bere a pris above alle othre, and noght forthi he seith noght ones "grant mercy" to godd, which alle grace sendeth, so that his wittes he despendeth upon himself, as thogh ther were no godd which myhte availe there: bot al upon his oghne witt he stant, til he falle in the pitt so ferr that he mai noght arise. and riht thus in the same wise this vice upon the cause of love so proudly set the herte above, and doth him pleinly forto wene that he to loven eny qwene hath worthinesse and sufficance; and so withoute pourveance fulofte he heweth up so hihe, that chippes fallen in his yhe; and ek ful ofte he weneth this, ther as he noght beloved is, to be beloved alther best. now, sone, tell what so thee lest of this that i have told thee hier. ha, fader, be noght in a wer: i trowe ther be noman lesse, of eny maner worthinesse, that halt him lasse worth thanne i to be beloved; and noght forthi i seie in excusinge of me, to alle men that love is fre. and certes that mai noman werne; for love is of himself so derne, it luteth in a mannes herte: bot that ne schal me noght asterte, to wene forto be worthi to loven, bot in hir mercy. bot, sire, of that ye wolden mene, that i scholde otherwise wene to be beloved thanne i was, i am beknowe as in that cas. mi goode sone, tell me how. now lest, and i wol telle yow, mi goode fader, how it is. fulofte it hath befalle or this thurgh hope that was noght certein, mi wenynge hath be set in vein to triste in thing that halp me noght, bot onliche of myn oughne thoght. for as it semeth that a belle lik to the wordes that men telle answerth, riht so ne mor ne lesse, to yow, my fader, i confesse, such will my wit hath overset, that what so hope me behet, ful many a time i wene it soth, bot finali no spied it doth. thus may i tellen, as i can, wenyng beguileth many a man; so hath it me, riht wel i wot: for if a man wole in a bot which is withoute botme rowe, he moste nedes overthrowe. riht so wenyng hath ferd be me: for whanne i wende next have be, as i be my wenynge caste, thanne was i furthest ate laste, and as a foll my bowe unbende, whan al was failed that i wende. forthi, my fader, as of this, that my wenynge hath gon amis touchende to surquiderie, yif me my penance er i die. bot if ye wolde in eny forme of this matiere a tale enforme, which were ayein this vice set, i scholde fare wel the bet. mi sone, in alle maner wise surquiderie is to despise, wherof i finde write thus. the proude knyht capane�s he was of such surquiderie, that he thurgh his chivalerie upon himself so mochel triste, that to the goddes him ne liste in no querele to beseche, bot seide it was an ydel speche, which caused was of pure drede, for lack of herte and for no nede. and upon such presumpcioun he hield this proude opinioun, til ate laste upon a dai, aboute thebes wher he lay, whan it of siege was belein, this knyht, as the croniqes sein, in alle mennes sihte there, whan he was proudest in his gere, and thoghte how nothing myhte him dere, ful armed with his schield and spere as he the cite wolde assaile, godd tok himselve the bataille ayein his pride, and fro the sky a firy thonder sodeinly he sende, and him to pouldre smot. and thus the pride which was hot, whan he most in his strengthe wende, was brent and lost withouten ende: so that it proeveth wel therfore, the strengthe of man is sone lore, bot if that he it wel governe. and over this a man mai lerne that ek fulofte time it grieveth, whan that a man himself believeth, as thogh it scholde him wel beseme that he alle othre men can deme, and hath foryete his oghne vice. a tale of hem that ben so nyce, and feigne hemself to be so wise, i schal thee telle in such a wise, wherof thou schalt ensample take that thou no such thing undertake. i finde upon surquiderie, how that whilom of hungarie be olde daies was a king wys and honeste in alle thing: and so befell upon a dai, and that was in the monthe of maii, as thilke time it was usance, this kyng with noble pourveance hath for himself his charr araied, wher inne he wolde ride amaied out of the cite forto pleie, with lordes and with gret nobleie of lusti folk that were yonge: wher some pleide and some songe, and some gon and some ryde, and some prike here hors aside and bridlen hem now in now oute. the kyng his yhe caste aboute, til he was ate laste war and syh comende ayein his char two pilegrins of so gret age, that lich unto a dreie ymage thei weren pale and fade hewed, and as a bussh which is besnewed, here berdes weren hore and whyte; ther was of kinde bot a lite, that thei ne semen fulli dede. thei comen to the kyng and bede som of his good par charite; and he with gret humilite out of his char to grounde lepte, and hem in bothe hise armes kepte and keste hem bothe fot and hond before the lordes of his lond, and yaf hem of his good therto: and whanne he hath this dede do, he goth into his char ayein. tho was murmur, tho was desdeign, tho was compleignte on every side, thei seiden of here oghne pride eche until othre: "what is this? oure king hath do this thing amis, so to abesse his realte that every man it myhte se, and humbled him in such a wise to hem that were of non emprise." thus was it spoken to and fro of hem that were with him tho al prively behinde his bak; bot to himselven noman spak. the kinges brother in presence was thilke time, and gret offence he tok therof, and was the same above alle othre which most blame upon his liege lord hath leid, and hath unto the lordes seid, anon as he mai time finde, ther schal nothing be left behinde, that he wol speke unto the king. now lest what fell upon this thing. the day was merie and fair ynowh, echon with othre pleide and lowh, and fellen into tales newe, how that the freisshe floures grewe, and how the grene leves spronge, and how that love among the yonge began the hertes thanne awake, and every bridd hath chose hire make: and thus the maies day to thende thei lede, and hom ayein thei wende. the king was noght so sone come, that whanne he hadde his chambre nome, his brother ne was redi there, and broghte a tale unto his ere of that he dede such a schame in hindringe of his oghne name, whan he himself so wolde drecche, that to so vil a povere wrecche him deigneth schewe such simplesce ayein thastat of his noblesce: and seith he schal it nomor use, and that he mot himself excuse toward hise lordes everychon. the king stod stille as eny ston, and to his tale an ere he leide, and thoghte more than he seide: bot natheles to that he herde wel cortaisly the king answerde, and tolde it scholde be amended. and thus whan that her tale is ended, al redy was the bord and cloth, the king unto his souper goth among the lordes to the halle; and whan thei hadden souped alle, thei token leve and forth thei go. the king bethoghte himselve tho how he his brother mai chastie, that he thurgh his surquiderie tok upon honde to despreise humilite, which is to preise, and therupon yaf such conseil toward his king that was noght heil; wherof to be the betre lered, he thenkth to maken him afered. it fell so that in thilke dawe ther was ordeined be the lawe a trompe with a sterne breth, which cleped was the trompe of deth: and in the court wher the king was a certein man this trompe of bras hath in kepinge, and therof serveth, that whan a lord his deth deserveth, he schal this dredful trompe blowe tofore his gate, and make it knowe how that the jugement is yove of deth, which schal noght be foryove. the king, whan it was nyht, anon this man asente and bad him gon to trompen at his brother gate; and he, which mot so don algate, goth forth and doth the kynges heste. this lord, which herde of this tempeste that he tofore his gate blew, tho wiste he be the lawe and knew that he was sikerliche ded: and as of help he wot no red, bot sende for hise frendes alle and tolde hem how it is befalle. and thei him axe cause why; bot he the sothe noght forthi ne wiste, and ther was sorwe tho: for it stod thilke tyme so, this trompe was of such sentence, that therayein no resistence thei couthe ordeine be no weie, that he ne mot algate deie, bot if so that he may pourchace to gete his liege lordes grace. here wittes therupon thei caste, and ben apointed ate laste. this lord a worthi ladi hadde unto his wif, which also dradde hire lordes deth, and children five betwen hem two thei hadde alyve, that weren yonge and tendre of age, and of stature and of visage riht faire and lusty on to se. tho casten thei that he and sche forth with here children on the morwe, as thei that were full of sorwe, al naked bot of smok and scherte, to tendre with the kynges herte, his grace scholden go to seche and pardoun of the deth beseche. thus passen thei that wofull nyht, and erly, whan thei sihe it lyht, thei gon hem forth in such a wise as thou tofore hast herd devise, al naked bot here schortes one. thei wepte and made mochel mone, here her hangende aboute here eres; with sobbinge and with sory teres this lord goth thanne an humble pas, that whilom proud and noble was; wherof the cite sore afflyhte, of hem that sihen thilke syhte: and natheless al openly with such wepinge and with such cri forth with hise children and his wif he goth to preie for his lif. unto the court whan thei be come, and men therinne have hiede nome, ther was no wiht, if he hem syhe, fro water mihte kepe his yhe for sorwe which thei maden tho. the king supposeth of this wo, and feigneth as he noght ne wiste; bot natheles at his upriste men tolden him how that it ferde: and whan that he this wonder herde, in haste he goth into the halle, and alle at ones doun thei falle, if eny pite may be founde. the king, which seth hem go to grounde, hath axed hem what is the fere, why thei be so despuiled there. his brother seide: "ha lord, mercy! i wot non other cause why, bot only that this nyht ful late the trompe of deth was at my gate in tokne that i scholde deie; thus be we come forto preie that ye mi worldes deth respite." "ha fol, how thou art forto wyte," the king unto his brother seith, "that thou art of so litel feith, that only for a trompes soun hast gon despuiled thurgh the toun, thou and thi wif in such manere forth with thi children that ben here, in sihte of alle men aboute, for that thou seist thou art in doute of deth, which stant under the lawe of man, and man it mai withdrawe, so that it mai par chance faile. now schalt thou noght forthi mervaile that i doun fro my charr alihte, whanne i behield tofore my sihte in hem that were of so grete age min oghne deth thurgh here ymage, which god hath set be lawe of kynde, wherof i mai no bote finde: for wel i wot, such as thei be, riht such am i in my degree, of fleissh and blod, and so schal deie. and thus, thogh i that lawe obeie of which the kinges ben put under, it oghte ben wel lasse wonder than thou, which art withoute nede for lawe of londe in such a drede, which for tacompte is bot a jape, as thing which thou miht overscape. forthi, mi brother, after this i rede, sithen that so is that thou canst drede a man so sore, dred god with al thin herte more: for al schal deie and al schal passe, als wel a leoun as an asse, als wel a beggere as a lord, towardes deth in on acord thei schullen stonde." and in this wise the king hath with hise wordes wise his brother tawht and al foryive. forthi, mi sone, if thou wolt live in vertu, thou most vice eschuie, and with low herte humblesce suie, so that thou be noght surquidous. mi fader, i am amorous, wherof i wolde you beseche that ye me som ensample teche, which mihte in loves cause stonde. mi sone, thou schalt understonde, in love and othre thinges alle if that surquiderie falle, it may to him noght wel betide which useth thilke vice of pride, which torneth wisdom to wenynge and sothfastnesse into lesynge thurgh fol ymaginacion. and for thin enformacion, that thou this vice as i the rede eschuie schalt, a tale i rede, which fell whilom be daies olde, so as the clerk ovide tolde. ther was whilom a lordes sone, which of his pride a nyce wone hath cawht, that worthi to his liche, to sechen al the worldes riche, ther was no womman forto love. so hihe he sette himselve above of stature and of beaute bothe, that him thoghte alle wommen lothe: so was ther no comparisoun as toward his condicioun. this yonge lord narcizus hihte: no strengthe of love bowe mihte his herte, which is unaffiled; bot ate laste he was beguiled: for of the goddes pourveance it fell him on a dai par chance, that he in all his proude fare unto the forest gan to fare, amonges othre that ther were to hunte and to desporte him there. and whanne he cam into the place wher that he wolde make his chace, the houndes weren in a throwe uncoupled and the hornes blowe: the grete hert anon was founde, which swifte feet sette upon grounde, and he with spore in horse side him hasteth faste forto ride, til alle men be left behinde. and as he rod, under a linde beside a roche, as i thee telle, he syh wher sprong a lusty welle: the day was wonder hot withalle, and such a thurst was on him falle, that he moste owther deie or drinke; and doun he lihte and be the brinke he teide his hors unto a braunche, and leide him lowe forto staunche his thurst: and as he caste his lok into the welle and hiede tok, he sih the like of his visage, and wende ther were an ymage of such a nimphe as tho was faie, wherof that love his herte assaie began, as it was after sene, of his sotie and made him wene it were a womman that he syh. the more he cam the welle nyh, the nerr cam sche to him ayein; so wiste he nevere what to sein; for whanne he wepte, he sih hire wepe, and whanne he cride, he tok good kepe, the same word sche cride also: and thus began the newe wo, that whilom was to him so strange; tho made him love an hard eschange, to sette his herte and to beginne thing which he mihte nevere winne. and evere among he gan to loute, and preith that sche to him come oute; and otherwhile he goth a ferr, and otherwhile he draweth nerr, and evere he fond hire in o place. he wepth, he crith, he axeth grace, there as he mihte gete non; so that ayein a roche of ston, as he that knew non other red, he smot himself til he was ded. wherof the nimphes of the welles, and othre that ther weren elles unto the wodes belongende, the body, which was ded ligende, for pure pite that thei have under the grene thei begrave. and thanne out of his sepulture ther sprong anon par aventure of floures such a wonder syhte, that men ensample take myhte upon the dedes whiche he dede, as tho was sene in thilke stede; for in the wynter freysshe and faire the floures ben, which is contraire to kynde, and so was the folie which fell of his surquiderie. thus he, which love hadde in desdeign, worste of all othre was besein, and as he sette his pris most hyhe, he was lest worth in loves yhe and most bejaped in his wit: wherof the remembrance is yit, so that thou myht ensample take, and ek alle othre for his sake. mi fader, as touchende of me, this vice i thenke forto fle, which of his wenynge overtroweth; and nameliche of thing which groweth in loves cause or wel or wo yit pryded i me nevere so. bot wolde god that grace sende, that toward me my lady wende as i towardes hire wene! mi love scholde so be sene, ther scholde go no pride a place. bot i am ferr fro thilke grace, as forto speke of tyme now; so mot i soffre, and preie yow that ye wole axe on other side if ther be eny point of pride, wherof it nedeth to be schrive. mi sone, godd it thee foryive, if thou have eny thing misdo touchende of this, bot overmo ther is an other yit of pride, which nevere cowthe hise wordes hide, that he ne wole himself avaunte; ther mai nothing his tunge daunte, that he ne clappeth as a belle: wherof if thou wolt that i telle, it is behovely forto hiere, so that thou myht thi tunge stiere, toward the world and stonde in grace, which lacketh ofte in many place to him that can noght sitte stille, which elles scholde have al his wille. the vice cleped avantance with pride hath take his aqueintance, so that his oghne pris he lasseth, when he such mesure overpasseth that he his oghne herald is. that ferst was wel is thanne mis, that was thankworth is thanne blame, and thus the worschipe of his name thurgh pride of his avantarie he torneth into vilenie. i rede how that this proude vice hath thilke wynd in his office, which thurgh the blastes that he bloweth the mannes fame he overthroweth of vertu, which scholde elles springe into the worldes knowlechinge; bot he fordoth it alto sore. and riht of such a maner lore ther ben lovers: forthi if thow art on of hem, tell and sei how. whan thou hast taken eny thing of loves yifte, or nouche or ring, or tok upon thee for the cold som goodly word that thee was told, or frendly chiere or tokne or lettre, wherof thin herte was the bettre, or that sche sende the grietinge, hast thou for pride of thi likinge mad thin avant wher as the liste? i wolde, fader, that ye wiste, mi conscience lith noght hiere: yit hadde i nevere such matiere, wherof min herte myhte amende, noght of so mochel that sche sende be mowthe and seide, "griet him wel:" and thus for that ther is no diel wherof to make myn avant, it is to reson acordant that i mai nevere, bot i lye, of love make avanterie. i wot noght what i scholde have do, if that i hadde encheson so, as ye have seid hier manyon; bot i fond cause nevere non: bot daunger, which welnyh me slowh, therof i cowthe telle ynowh, and of non other avantance: thus nedeth me no repentance. now axeth furthere of my lif, for hierof am i noght gultif. mi sone, i am wel paid withal; for wite it wel in special that love of his verrai justice above alle othre ayein this vice at alle times most debateth, with al his herte and most it hateth. and ek in alle maner wise avantarie is to despise, as be ensample thou myht wite, which i finde in the bokes write. of hem that we lombars now calle albinus was the ferste of alle which bar corone of lombardie, and was of gret chivalerie in werre ayein diverse kinges. so fell amonges othre thinges, that he that time a werre hadde with gurmond, which the geptes ladde, and was a myhti kyng also: bot natheles it fell him so, albinus slowh him in the feld, ther halp him nowther swerd ne scheld, that he ne smot his hed of thanne, wherof he tok awey the panne, of which he seide he wolde make a cuppe for gurmoundes sake, to kepe and drawe into memoire of his bataille the victoire. and thus whan he the feld hath wonne, the lond anon was overronne and sesed in his oghne hond, wher he gurmondes dowhter fond, which maide rosemounde hihte, and was in every mannes sihte a fair, a freissh, a lusti on. his herte fell to hire anon, and such a love on hire he caste, that he hire weddeth ate laste; and after that long time in reste with hire he duelte, and to the beste thei love ech other wonder wel. bot sche which kepth the blinde whel, venus, whan thei be most above, in al the hoteste of here love, hire whiel sche torneth, and thei felle in the manere as i schal telle. this king, which stod in al his welthe of pes, of worschipe and of helthe, and felte him on no side grieved, as he that hath his world achieved, tho thoghte he wolde a feste make; and that was for his wyves sake, that sche the lordes ate feste, that were obeissant to his heste, mai knowe: and so forth therupon he let ordeine, and sende anon be lettres and be messagiers, and warnede alle hise officiers that every thing be wel arraied: the grete stiedes were assaied for joustinge and for tornement, and many a perled garnement embroudred was ayein the dai. the lordes in here beste arrai be comen ate time set, on jousteth wel, an other bet, and otherwhile thei torneie, and thus thei casten care aweie and token lustes upon honde. and after, thou schalt understonde, to mete into the kinges halle thei come, as thei be beden alle: and whan thei were set and served, thanne after, as it was deserved, to hem that worthi knyhtes were, so as thei seten hiere and there, the pris was yove and spoken oute among the heraldz al aboute. and thus benethe and ek above al was of armes and of love, wherof abouten ate bordes men hadde manye sondri wordes, that of the merthe which thei made the king himself began to glade withinne his herte and tok a pride, and sih the cuppe stonde aside, which mad was of gurmoundes hed, as ye have herd, whan he was ded, and was with gold and riche stones beset and bounde for the nones, and stod upon a fot on heihte of burned gold, and with gret sleihte of werkmanschipe it was begrave of such werk as it scholde have, and was policed ek so clene that no signe of the skulle is sene, bot as it were a gripes ey. the king bad bere his cuppe awey, which stod tofore him on the bord, and fette thilke. upon his word this skulle is fet and wyn therinne, wherof he bad his wif beginne: "drink with thi fader, dame," he seide. and sche to his biddinge obeide, and tok the skulle, and what hire liste sche drank, as sche which nothing wiste what cuppe it was: and thanne al oute the kyng in audience aboute hath told it was hire fader skulle, so that the lordes knowe schulle of his bataille a soth witnesse, and made avant thurgh what prouesse he hath his wyves love wonne, which of the skulle hath so begonne. tho was ther mochel pride alofte, thei speken alle, and sche was softe, thenkende on thilke unkynde pride, of that hire lord so nyh hire side avanteth him that he hath slain and piked out hire fader brain, and of the skulle had mad a cuppe. sche soffreth al til thei were uppe, and tho sche hath seknesse feigned, and goth to chambre and hath compleigned unto a maide which sche triste, so that non other wyht it wiste. this mayde glodeside is hote, to whom this lady hath behote of ladischipe al that sche can, to vengen hire upon this man, which dede hire drinke in such a plit among hem alle for despit of hire and of hire fader bothe; wherof hire thoghtes ben so wrothe, sche seith, that sche schal noght be glad, til that sche se him so bestad that he nomore make avant. and thus thei felle in covenant, that thei acorden ate laste, with suche wiles as thei caste that thei wol gete of here acord som orped knyht to sle this lord: and with this sleihte thei beginne, how thei helmege myhten winne, which was the kinges boteler, a proud a lusti bacheler, and glodeside he loveth hote. and sche, to make him more assote, hire love granteth, and be nyhte thei schape how thei togedre myhte abedde meete: and don it was this same nyht; and in this cas the qwene hirself the nyht secounde wente in hire stede, and there hath founde a chambre derk withoute liht, and goth to bedde to this knyht. and he, to kepe his observance, to love doth his obeissance, and weneth it be glodeside; and sche thanne after lay aside, and axeth him what he hath do, and who sche was sche tolde him tho, and seide: "helmege, i am thi qwene, now schal thi love wel be sene of that thou hast thi wille wroght: or it schal sore ben aboght, or thou schalt worche as i thee seie. and if thou wolt be such a weie do my plesance and holde it stille, for evere i schal ben at thi wille, bothe i and al myn heritage." anon the wylde loves rage, in which noman him can governe, hath mad him that he can noght werne, bot fell al hol to hire assent: and thus the whiel is al miswent, the which fortune hath upon honde; for how that evere it after stonde, thei schope among hem such a wyle, the king was ded withinne a whyle. so slihly cam it noght aboute that thei ne ben descoevered oute, so that it thoghte hem for the beste to fle, for there was no reste: and thus the tresor of the king thei trusse and mochel other thing, and with a certein felaschipe thei fledde and wente awey be schipe, and hielde here rihte cours fro thenne, til that thei come to ravenne, wher thei the dukes helpe soghte. and he, so as thei him besoghte, a place granteth forto duelle; bot after, whan he herde telle of the manere how thei have do, this duk let schape for hem so, that of a puison which thei drunke thei hadden that thei have beswunke. and al this made avant of pride: good is therfore a man to hide his oghne pris, for if he speke, he mai lihtliche his thonk tobreke. in armes lith non avantance to him which thenkth his name avance and be renomed of his dede: and also who that thenkth to spede of love, he mai him noght avaunte; for what man thilke vice haunte, his pourpos schal fulofte faile. in armes he that wol travaile or elles loves grace atteigne, his lose tunge he mot restreigne, which berth of his honour the keie. forthi, my sone, in alle weie tak riht good hiede of this matiere. i thonke you, my fader diere, this scole is of a gentil lore; and if ther be oght elles more of pride, which i schal eschuie, now axeth forth, and i wol suie what thing that ye me wole enforme. mi sone, yit in other forme ther is a vice of prides lore, which lich an hauk whan he wol sore, fleith upon heihte in his delices after the likynge of his vices, and wol no mannes resoun knowe, till he doun falle and overthrowe. this vice veine gloire is hote, wherof, my sone, i thee behote to trete and speke in such a wise, that thou thee myht the betre avise. the proude vice of veine gloire remembreth noght of purgatoire, hise worldes joyes ben so grete, him thenkth of hevene no beyete; this lives pompe is al his pes: yit schal he deie natheles, and therof thenkth he bot a lite, for al his lust is to delite in newe thinges, proude and veine, als ferforth as he mai atteigne. i trowe, if that he myhte make his body newe, he wolde take a newe forme and leve his olde: for what thing that he mai beholde, the which to comun us is strange, anon his olde guise change he wole and falle therupon, lich unto the camelion, which upon every sondri hewe that he beholt he moste newe his colour, and thus unavised fulofte time he stant desguised. mor jolif than the brid in maii he makth him evere freissh and gay, and doth al his array desguise, so that of him the newe guise of lusti folk alle othre take; and ek he can carolles make, rondeal, balade and virelai. and with al this, if that he may of love gete him avantage, anon he wext of his corage so overglad, that of his ende him thenkth ther is no deth comende: for he hath thanne at alle tide of love such a maner pride, him thenkth his joie is endeles. now schrif thee, sone, in godes pes, and of thi love tell me plein if that thi gloire hath be so vein. mi fader, as touchinge of al i may noght wel ne noght ne schal of veine gloire excuse me, that i ne have for love be the betre adresced and arraied; and also i have ofte assaied rondeal, balade and virelai for hire on whom myn herte lai to make, and also forto peinte caroles with my wordes qweinte, to sette my pourpos alofte; and thus i sang hem forth fulofte in halle and ek in chambre aboute, and made merie among the route, bot yit ne ferde i noght the bet. thus was my gloire in vein beset of al the joie that i made; for whanne i wolde with hire glade, and of hire love songes make, sche saide it was noght for hir sake, and liste noght my songes hiere ne witen what the wordes were. so forto speke of myn arrai, yit couthe i nevere be so gay ne so wel make a songe of love, wherof i myhte ben above and have encheson to be glad; bot rathere i am ofte adrad for sorwe that sche seith me nay. and natheles i wol noght say, that i nam glad on other side; for fame, that can nothing hide, alday wol bringe unto myn ere of that men speken hier and there, how that my ladi berth the pris, how sche is fair, how sche is wis, how sche is wommanlich of chiere; of al this thing whanne i mai hiere, what wonder is thogh i be fain? and ek whanne i may hiere sain tidinges of my ladi hele, althogh i may noght with hir dele, yit am i wonder glad of that; for whanne i wot hire good astat, as for that time i dar wel swere, non other sorwe mai me dere, thus am i gladed in this wise. bot, fader, of youre lores wise, of whiche ye be fully tawht, now tell me if yow thenketh awht that i therof am forto wyte. of that ther is i thee acquite, mi sone, he seide, and for thi goode i wolde that thou understode: for i thenke upon this matiere to telle a tale, as thou schalt hiere, how that ayein this proude vice the hihe god of his justice is wroth and gret vengance doth. now herkne a tale that is soth: thogh it be noght of loves kinde, a gret ensample thou schalt finde this veine gloire forto fle, which is so full of vanite. ther was a king that mochel myhte, which nabugodonosor hihte, of whom that i spak hier tofore. yit in the bible his name is bore, for al the world in orient was hol at his comandement: as thanne of kinges to his liche was non so myhty ne so riche; to his empire and to his lawes, as who seith, alle in thilke dawes were obeissant and tribut bere, as thogh he godd of erthe were. with strengthe he putte kinges under, and wroghte of pride many a wonder; he was so full of veine gloire, that he ne hadde no memoire that ther was eny good bot he, for pride of his prosperite; til that the hihe king of kinges, which seth and knoweth alle thinges, whos yhe mai nothing asterte,- the privetes of mannes herte thei speke and sounen in his ere as thogh thei lowde wyndes were,- he tok vengance upon this pride. bot for he wolde awhile abide to loke if he him wolde amende, to him a foretokne he sende, and that was in his slep be nyhte. this proude kyng a wonder syhte hadde in his swevene, ther he lay: him thoghte, upon a merie day as he behield the world aboute, a tree fulgrowe he syh theroute, which stod the world amiddes evene, whos heihte straghte up to the hevene; the leves weren faire and large, of fruit it bar so ripe a charge, that alle men it myhte fede: he sih also the bowes spriede above al erthe, in whiche were the kinde of alle briddes there; and eke him thoghte he syh also the kinde of alle bestes go under this tre aboute round and fedden hem upon the ground. as he this wonder stod and syh, him thoghte he herde a vois on hih criende, and seide aboven alle: "hew doun this tree and lett it falle, the leves let defoule in haste and do the fruit destruie and waste, and let of schreden every braunche, bot ate rote let it staunche. whan al his pride is cast to grounde, the rote schal be faste bounde, and schal no mannes herte bere, bot every lust he schal forbere of man, and lich an oxe his mete of gras he schal pourchace and ete, til that the water of the hevene have waisshen him be times sevene, so that he be thurghknowe ariht what is the heveneliche myht, and be mad humble to the wille of him which al mai save and spille." this king out of his swefne abreide, and he upon the morwe it seide unto the clerkes whiche he hadde: bot non of hem the sothe aradde, was non his swevene cowthe undo. and it stod thilke time so, this king hadde in subjeccioun judee, and of affeccioun above alle othre on daniel he loveth, for he cowthe wel divine that non other cowthe: to him were alle thinges cowthe, as he it hadde of goddes grace. he was before the kinges face asent, and bode that he scholde upon the point the king of tolde the fortune of his swevene expounde, as it scholde afterward be founde. whan daniel this swevene herde, he stod long time er he ansuerde, and made a wonder hevy chiere. the king tok hiede of his manere, and bad him telle that he wiste, as he to whom he mochel triste, and seide he wolde noght be wroth. bot daniel was wonder loth, and seide: "upon thi fomen alle, sire king, thi swevene mote falle; and natheles touchende of this i wol the tellen how it is, and what desese is to thee schape: god wot if thou it schalt ascape. the hihe tree, which thou hast sein with lef and fruit so wel besein, the which stod in the world amiddes, so that the bestes and the briddes governed were of him al one, sire king, betokneth thi persone, which stant above all erthli thinges. thus regnen under the the kinges, and al the poeple unto thee louteth, and al the world thi pouer doubteth, so that with vein honour deceived thou hast the reverence weyved fro him which is thi king above, that thou for drede ne for love wolt nothing knowen of thi godd; which now for thee hath mad a rodd, thi veine gloire and thi folie with grete peines to chastie. and of the vois thou herdest speke, which bad the bowes forto breke and hewe and felle doun the tree, that word belongeth unto thee; thi regne schal ben overthrowe, and thou despuiled for a throwe: bot that the rote scholde stonde, be that thou schalt wel understonde, ther schal abyden of thi regne a time ayein whan thou schalt regne. and ek of that thou herdest seie, to take a mannes herte aweie and sette there a bestial, so that he lich an oxe schal pasture, and that he be bereined be times sefne and sore peined, til that he knowe his goddes mihtes, than scholde he stonde ayein uprihtes,- al this betokneth thin astat, which now with god is in debat: thi mannes forme schal be lassed, til sevene yer ben overpassed, and in the liknesse of a beste of gras schal be thi real feste, the weder schal upon thee reine. and understond that al this peine, which thou schalt soffre thilke tide, is schape al only for thi pride of veine gloire, and of the sinne which thou hast longe stonden inne. so upon this condicioun thi swevene hath exposicioun. bot er this thing befalle in dede, amende thee, this wolde i rede: yif and departe thin almesse, do mercy forth with rihtwisnesse, besech and prei the hihe grace, for so thou myht thi pes pourchace with godd, and stonde in good acord." bot pride is loth to leve his lord, and wol noght soffre humilite with him to stonde in no degree; and whan a schip hath lost his stiere, is non so wys that mai him stiere ayein the wawes in a rage. this proude king in his corage humilite hath so forlore, that for no swevene he sih tofore, ne yit for al that daniel him hath conseiled everydel, he let it passe out of his mynde, thurgh veine gloire, and as the blinde, he seth no weie, er him be wo. and fell withinne a time so, as he in babiloine wente, the vanite of pride him hente; his herte aros of veine gloire, so that he drowh into memoire his lordschipe and his regalie with wordes of surquiderie. and whan that he him most avaunteth, that lord which veine gloire daunteth, al sodeinliche, as who seith treis, wher that he stod in his paleis, he tok him fro the mennes sihte: was non of hem so war that mihte sette yhe wher that he becom. and thus was he from his kingdom into the wilde forest drawe, wher that the myhti goddes lawe thurgh his pouer dede him transforme fro man into a bestes forme; and lich an oxe under the fot he graseth, as he nedes mot, to geten him his lives fode. tho thoghte him colde grases goode, that whilom eet the hote spices, thus was he torned fro delices: the wyn which he was wont to drinke he tok thanne of the welles brinke or of the pet or of the slowh, it thoghte him thanne good ynowh: in stede of chambres wel arraied he was thanne of a buissh wel paied, the harde ground he lay upon, for othre pilwes hath he non; the stormes and the reines falle, the wyndes blowe upon him alle, he was tormented day and nyht, such was the hihe goddes myht, til sevene yer an ende toke. upon himself tho gan he loke; in stede of mete gras and stres, in stede of handes longe cles, in stede of man a bestes lyke he syh; and thanne he gan to syke for cloth of gold and for perrie, which him was wont to magnefie. whan he behield his cote of heres, he wepte and with fulwoful teres up to the hevene he caste his chiere wepende, and thoghte in this manere; thogh he no wordes myhte winne, thus seide his herte and spak withinne: "o mihti godd, that al hast wroght and al myht bringe ayein to noght, now knowe i wel, bot al of thee, this world hath no prosperite: in thin aspect ben alle liche, the povere man and ek the riche, withoute thee ther mai no wight, and thou above alle othre miht. o mihti lord, toward my vice thi merci medle with justice; and i woll make a covenant, that of my lif the remenant i schal it be thi grace amende, and in thi lawe so despende that veine gloire i schal eschuie, and bowe unto thin heste and suie humilite, and that i vowe." and so thenkende he gan doun bowe, and thogh him lacke vois and speche, he gan up with his feet areche, and wailende in his bestly stevene he made his pleignte unto the hevene. he kneleth in his wise and braieth, to seche merci and assaieth his god, which made him nothing strange, whan that he sih his pride change. anon as he was humble and tame, he fond toward his god the same, and in a twinklinge of a lok his mannes forme ayein he tok, and was reformed to the regne in which that he was wont to regne; so that the pride of veine gloire evere afterward out of memoire he let it passe. and thus is schewed what is to ben of pride unthewed ayein the hihe goddes lawe, to whom noman mai be felawe. forthi, my sone, tak good hiede so forto lede thi manhiede, that thou ne be noght lich a beste. bot if thi lif schal ben honeste, thou most humblesce take on honde, for thanne myht thou siker stonde: and forto speke it otherwise, a proud man can no love assise; for thogh a womman wolde him plese, his pride can noght ben at ese. ther mai noman to mochel blame a vice which is forto blame; forthi men scholde nothing hide that mihte falle in blame of pride, which is the werste vice of alle: wherof, so as it was befalle, the tale i thenke of a cronique to telle, if that it mai thee like, so that thou myht humblesce suie and ek the vice of pride eschuie, wherof the gloire is fals and vein; which god himself hath in desdeign, that thogh it mounte for a throwe, it schal doun falle and overthrowe. a king whilom was yong and wys, the which sette of his wit gret pris. of depe ymaginaciouns and strange interpretaciouns, problemes and demandes eke, his wisdom was to finde and seke; wherof he wolde in sondri wise opposen hem that weren wise. bot non of hem it myhte bere upon his word to yeve answere, outaken on, which was a knyht; to him was every thing so liht, that also sone as he hem herde, the kinges wordes he answerde; what thing the king him axe wolde, therof anon the trowthe he tolde. the king somdiel hadde an envie, and thoghte he wolde his wittes plie to sette som conclusioun, which scholde be confusioun unto this knyht, so that the name and of wisdom the hihe fame toward himself he wolde winne. and thus of al his wit withinne this king began to studie and muse, what strange matiere he myhte use the knyhtes wittes to confounde; and ate laste he hath it founde, and for the knyht anon he sente, that he schal telle what he mente. upon thre pointz stod the matiere of questions, as thou schalt hiere. the ferste point of alle thre was this: "what thing in his degre of al this world hath nede lest, and yet men helpe it althermest?" the secounde is: "what most is worth, and of costage is lest put forth?" the thridde is: "which is of most cost, and lest is worth and goth to lost?" the king thes thre demandes axeth, and to the knyht this lawe he taxeth, that he schal gon and come ayein the thridde weke, and telle him plein to every point, what it amonteth. and if so be that he misconteth, to make in his answere a faile, ther schal non other thing availe, the king seith, bot he schal be ded and lese hise goodes and his hed. the knyht was sori of this thing and wolde excuse him to the king, bot he ne wolde him noght forbere, and thus the knyht of his ansuere goth hom to take avisement: bot after his entendement the more he caste his wit aboute, the more he stant therof in doute. tho wiste he wel the kinges herte, that he the deth ne scholde asterte, and such a sorwe hath to him take, that gladschipe he hath al forsake. he thoghte ferst upon his lif, and after that upon his wif, upon his children ek also, of whiche he hadde dowhtres tuo; the yongest of hem hadde of age fourtiene yer, and of visage sche was riht fair, and of stature lich to an hevenely figure, and of manere and goodli speche, thogh men wolde alle londes seche, thei scholden noght have founde hir like. sche sih hire fader sorwe and sike, and wiste noght the cause why; so cam sche to him prively, and that was where he made his mone withinne a gardin al him one; upon hire knes sche gan doun falle with humble herte and to him calle, and seide: "o goode fader diere, why make ye thus hevy chiere, and i wot nothing how it is? and wel ye knowen, fader, this, what aventure that you felle ye myhte it saufly to me telle, for i have ofte herd you seid, that ye such trust have on me leid, that to my soster ne my brother, in al this world ne to non other, ye dorste telle a privite so wel, my fader, as to me. forthi, my fader, i you preie, ne casteth noght that herte aweie, for i am sche that wolde kepe youre honour." and with that to wepe hire yhe mai noght be forbore, sche wissheth forto ben unbore, er that hire fader so mistriste to tellen hire of that he wiste: and evere among merci sche cride, that he ne scholde his conseil hide from hire that so wolde him good and was so nyh his fleissh and blod. so that with wepinge ate laste his chiere upon his child he caste, and sorwfulli to that sche preide he tolde his tale and thus he seide: "the sorwe, dowhter, which i make is noght al only for my sake, bot for thee bothe and for you alle: for such a chance is me befalle, that i schal er this thridde day lese al that evere i lese may, mi lif and al my good therto: therfore it is i sorwe so." "what is the cause, helas!" quod sche, "mi fader, that ye scholden be ded and destruid in such a wise?" and he began the pointz devise, whiche as the king told him be mowthe, and seid hir pleinly that he cowthe ansuere unto no point of this. and sche, that hiereth how it is, hire conseil yaf and seide tho: "mi fader, sithen it is so, that ye can se non other weie, bot that ye moste nedes deie, i wolde preie of you a thing: let me go with you to the king, and ye schull make him understonde how ye, my wittes forto fonde, have leid your ansuere upon me; and telleth him, in such degre upon my word ye wole abide to lif or deth, what so betide. for yit par chaunce i may pourchace with som good word the kinges grace, your lif and ek your good to save; for ofte schal a womman have thing which a man mai noght areche." the fader herde his dowhter speche, and thoghte ther was resoun inne, and sih his oghne lif to winne he cowthe don himself no cure; so betre him thoghte in aventure to put his lif and al his good, than in the maner as it stod his lif in certein forto lese. and thus thenkende he gan to chese to do the conseil of this maide, and tok the pourpos which sche saide. the dai was come and forth thei gon, unto the court thei come anon, wher as the king in juggement was set and hath this knyht assent. arraied in hire beste wise this maiden with hire wordes wise hire fader ladde be the hond into the place, wher he fond the king with othre whiche he wolde, and to the king knelende he tolde as he enformed was tofore, and preith the king that he therfore his dowhtres wordes wolde take, and seith that he wol undertake upon hire wordes forto stonde. tho was ther gret merveile on honde, that he, which was so wys a knyht, his lif upon so yong a wyht besette wolde in jeupartie, and manye it hielden for folie: bot ate laste natheles the king comandeth ben in pes, and to this maide he caste his chiere, and seide he wolde hire tale hiere, he bad hire speke, and sche began: "mi liege lord, so as i can," quod sche, "the pointz of whiche i herde, thei schul of reson ben ansuerde. the ferste i understonde is this, what thing of al the world it is, which men most helpe and hath lest nede. mi liege lord, this wolde i rede: the erthe it is, which everemo with mannes labour is bego; als wel in wynter as in maii the mannes hond doth what he mai to helpe it forth and make it riche, and forthi men it delve and dyche and eren it with strengthe of plowh, wher it hath of himself ynowh, so that his nede is ate leste. for every man and bridd and beste, and flour and gras and rote and rinde, and every thing be weie of kynde schal sterve, and erthe it schal become; as it was out of erthe nome, it schal to therthe torne ayein: and thus i mai be resoun sein that erthe is the most nedeles, and most men helpe it natheles. so that, my lord, touchende of this i have ansuerd hou that it is. that other point i understod, which most is worth and most is good, and costeth lest a man to kepe: mi lord, if ye woll take kepe, i seie it is humilite, thurgh which the hihe trinite as for decerte of pure love unto marie from above, of that he knew hire humble entente, his oghne sone adoun he sente, above alle othre and hire he ches for that vertu which bodeth pes: so that i may be resoun calle humilite most worth of alle. and lest it costeth to maintiene, in al the world as it is sene; for who that hath humblesce on honde, he bringth no werres into londe, for he desireth for the beste to setten every man in reste. thus with your hihe reverence me thenketh that this evidence as to this point is sufficant. and touchende of the remenant, which is the thridde of youre axinges, what leste is worth of alle thinges, and costeth most, i telle it, pride; which mai noght in the hevene abide, for lucifer with hem that felle bar pride with him into helle. ther was pride of to gret a cost, whan he for pride hath hevene lost; and after that in paradis adam for pride loste his pris: in midelerthe and ek also pride is the cause of alle wo, that al the world ne may suffise to stanche of pride the reprise: pride is the heved of alle sinne, which wasteth al and mai noght winne; pride is of every mis the pricke, pride is the werste of alle wicke, and costneth most and lest is worth in place where he hath his forth. thus have i seid that i wol seie of myn answere, and to you preie, mi liege lord, of youre office that ye such grace and such justice ordeigne for mi fader hiere, that after this, whan men it hiere, the world therof mai speke good." the king, which reson understod and hath al herd how sche hath said, was inly glad and so wel paid that al his wraththe is overgo: and he began to loke tho upon this maiden in the face, in which he fond so mochel grace, that al his pris on hire he leide, in audience and thus he seide: "mi faire maide, wel thee be! of thin ansuere and ek of thee me liketh wel, and as thou wilt, foryive be thi fader gilt. and if thou were of such lignage, that thou to me were of parage, and that thi fader were a pier, as he is now a bachilier, so seker as i have a lif, thou scholdest thanne be my wif. bot this i seie natheles, that i wol schape thin encress; what worldes good that thou wolt crave, axe of my yifte and thou schalt have." and sche the king with wordes wise knelende thonketh in this wise: "mi liege lord, god mot you quite! mi fader hier hath bot a lite of warison, and that he wende hadde al be lost; bot now amende he mai wel thurgh your noble grace." with that the king riht in his place anon forth in that freisshe hete an erldom, which thanne of eschete was late falle into his hond, unto this knyht with rente and lond hath yove and with his chartre sesed; and thus was all the noise appesed. this maiden, which sat on hire knes tofore the king, hise charitees comendeth, and seide overmore: "mi liege lord, riht now tofore ye seide, as it is of record, that if my fader were a lord and pier unto these othre grete, ye wolden for noght elles lete, that i ne scholde be your wif; and this wot every worthi lif, a kinges word it mot ben holde. forthi, my lord, if that ye wolde so gret a charite fulfille, god wot it were wel my wille: for he which was a bacheler, mi fader, is now mad a pier; so whenne as evere that i cam, an erles dowhter now i am." this yonge king, which peised al, hire beaute and hir wit withal, as he that was with love hent, anon therto yaf his assent. he myhte noght the maide asterte, that sche nis ladi of his herte; so that he tok hire to his wif, to holde whyl that he hath lif: and thus the king toward his knyht acordeth him, as it is riht. and over this good is to wite, in the cronique as it is write, this noble king of whom i tolde of spaine be tho daies olde the kingdom hadde in governance, and as the bok makth remembrance, alphonse was his propre name: the knyht also, if i schal name, danz petro hihte, and as men telle, his dowhter wyse peronelle was cleped, which was full of grace: and that was sene in thilke place, wher sche hir fader out of teene hath broght and mad hirself a qweene, of that sche hath so wel desclosed the pointz wherof sche was opposed. lo now, my sone, as thou myht hiere, of al this thing to my matiere bot on i take, and that is pride, to whom no grace mai betide: in hevene he fell out of his stede, and paradis him was forbede, the goode men in erthe him hate, so that to helle he mot algate, where every vertu schal be weyved and every vice be received. bot humblesce is al otherwise, which most is worth, and no reprise it takth ayein, bot softe and faire, if eny thing stond in contraire, with humble speche it is redresced: thus was this yonge maiden blessed, the which i spak of now tofore, hire fader lif sche gat therfore, and wan with al the kinges love. forthi, my sone, if thou wolt love, it sit thee wel to leve pride and take humblesce upon thi side; the more of grace thou schalt gete. mi fader, i woll noght foryete of this that ye have told me hiere, and if that eny such manere of humble port mai love appaie, hierafterward i thenke assaie: bot now forth over i beseche that ye more of my schrifte seche. mi goode sone, it schal be do: now herkne and ley an ere to; for as touchende of prides fare, als ferforth as i can declare in cause of vice, in cause of love, that hast thou pleinly herd above, so that ther is nomor to seie touchende of that; bot other weie touchende envie i thenke telle, which hath the propre kinde of helle, withoute cause to misdo toward himself and othre also, hierafterward as understonde thou schalt the spieces, as thei stonde. explicit liber primus incipit liber secundus inuidie culpa magis est attrita dolore, nam sua mens nullo tempore leta manet: quo gaudent alii, dolet ille, nec vnus amicus est, cui de puro comoda velle facit. proximitatis honor sua corda veretur, et omnis est sibi leticia sic aliena dolor. hoc etenim vicium quam sepe repugnat amanti, non sibi, set reliquis, dum fauet ipsa venus. est amor ex proprio motu fantasticus, et que gaudia fert alius, credit obesse sibi. now after pride the secounde ther is, which many a woful stounde towardes othre berth aboute withinne himself and noght withoute; for in his thoght he brenneth evere, whan that he wot an other levere or more vertuous than he, which passeth him in his degre; therof he takth his maladie: that vice is cleped hot envie. forthi, my sone, if it be so thou art or hast ben on of tho, as forto speke in loves cas, if evere yit thin herte was sek of an other mannes hele? so god avance my querele, mi fader, ye, a thousend sithe: whanne i have sen an other blithe of love, and hadde a goodly chiere, ethna, which brenneth yer be yere, was thanne noght so hot as i of thilke sor which prively min hertes thoght withinne brenneth. the schip which on the wawes renneth, and is forstormed and forblowe, is noght more peined for a throwe than i am thanne, whanne i se an other which that passeth me in that fortune of loves yifte. bot, fader, this i telle in schrifte, that is nowher bot in o place; for who that lese or finde grace in other stede, it mai noght grieve: bot this ye mai riht wel believe, toward mi ladi that i serve, thogh that i wiste forto sterve, min herte is full of such sotie, that i myself mai noght chastie. whan i the court se of cupide aproche unto my ladi side of hem that lusti ben and freisshe,- thogh it availe hem noght a reisshe, bot only that thei ben in speche,- my sorwe is thanne noght to seche: bot whan thei rounen in hire ere, than groweth al my moste fere, and namly whan thei talen longe; my sorwes thanne be so stronge of that i se hem wel at ese, i can noght telle my desese. bot, sire, as of my ladi selve, thogh sche have wowers ten or twelve, for no mistrust i have of hire me grieveth noght, for certes, sire, i trowe, in al this world to seche, nis womman that in dede and speche woll betre avise hire what sche doth, ne betre, forto seie a soth, kepe hire honour ate alle tide, and yit get hire a thank beside. bot natheles i am beknowe, that whanne i se at eny throwe, or elles if i mai it hiere, that sche make eny man good chiere, thogh i therof have noght to done, mi thought wol entermette him sone. for thogh i be miselve strange, envie makth myn herte change, that i am sorghfully bestad of that i se an other glad with hire; bot of other alle, of love what so mai befalle, or that he faile or that he spede, therof take i bot litel heede. now have i seid, my fader, al as of this point in special, als ferforthli as i have wist. now axeth further what you list. mi sone, er i axe eny more, i thenke somdiel for thi lore telle an ensample of this matiere touchende envie, as thou schalt hiere. write in civile this i finde: thogh it be noght the houndes kinde to ete chaf, yit wol he werne an oxe which comth to the berne, therof to taken eny fode. and thus, who that it understode, it stant of love in many place: who that is out of loves grace and mai himselven noght availe, he wolde an other scholde faile; and if he may put eny lette, he doth al that he mai to lette. wherof i finde, as thou schalt wite, to this pourpos a tale write. ther ben of suche mo than twelve, that ben noght able as of hemselve to gete love, and for envie upon alle othre thei aspie; and for hem lacketh that thei wolde, thei kepte that non other scholde touchende of love his cause spede: wherof a gret ensample i rede, which unto this matiere acordeth, as ovide in his bok recordeth, how poliphemus whilom wroghte, whan that he galathee besoghte of love, which he mai noght lacche. that made him forto waite and wacche be alle weies how it ferde, til ate laste he knew and herde how that an other hadde leve to love there as he mot leve, as forto speke of eny sped: so that he knew non other red, bot forto wayten upon alle, til he may se the chance falle that he hire love myhte grieve, which he himself mai noght achieve. this galathee, seith the poete, above alle othre was unmete of beaute, that men thanne knewe, and hadde a lusti love and trewe, a bacheler in his degree, riht such an other as was sche, on whom sche hath hire herte set, so that it myhte noght be let for yifte ne for no beheste, that sche ne was al at his heste. this yonge knyht acis was hote, which hire ayeinward als so hote al only loveth and nomo. hierof was poliphemus wo thurgh pure envie, and evere aspide, and waiteth upon every side, whan he togedre myhte se this yonge acis with galathe. so longe he waiteth to and fro, til ate laste he fond hem tuo, in prive place wher thei stode to speke and have here wordes goode. the place wher as he hem syh, it was under a banke nyh the grete see, and he above stod and behield the lusti love which ech of hem to other made with goodly chiere and wordes glade, that al his herte hath set afyre of pure envie: and as a fyre which fleth out of a myhti bowe, aweie he fledde for a throwe, as he that was for love wod, whan that he sih how that it stod. this polipheme a geant was; and whan he sih the sothe cas, how galathee him hath forsake and acis to hire love take, his herte mai it noght forbere that he ne roreth lich a bere; and as it were a wilde beste, the whom no reson mihte areste, he ran ethna the hell aboute, wher nevere yit the fyr was oute, fulfild of sorghe and gret desese, that he syh acis wel at ese. til ate laste he him bethoghte, as he which al envie soghte, and torneth to the banke ayein, wher he with galathee hath seyn acis, whom that he thoghte grieve, thogh he himself mai noght relieve. this geant with his ruide myht part of the banke he schof doun riht, the which evene upon acis fell, so that with fallinge of this hell this poliphemus acis slowh, wherof sche made sorwe ynowh. and as sche fledde fro the londe, neptunus tok hire into honde and kept hire in so sauf a place fro polipheme and his manace, that he with al his false envie ne mihte atteigne hir compaignie. this galathee of whom i speke, that of hirself mai noght be wreke, withouten eny semblant feigned sche hath hire loves deth compleigned, and with hire sorwe and with hire wo sche hath the goddes moeved so, that thei of pite and of grace have acis in the same place, ther he lai ded, into a welle transformed, as the bokes telle, with freisshe stremes and with cliere, as he whilom with lusti chiere was freissh his love forto qweme. and with this ruide polipheme for his envie and for his hate thei were wrothe. and thus algate, mi sone, thou myht understonde, that if thou wolt in grace stonde with love, thou most leve envie: and as thou wolt for thi partie toward thi love stonde fre, so most thou soffre an other be, what so befalle upon the chaunce: for it is an unwys vengance, which to non other man is lief, and is unto himselve grief. mi fader, this ensample is good; bot how so evere that it stod with poliphemes love as tho, it schal noght stonde with me so, to worchen eny felonie in love for no such envie. forthi if ther oght elles be, now axeth forth, in what degre it is, and i me schal confesse with schrifte unto youre holinesse. mi goode sone, yit ther is a vice revers unto this, which envious takth his gladnesse of that he seth the hevinesse of othre men: for his welfare is whanne he wot an other care: of that an other hath a fall, he thenkth himself arist withal. such is the gladschipe of envie in worldes thing, and in partie fulofte times ek also in loves cause it stant riht so. if thou, my sone, hast joie had, whan thou an other sihe unglad, schrif the therof. mi fader, yis: i am beknowe unto you this. of these lovers that loven streyte, and for that point which thei coveite ben poursuiantz fro yeer to yere in loves court, whan i may hiere how that thei clymbe upon the whel, and whan thei wene al schal be wel, thei ben doun throwen ate laste, thanne am i fedd of that thei faste, and lawhe of that i se hem loure; and thus of that thei brewe soure i drinke swete, and am wel esed of that i wot thei ben desesed. bot this which i you telle hiere is only for my lady diere; that for non other that i knowe me reccheth noght who overthrowe, ne who that stonde in love upriht: bot be he squier, be he knyht, which to my ladiward poursuieth, the more he lest of that he suieth, the mor me thenketh that i winne, and am the more glad withinne of that i wot him sorwe endure. for evere upon such aventure it is a confort, as men sein, to him the which is wo besein to sen an other in his peine, so that thei bothe mai compleigne. wher i miself mai noght availe to sen an other man travaile, i am riht glad if he be let; and thogh i fare noght the bet, his sorwe is to myn herte a game: whan that i knowe it is the same which to mi ladi stant enclined, and hath his love noght termined, i am riht joifull in my thoght. if such envie grieveth oght, as i beknowe me coupable, ye that be wys and resonable, mi fader, telleth youre avis. mi sone, envie into no pris of such a forme, i understonde, ne mihte be no resoun stonde for this envie hath such a kinde, that he wole sette himself behinde to hindre with an othre wyht, and gladly lese his oghne riht to make an other lesen his. and forto knowe how it so is, a tale lich to this matiere i thenke telle, if thou wolt hiere, to schewe proprely the vice of this envie and the malice. of jupiter this finde i write, how whilom that he wolde wite upon the pleigntes whiche he herde, among the men how that it ferde, as of here wrong condicion to do justificacion: and for that cause doun he sente an angel, which about wente, that he the sothe knowe mai. so it befell upon a dai this angel, which him scholde enforme, was clothed in a mannes forme, and overtok, i understonde, tuo men that wenten over londe, thurgh whiche he thoghte to aspie his cause, and goth in compaignie. this angel with hise wordes wise opposeth hem in sondri wise, now lowde wordes and now softe, that mad hem to desputen ofte, and ech of hem his reson hadde. and thus with tales he hem ladde with good examinacioun, til he knew the condicioun, what men thei were bothe tuo; and sih wel ate laste tho, that on of hem was coveitous, and his fela was envious. and thus, whan he hath knowlechinge, anon he feigneth departinge, and seide he mot algate wende. bot herkne now what fell at ende: for thanne he made hem understonde that he was there of goddes sonde, and seide hem, for the kindeschipe that thei have don him felaschipe, he wole hem do som grace ayein, and bad that on of hem schal sein what thing him is lievest to crave, and he it schal of yifte have; and over that ek forth withal he seith that other have schal the double of that his felaw axeth; and thus to hem his grace he taxeth. the coveitous was wonder glad, and to that other man he bad and seith that he ferst axe scholde: for he supposeth that he wolde make his axinge of worldes good; for thanne he knew wel how it stod, that he himself be double weyhte schal after take, and thus be sleyhte, be cause that he wolde winne, he bad his fela ferst beginne. this envious, thogh it be late, whan that he syh he mot algate make his axinge ferst, he thoghte, if he worschipe or profit soghte, it schal be doubled to his fiere: that wolde he chese in no manere. bot thanne he scheweth what he was toward envie, and in this cas unto this angel thus he seide and for his yifte this he preide, to make him blind of his on yhe, so that his fela nothing syhe. this word was noght so sone spoke, that his on yhe anon was loke, and his felawh forthwith also was blind of bothe his yhen tuo. tho was that other glad ynowh, that on wepte, and that other lowh, he sette his on yhe at no cost, wherof that other two hath lost. of thilke ensample which fell tho, men tellen now fulofte so, the world empeireth comunly: and yit wot non the cause why; for it acordeth noght to kinde min oghne harm to seche and finde of that i schal my brother grieve; it myhte nevere wel achieve. what seist thou, sone, of this folie? mi fader, bot i scholde lie, upon the point which ye have seid yit was myn herte nevere leid, bot in the wise as i you tolde. bot overmore, if that ye wolde oght elles to my schrifte seie touchende envie, i wolde preie. mi sone, that schal wel be do: now herkne and ley thin ere to. touchende as of envious brod i wot noght on of alle good; bot natheles, suche as thei be, yit is ther on, and that is he which cleped in detraccioun. and to conferme his accioun, he hath withholde malebouche, whos tunge neither pyl ne crouche mai hyre, so that he pronounce a plein good word withoute frounce awher behinde a mannes bak. for thogh he preise, he fint som lak, which of his tale is ay the laste, that al the pris schal overcaste: and thogh ther be no cause why, yit wole he jangle noght forthi, as he which hath the heraldie of hem that usen forto lye. for as the netle which up renneth the freisshe rede roses brenneth and makth hem fade and pale of hewe, riht so this fals envious hewe, in every place wher he duelleth, with false wordes whiche he telleth he torneth preisinge into blame and worschipe into worldes schame. of such lesinge as he compasseth, is non so good that he ne passeth betwen his teeth and is bacbited, and thurgh his false tunge endited: lich to the scharnebudes kinde, of whos nature this i finde, that in the hoteste of the dai, whan comen is the merie maii, he sprat his wynge and up he fleth: and under al aboute he seth the faire lusti floures springe, bot therof hath he no likinge; bot where he seth of eny beste the felthe, ther he makth his feste, and therupon he wole alyhte, ther liketh him non other sihte. riht so this janglere envious, thogh he a man se vertuous and full of good condicioun, therof makth he no mencioun: bot elles, be it noght so lyte, wherof that he mai sette a wyte, ther renneth he with open mouth, behinde a man and makth it couth. bot al the vertu which he can, that wole he hide of every man, and openly the vice telle, as he which of the scole of helle is tawht, and fostred with envie of houshold and of compaignie, wher that he hath his propre office to sette on every man a vice. how so his mouth be comely, his word sit evermore awry and seith the worste that he may. and in this wise now a day in loves court a man mai hiere fulofte pleigne of this matiere, that many envious tale is stered, wher that it mai noght ben ansuered; bot yit fulofte it is believed, and many a worthi love is grieved thurgh bacbitinge of fals envie. if thou have mad such janglerie in loves court, mi sone, er this, schrif thee therof. mi fader, yis: bot wite ye how? noght openly, bot otherwhile prively, whan i my diere ladi mete, and thenke how that i am noght mete unto hire hihe worthinesse, and ek i se the besinesse of al this yonge lusty route, whiche alday pressen hire aboute, and ech of hem his time awaiteth, and ech of hem his tale affaiteth, al to deceive an innocent, which woll noght ben of here assent; and for men sein unknowe unkest, hire thombe sche holt in hire fest so clos withinne hire oghne hond, that there winneth noman lond; sche lieveth noght al that sche hiereth, and thus fulofte hirself sche skiereth and is al war of "hadde i wist":- bot for al that myn herte arist, whanne i thes comun lovers se, that woll noght holden hem to thre, bot welnyh loven overal, min herte is envious withal, and evere i am adrad of guile, in aunter if with eny wyle thei mihte hire innocence enchaunte. forthi my wordes ofte i haunte behynden hem, so as i dar, wherof my ladi may be war: i sai what evere comth to mowthe, and worse i wolde, if that i cowthe; for whanne i come unto hir speche, al that i may enquere and seche of such deceipte, i telle it al, and ay the werste in special. so fayn i wolde that sche wiste how litel thei ben forto triste, and what thei wolde and what thei mente, so as thei be of double entente: thus toward hem that wicke mene my wicked word was evere grene. and natheles, the soth to telle, in certain if it so befelle that althertrewest man ybore, to chese among a thousend score, which were alfulli forto triste, mi ladi lovede, and i it wiste, yit rathere thanne he scholde spede, i wolde swiche tales sprede to my ladi, if that i myhte, that i scholde al his love unrihte, and therto wolde i do mi peine. for certes thogh i scholde feigne, and telle that was nevere thoght, for al this world i myhte noght to soffre an othre fully winne, ther as i am yit to beginne. for be thei goode, or be thei badde, i wolde non my ladi hadde; and that me makth fulofte aspie and usen wordes of envie, al forto make hem bere a blame. and that is bot of thilke same, the whiche unto my ladi drawe, for evere on hem i rounge and gknawe and hindre hem al that evere i mai; and that is, sothly forto say, bot only to my lady selve: i telle it noght to ten ne tuelve, therof i wol me wel avise, to speke or jangle in eny wise that toucheth to my ladi name, the which in ernest and in game i wolde save into my deth; for me were levere lacke breth than speken of hire name amis. now have ye herd touchende of this, mi fader, in confessioun: and therfor of detraccioun in love, of that i have mispoke, tel how ye wole it schal be wroke. i am al redy forto bere mi peine, and also to forbere what thing that ye wol noght allowe; for who is bounden, he mot bowe. so wol i bowe unto youre heste, for i dar make this beheste, that i to yow have nothing hid, bot told riht as it is betid; and otherwise of no mispeche, mi conscience forto seche, i can noght of envie finde, that i mispoke have oght behinde wherof love owhte be mispaid. now have ye herd and i have said; what wol ye, fader, that i do? mi sone, do nomore so, bot evere kep thi tunge stille, thou miht the more have of thi wille. for as thou saist thiselven here, thi ladi is of such manere, so wys, so war in alle thinge, it nedeth of no bakbitinge that thou thi ladi mis enforme: for whan sche knoweth al the forme, how that thiself art envious, thou schalt noght be so gracious as thou peraunter scholdest elles. ther wol noman drinke of tho welles whiche as he wot is puyson inne; and ofte swich as men beginne towardes othre, swich thei finde, that set hem ofte fer behinde, whan that thei wene be before. mi goode sone, and thou therfore bewar and lef thi wicke speche, wherof hath fallen ofte wreche to many a man befor this time. for who so wole his handes lime, thei mosten be the more unclene; for many a mote schal be sene, that wolde noght cleve elles there; and that schold every wys man fere: for who so wol an other blame, he secheth ofte his oghne schame, which elles myhte be riht stille. forthi if that it be thi wille to stonde upon amendement, a tale of gret entendement i thenke telle for thi sake, wherof thou miht ensample take. a worthi kniht in cristes lawe of grete rome, as is the sawe, the sceptre hadde forto rihte; tiberie constantin he hihte, whos wif was cleped ytalie: bot thei togedre of progenie no children hadde bot a maide; and sche the god so wel apaide, that al the wide worldes fame spak worschipe of hire goode name. constance, as the cronique seith, sche hihte, and was so ful of feith, that the greteste of barbarie, of hem whiche usen marchandie, sche hath converted, as thei come to hire upon a time in rome, to schewen such thing as thei broghte; whiche worthili of hem sche boghte, and over that in such a wise sche hath hem with hire wordes wise of cristes feith so full enformed, that thei therto ben all conformed, so that baptesme thei receiven and alle here false goddes weyven. whan thei ben of the feith certein, thei gon to barbarie ayein, and ther the souldan for hem sente and axeth hem to what entente thei have here ferste feith forsake. and thei, whiche hadden undertake the rihte feith to kepe and holde, the matiere of here tale tolde with al the hole circumstance. and whan the souldan of constance upon the point that thei ansuerde the beaute and the grace herde, as he which thanne was to wedde, in alle haste his cause spedde to sende for the mariage. and furthermor with good corage he seith, be so he mai hire have, that crist, which cam this world to save, he woll believe: and this recorded, thei ben on either side acorded, and therupon to make an ende the souldan hise hostages sende to rome, of princes sones tuelve: wherof the fader in himselve was glad, and with the pope avised tuo cardinals he hath assissed with othre lordes many mo, that with his doghter scholden go, to se the souldan be converted. bot that which nevere was wel herted, envie, tho began travaile in destourbance of this spousaile so prively that non was war. the moder which this souldan bar was thanne alyve, and thoghte this unto hirself: "if it so is mi sone him wedde in this manere, than have i lost my joies hiere, for myn astat schal so be lassed." thenkende thus sche hath compassed be sleihte how that sche may beguile hire sone; and fell withinne a while, betwen hem two whan that thei were, sche feigneth wordes in his ere, and in this wise gan to seie: "mi sone, i am be double weie with al myn herte glad and blithe, for that miself have ofte sithe desired thou wolt, as men seith, receive and take a newe feith, which schal be forthringe of thi lif: and ek so worschipful a wif, the doughter of an emperour, to wedde it schal be gret honour. forthi, mi sone, i you beseche that i such grace mihte areche, whan that my doughter come schal, that i mai thanne in special, so as me thenkth it is honeste, be thilke which the ferste feste schal make unto hire welcominge." the souldan granteth hire axinge, and sche therof was glad ynowh: for under that anon sche drowh with false wordes that sche spak covine of deth behinde his bak. and therupon hire ordinance she made so, that whan constance was come forth with the romeins, of clerkes and of citezeins, a riche feste sche hem made: and most whan that thei weren glade, with fals covine which sche hadde hire clos envie tho sche spradde, and alle tho that hadden be or in apert or in prive of conseil to the mariage, sche slowh hem in a sodein rage endlong the bord as thei be set, so that it myhte noght be let; hire oghne sone was noght quit, bot deide upon the same plit. bot what the hihe god wol spare it mai for no peril misfare: this worthi maiden which was there stod thanne, as who seith, ded for feere, to se the feste how that it stod, which al was torned into blod: the dissh forthwith the coppe and al bebled thei weren overal; sche sih hem deie on every side; no wonder thogh sche wepte and cride makende many a wofull mone. whan al was slain bot sche al one, this olde fend, this sarazine, let take anon this constantine with al the good sche thider broghte, and hath ordeined, as sche thoghte, a nakid schip withoute stiere, in which the good and hire in fiere, vitailed full for yeres fyve, wher that the wynd it wolde dryve, sche putte upon the wawes wilde. bot he which alle thing mai schilde, thre yer, til that sche cam to londe, hire schip to stiere hath take in honde, and in northumberlond aryveth; and happeth thanne that sche dryveth under a castel with the flod, which upon humber banke stod and was the kynges oghne also, the which allee was cleped tho, a saxon and a worthi knyht, bot he believed noght ariht. of this castell was chastellein elda the kinges chamberlein, a knyhtly man after his lawe; and whan he sih upon the wawe the schip drivende al one so, he bad anon men scholden go to se what it betokne mai. this was upon a somer dai, the schip was loked and sche founde; elda withinne a litel stounde it wiste, and with his wif anon toward this yonge ladi gon, wher that thei founden gret richesse; bot sche hire wolde noght confesse, whan thei hire axen what sche was. and natheles upon the cas out of the schip with gret worschipe thei toke hire into felaschipe, as thei that weren of hir glade: bot sche no maner joie made, bot sorweth sore of that sche fond no cristendom in thilke lond; bot elles sche hath al hire wille, and thus with hem sche duelleth stille. dame hermyngheld, which was the wif of elda, lich hire oghne lif constance loveth; and fell so, spekende alday betwen hem two, thurgh grace of goddes pourveance this maiden tawhte the creance unto this wif so parfitly, upon a dai that faste by in presence of hire housebonde, wher thei go walkende on the stronde, a blind man, which cam there lad, unto this wif criende he bad, with bothe hise hondes up and preide to hire, and in this wise he seide: "o hermyngeld, which cristes feith, enformed as constance seith, received hast, yif me my sihte." upon his word hire herte afflihte thenkende what was best to done, bot natheles sche herde his bone and seide, "in trust of cristes lawe, which don was on the crois and slawe, thou bysne man, behold and se." with that to god upon his kne thonkende he tok his sihte anon, wherof thei merveile everychon, bot elda wondreth most of alle: this open thing which is befalle concludeth him be such a weie, that he the feith mot nede obeie. now lest what fell upon this thing. this elda forth unto the king a morwe tok his weie and rod, and hermyngeld at home abod forth with constance wel at ese. elda, which thoghte his king to plese, as he that thanne unwedded was, of constance al the pleine cas als goodliche as he cowthe tolde. the king was glad and seide he wolde come thider upon such a wise that he him mihte of hire avise, the time apointed forth withal. this elda triste in special upon a knyht, whom fro childhode he hadde updrawe into manhode: to him he tolde al that he thoghte, wherof that after him forthoghte; and natheles at thilke tide unto his wif he bad him ride to make redi alle thing ayein the cominge of the king, and seith that he himself tofore thenkth forto come, and bad therfore that he him kepe, and told him whanne. this knyht rod forth his weie thanne; and soth was that of time passed he hadde in al his wit compassed how he constance myhte winne; bot he sih tho no sped therinne, wherof his lust began tabate, and that was love is thanne hate; of hire honour he hadde envie, so that upon his tricherie a lesinge in his herte he caste. til he cam home he hieth faste, and doth his ladi tunderstonde the message of hire housebonde: and therupon the longe dai thei setten thinges in arrai, that al was as it scholde be of every thing in his degree; and whan it cam into the nyht, this wif hire hath to bedde dyht, wher that this maiden with hire lay. this false knyht upon delay hath taried til thei were aslepe, as he that wolde his time kepe his dedly werkes to fulfille; and to the bed he stalketh stille, wher that he wiste was the wif, and in his hond a rasour knif he bar, with which hire throte he cutte, and prively the knif he putte under that other beddes side, wher that constance lai beside. elda cam hom the same nyht, and stille with a prive lyht, as he that wolde noght awake his wif, he hath his weie take into the chambre, and ther liggende he fond his dede wif bledende, wher that constance faste by was falle aslepe; and sodeinly he cride alowd, and sche awok, and forth withal sche caste a lok and sih this ladi blede there, wherof swoundende ded for fere sche was, and stille as eny ston she lay, and elda therupon into the castell clepeth oute, and up sterte every man aboute, into the chambre and forth thei wente. bot he, which alle untrouthe mente, this false knyht, among hem alle upon this thing which is befalle seith that constance hath don this dede; and to the bed with that he yede after the falshed of his speche, and made him there forto seche, and fond the knif, wher he it leide, and thanne he cride and thanne he seide, "lo, seth the knif al blody hiere! what nedeth more in this matiere to axe?" and thus hire innocence he sclaundreth there in audience with false wordes whiche he feigneth. bot yit for al that evere he pleigneth, elda no full credence tok: and happeth that ther lay a bok, upon the which, whan he it sih, this knyht hath swore and seid on hih, that alle men it mihte wite, "now be this bok, which hier is write, constance is gultif, wel i wot." with that the hond of hevene him smot in tokne of that he was forswore, that he hath bothe hise yhen lore, out of his hed the same stounde thei sterte, and so thei weren founde. a vois was herd, whan that they felle, which seide, "o dampned man to helle, lo, thus hath god the sclaundre wroke that thou ayein constance hast spoke: beknow the sothe er that thou dye." and he told out his felonie, and starf forth with his tale anon. into the ground, wher alle gon, this dede lady was begrave: elda, which thoghte his honour save, al that he mai restreigneth sorwe. for the seconde day a morwe the king cam, as thei were acorded; and whan it was to him recorded what god hath wroght upon this chaunce, he tok it into remembrance and thoghte more than he seide. for al his hole herte he leide upon constance, and seide he scholde for love of hire, if that sche wolde, baptesme take and cristes feith believe, and over that he seith he wol hire wedde, and upon this asseured ech til other is. and forto make schorte tales, ther cam a bisschop out of wales fro bangor, and lucie he hihte, which thurgh the grace of god almihte the king with many an other mo hath cristned, and betwen hem tuo he hath fulfild the mariage. bot for no lust ne for no rage sche tolde hem nevere what sche was; and natheles upon the cas the king was glad, how so it stod, for wel he wiste and understod sche was a noble creature. the hihe makere of nature hire hath visited in a throwe, that it was openliche knowe sche was with childe be the king, wherof above al other thing he thonketh god and was riht glad. and fell that time he was bestad upon a werre and moste ride; and whil he scholde there abide, he lefte at hom to kepe his wif suche as he knew of holi lif, elda forth with the bisschop eke; and he with pouer goth to seke ayein the scottes forto fonde the werre which he tok on honde. the time set of kinde is come, this lady hath hire chambre nome, and of a sone bore full, wherof that sche was joiefull, sche was delivered sauf and sone. the bisshop, as it was to done, yaf him baptesme and moris calleth; and therupon, as it befalleth, with lettres writen of record thei sende unto here liege lord, that kepers weren of the qweene: and he that scholde go betwene, the messager, to knaresburgh, which toun he scholde passe thurgh, ridende cam the ferste day. the kinges moder there lay, whos rihte name was domilde, which after al the cause spilde: for he, which thonk deserve wolde, unto this ladi goth and tolde of his message al how it ferde. and sche with feigned joie it herde and yaf him yiftes largely, bot in the nyht al prively sche tok the lettres whiche he hadde, fro point to point and overradde, as sche that was thurghout untrewe, and let do wryten othre newe in stede of hem, and thus thei spieke: "oure liege lord, we thee beseke that thou with ous ne be noght wroth, though we such thing as is thee loth upon oure trowthe certefie. thi wif, which is of faierie, of such a child delivered is fro kinde which stant al amis: bot for it scholde noght be seie, we have it kept out of the weie for drede of pure worldes schame, a povere child and in the name of thilke which is so misbore we toke, and therto we be swore, that non bot only thou and we schal knowen of this privete: moris it hatte, and thus men wene that it was boren of the qweene and of thin oghne bodi gete. bot this thing mai noght be foryete, that thou ne sende ous word anon what is thi wille therupon." this lettre, as thou hast herd devise, was contrefet in such a wise that noman scholde it aperceive: and sche, which thoghte to deceive, it leith wher sche that other tok. this messager, whan he awok, and wiste nothing how it was, aros and rod the grete pas and tok this lettre to the king. and whan he sih this wonder thing, he makth the messager no chiere, bot natheles in wys manere he wrote ayein, and yaf hem charge that thei ne soffre noght at large his wif to go, bot kepe hire stille, til thei have herd mor of his wille. this messager was yifteles, bot with this lettre natheles, or be him lief or be him loth, in alle haste ayein he goth be knaresburgh, and as he wente, unto the moder his entente of that he fond toward the king he tolde; and sche upon this thing seith that he scholde abide al nyht and made him feste and chiere ariht, feignende as thogh sche cowthe him thonk. bot he with strong wyn which he dronk forth with the travail of the day was drunke, aslepe and while he lay, sche hath hise lettres overseie and formed in an other weie. ther was a newe lettre write, which seith: "i do you forto wite, that thurgh the conseil of you tuo i stonde in point to ben undo, as he which is a king deposed. for every man it hath supposed, how that my wif constance is faie; and if that i, thei sein, delaie to put hire out of compaignie, the worschipe of my regalie is lore; and over this thei telle, hire child schal noght among hem duelle, to cleymen eny heritage. so can i se non avantage, bot al is lost, if sche abide: forthi to loke on every side toward the meschief as it is, i charge you and bidde this, that ye the same schip vitaile, in which that sche tok arivaile, therinne and putteth bothe tuo, hireself forthwith hire child also, and so forth broght unto the depe betaketh hire the see to kepe. of foure daies time i sette, that ye this thing no longer lette, so that your lif be noght forsfet." and thus this lettre contrefet the messager, which was unwar, upon the kingeshalve bar, and where he scholde it hath betake. bot whan that thei have hiede take, and rad that writen is withinne, so gret a sorwe thei beginne, as thei here oghne moder sihen brent in a fyr before here yhen: ther was wepinge and ther was wo, bot finaly the thing is do. upon the see thei have hire broght, bot sche the cause wiste noght, and thus upon the flod thei wone, this ladi with hire yonge sone: and thanne hire handes to the hevene sche strawhte, and with a milde stevene knelende upon hire bare kne sche seide, "o hihe mageste, which sest the point of every trowthe, tak of thi wofull womman rowthe and of this child that i schal kepe." and with that word sche gan to wepe, swounende as ded, and ther sche lay; bot he which alle thinges may conforteth hire, and ate laste sche loketh and hire yhen caste upon hire child and seide this: "of me no maner charge it is what sorwe i soffre, bot of thee me thenkth it is a gret pite, for if i sterve thou schalt deie: so mot i nedes be that weie for moderhed and for tendresse with al myn hole besinesse ordeigne me for thilke office, as sche which schal be thi norrice." thus was sche strengthed forto stonde; and tho sche tok hire child in honde and yaf it sowke, and evere among sche wepte, and otherwhile song to rocke with hire child aslepe: and thus hire oghne child to kepe sche hath under the goddes cure. and so fell upon aventure, whan thilke yer hath mad his ende, hire schip, so as it moste wende thurgh strengthe of wynd which god hath yive, estward was into spaigne drive riht faste under a castell wall, wher that an hethen amirall was lord, and he a stieward hadde, oon thelo�s, which al was badde, a fals knyht and a renegat. he goth to loke in what astat the schip was come, and there he fond forth with a child upon hire hond this lady, wher sche was al one. he tok good hiede of the persone, and sih sche was a worthi wiht, and thoghte he wolde upon the nyht demene hire at his oghne wille, and let hire be therinne stille, that mo men sih sche noght that dai. at goddes wille and thus sche lai, unknowe what hire schal betide; and fell so that be nyhtes tide this knyht withoute felaschipe hath take a bot and cam to schipe, and thoghte of hire his lust to take, and swor, if sche him daunger make, that certeinly sche scholde deie. sche sih ther was non other weie, and seide he scholde hire wel conforte, that he ferst loke out ate porte, that noman were nyh the stede, which myhte knowe what thei dede, and thanne he mai do what he wolde. he was riht glad that sche so tolde, and to the porte anon he ferde: sche preide god, and he hire herde, and sodeinliche he was out throwe and dreynt, and tho began to blowe a wynd menable fro the lond, and thus the myhti goddes hond hire hath conveied and defended. and whan thre yer be full despended, hire schip was drive upon a dai, wher that a gret navye lay of schipes, al the world at ones: and as god wolde for the nones, hire schip goth in among hem alle, and stinte noght, er it be falle and hath the vessell undergete, which maister was of al the flete, bot there it resteth and abod. this grete schip on anker rod; the lord cam forth, and whan he sih that other ligge abord so nyh, he wondreth what it myhte be, and bad men to gon in and se. this ladi tho was crope aside, as sche that wolde hireselven hide, for sche ne wiste what thei were: thei soghte aboute and founde hir there and broghten up hire child and hire; and therupon this lord to spire began, fro whenne that sche cam, and what sche was. quod sche, "i am a womman wofully bestad. i hadde a lord, and thus he bad, that i forth with my litel sone upon the wawes scholden wone, bot why the cause was, i not: bot he which alle thinges wot yit hath, i thonke him, of his miht mi child and me so kept upriht, that we be save bothe tuo." this lord hire axeth overmo how sche believeth, and sche seith, "i lieve and triste in cristes feith, which deide upon the rode tree." "what is thi name?" tho quod he. "mi name is couste," sche him seide: bot forthermor for noght he preide of hire astat to knowe plein, sche wolde him nothing elles sein bot of hir name, which sche feigneth; alle othre thinges sche restreigneth, that a word more sche ne tolde. this lord thanne axeth if sche wolde with him abide in compaignie, and seide he cam fro barbarie to romeward, and hom he wente. tho sche supposeth what it mente, and seith sche wolde with him wende and duelle unto hire lyves ende, be so it be to his plesance. and thus upon here aqueintance he tolde hire pleinly as it stod, of rome how that the gentil blod in barbarie was betraied, and therupon he hath assaied be werre, and taken such vengance, that non of al thilke alliance, be whom the tresoun was compassed, is from the swerd alyve passed; bot of constance hou it was, that cowthe he knowe be no cas, wher sche becam, so as he seide. hire ere unto his word sche leide, bot forther made sche no chiere. and natheles in this matiere it happeth thilke time so: this lord, with whom sche scholde go, of rome was the senatour, and of hir fader themperour his brother doughter hath to wyve, which hath hir fader ek alyve, and was salustes cleped tho; this wif heleine hihte also, to whom constance was cousine. thus to the sike a medicine hath god ordeined of his grace, that forthwith in the same place this senatour his trowthe plihte, for evere, whil he live mihte, to kepe in worschipe and in welthe, be so that god wol yive hire helthe, this ladi, which fortune him sende. and thus be schipe forth sailende hire and hir child to rome he broghte, and to his wif tho he besoghte to take hire into compaignie: and sche, which cowthe of courtesie al that a good wif scholde konne, was inly glad that sche hath wonne the felaschip of so good on. til tuelve yeres were agon, this emperoures dowhter custe forth with the dowhter of saluste was kept, bot noman redily knew what sche was, and noght forthi thei thoghten wel sche hadde be in hire astat of hih degre, and every lif hire loveth wel. now herke how thilke unstable whel, which evere torneth, wente aboute. the king allee, whil he was oute, as thou tofore hast herd this cas, deceived thurgh his moder was: bot whan that he cam hom ayein, he axeth of his chamberlein and of the bisschop ek also, wher thei the qweene hadden do. and thei answerde, there he bad, and have him thilke lettre rad, which he hem sende for warant, and tolde him pleinli as it stant, and sein, it thoghte hem gret pite to se so worthi on as sche, with such a child as ther was bore, so sodeinly to be forlore. he axeth hem what child that were; and thei him seiden, that naghere, in al the world thogh men it soghte, was nevere womman that forth broghte a fairer child than it was on. and thanne he axede hem anon, whi thei ne hadden write so: thei tolden, so thei hadden do. he seide, "nay." thei seiden, "yis." the lettre schewed rad it is, which thei forsoken everidel. tho was it understonde wel that ther is tresoun in the thing: the messager tofore the king was broght and sodeinliche opposed; and he, which nothing hath supposed bot alle wel, began to seie that he nagher upon the weie abod, bot only in a stede; and cause why that he so dede was, as he wente to and fro, at knaresburgh be nyhtes tuo the kinges moder made him duelle. and whan the king it herde telle, withinne his herte he wiste als faste the treson which his moder caste; and thoghte he wolde noght abide, bot forth riht in the same tide he tok his hors and rod anon. with him ther riden manion, to knaresburgh and forth thei wente, and lich the fyr which tunder hente, in such a rage, as seith the bok, his moder sodeinliche he tok and seide unto hir in this wise: "o beste of helle, in what juise hast thou deserved forto deie, that hast so falsly put aweie with tresoun of thi bacbitinge the treweste at my knowlechinge of wyves and the most honeste? bot i wol make this beheste, i schal be venged er i go." and let a fyr do make tho, and bad men forto caste hire inne: bot ferst sche tolde out al the sinne, and dede hem alle forto wite how sche the lettres hadde write, fro point to point as it was wroght. and tho sche was to dethe broght and brent tofore hire sones yhe: wherof these othre, whiche it sihe and herden how the cause stod, sein that the juggement is good, of that hir sone hire hath so served; for sche it hadde wel deserved thurgh tresoun of hire false tunge, which thurgh the lond was after sunge, constance and every wiht compleigneth. bot he, whom alle wo distreigneth, this sorghfull king, was so bestad, that he schal nevermor be glad, he seith, eftsone forto wedde, til that he wiste how that sche spedde, which hadde ben his ferste wif: and thus his yonge unlusti lif he dryveth forth so as he mai. til it befell upon a dai, whan he hise werres hadde achieved, and thoghte he wolde be relieved of soule hele upon the feith which he hath take, thanne he seith that he to rome in pelrinage wol go, wher pope was pelage, to take his absolucioun. and upon this condicioun he made edwyn his lieutenant, which heir to him was apparant, that he the lond in his absence schal reule: and thus be providence of alle thinges wel begon he tok his leve and forth is gon. elda, which tho was with him there, er thei fulliche at rome were, was sent tofore to pourveie; and he his guide upon the weie, in help to ben his herbergour, hath axed who was senatour, that he his name myhte kenne. of capadoce, he seide, arcenne he hihte, and was a worthi kniht. to him goth elda tho forth riht and tolde him of his lord tidinge, and preide that for his comynge he wolde assigne him herbergage; and he so dede of good corage. whan al is do that was to done, the king himself cam after sone. this senatour, whan that he com, to couste and to his wif at hom hath told how such a king allee of gret array to the citee was come, and couste upon his tale with herte clos and colour pale aswoune fell, and he merveileth so sodeinly what thing hire eyleth, and cawhte hire up, and whan sche wok, sche syketh with a pitous lok and feigneth seknesse of the see; bot it was for the king allee, for joie which fell in hire thoght that god him hath to toune broght. this king hath spoke with the pope and told al that he cowthe agrope, what grieveth in his conscience; and thanne he thoghte in reverence of his astat, er that he wente, to make a feste, and thus he sente unto the senatour to come upon the morwe and othre some, to sitte with him at the mete. this tale hath couste noght foryete, bot to moris hire sone tolde that he upon the morwe scholde in al that evere he cowthe and mihte be present in the kinges sihte, so that the king him ofte sihe. moris tofore the kinges yhe upon the morwe, wher he sat, fulofte stod, and upon that the king his chiere upon him caste, and in his face him thoghte als faste he sih his oghne wif constance; for nature as in resemblance of face hem liketh so to clothe, that thei were of a suite bothe. the king was moeved in his thoght of that he seth, and knoweth it noght; this child he loveth kindely, and yit he wot no cause why. bot wel he sih and understod that he toward arcenne stod, and axeth him anon riht there, if that this child his sone were. he seide, "yee, so i him calle, and wolde it were so befalle, bot it is al in other wise." and tho began he to devise how he the childes moder fond upon the see from every lond withinne a schip was stiereles, and how this ladi helpeles forth with hir child he hath forthdrawe. the king hath understonde his sawe, the childes name and axeth tho, and what the moder hihte also that he him wolde telle he preide. "moris this child is hote," he seide, "his moder hatte couste, and this i not what maner name it is." but allee wiste wel ynowh, wherof somdiel smylende he lowh; for couste in saxoun is to sein constance upon the word romein. bot who that cowthe specefie what tho fell in his fantasie, and how his wit aboute renneth upon the love in which he brenneth, it were a wonder forto hiere: for he was nouther ther ne hiere, bot clene out of himself aweie, that he not what to thenke or seie, so fain he wolde it were sche. wherof his hertes privete began the werre of yee and nay, the which in such balance lay, that contenance for a throwe he loste, til he mihte knowe the sothe: bot in his memoire the man which lith in purgatoire desireth noght the hevene more, that he ne longeth al so sore to wite what him schal betide. and whan the bordes were aside and every man was rise aboute, the king hath weyved al the route, and with the senatour al one he spak and preide him of a bone, to se this couste, wher sche duelleth at hom with him, so as he telleth. the senatour was wel appaied, this thing no lengere is delaied, to se this couste goth the king; and sche was warned of the thing, and with heleine forth sche cam ayein the king, and he tho nam good hiede, and whan he sih his wif, anon with al his hertes lif he cawhte hire in his arm and kiste. was nevere wiht that sih ne wiste a man that more joie made, wherof thei weren alle glade whiche herde tellen of this chance. this king tho with his wif constance, which hadde a gret part of his wille, in rome for a time stille abod and made him wel at ese: bot so yit cowthe he nevere plese his wif, that sche him wolde sein of hire astat the trowthe plein, of what contre that sche was bore, ne what sche was, and yit therfore with al his wit he hath don sieke. thus as they lihe abedde and spieke, sche preide him and conseileth bothe, that for the worschipe of hem bothe, so as hire thoghte it were honeste, he wolde an honourable feste make, er he wente, in the cite, wher themperour himself schal be: he graunteth al that sche him preide. bot as men in that time seide, this emperour fro thilke day that ferst his dowhter wente away he was thanne after nevere glad; bot what that eny man him bad of grace for his dowhter sake, that grace wolde he noght forsake; and thus ful gret almesse he dede, wherof sche hadde many a bede. this emperour out of the toun withinne a ten mile enviroun, where as it thoghte him for the beste, hath sondry places forto reste; and as fortune wolde tho, he was duellende at on of tho. the king allee forth with thassent of couste his wif hath thider sent moris his sone, as he was taght, to themperour and he goth straght, and in his fader half besoghte, as he which his lordschipe soghte, that of his hihe worthinesse he wolde do so gret meknesse, his oghne toun to come and se, and yive a time in the cite, so that his fader mihte him gete that he wolde ones with him ete. this lord hath granted his requeste; and whan the dai was of the feste, in worschipe of here emperour the king and ek the senatour forth with here wyves bothe tuo, with many a lord and lady mo, on horse riden him ayein; til it befell, upon a plein thei sihen wher he was comende. with that constance anon preiende spak to hir lord that he abyde, so that sche mai tofore ryde, to ben upon his bienvenue the ferste which schal him salue; and thus after hire lordes graunt upon a mule whyt amblaunt forth with a fewe rod this qweene. thei wondren what sche wolde mene, and riden after softe pas; bot whan this ladi come was to themperour, in his presence sche seide alowd in audience, "mi lord, mi fader, wel you be! and of this time that i se youre honour and your goode hele, which is the helpe of my querele, i thonke unto the goddes myht." for joie his herte was affliht of that sche tolde in remembrance; and whanne he wiste it was constance, was nevere fader half so blithe. wepende he keste hire ofte sithe, so was his herte al overcome; for thogh his moder were come fro deth to lyve out of the grave, he mihte nomor wonder have than he hath whan that he hire sih. with that hire oghne lord cam nyh and is to themperour obeied; bot whan the fortune is bewreied, how that constance is come aboute, so hard an herte was non oute, that he for pite tho ne wepte. arcennus, which hire fond and kepte, was thanne glad of that is falle, so that with joie among hem alle thei riden in at rome gate. this emperour thoghte al to late, til that the pope were come, and of the lordes sende some to preie him that he wolde haste: and he cam forth in alle haste, and whan that he the tale herde, how wonderly this chance ferde, he thonketh god of his miracle, to whos miht mai be non obstacle: the king a noble feste hem made, and thus thei weren alle glade. a parlement, er that thei wente, thei setten unto this entente, to puten rome in full espeir that moris was apparant heir and scholde abide with hem stille, for such was al the londes wille. whan every thing was fulli spoke, of sorwe and queint was al the smoke, tho tok his leve allee the king, and with full many a riche thing, which themperour him hadde yive, he goth a glad lif forto live; for he constance hath in his hond, which was the confort of his lond. for whan that he cam hom ayein, ther is no tunge it mihte sein what joie was that ilke stounde of that he hath his qweene founde, which ferst was sent of goddes sonde, whan sche was drive upon the stronde, be whom the misbelieve of sinne was left, and cristes feith cam inne to hem that whilom were blinde. bot he which hindreth every kinde and for no gold mai be forboght, the deth comende er he be soght, tok with this king such aqueintance, that he with al his retenance ne mihte noght defende his lif; and thus he parteth from his wif, which thanne made sorwe ynowh. and therupon hire herte drowh to leven engelond for evere and go wher that sche hadde levere, to rome, whenne that sche cam: and thus of al the lond sche nam hir leve, and goth to rome ayein. and after that the bokes sein, she was noght there bot a throwe, whan deth of kinde hath overthrowe hir worthi fader, which men seide that he betwen hire armes deide. and afterward the yer suiende the god hath mad of hire an ende, and fro this worldes faierie hath take hire into compaignie. moris hir sone was corouned, which so ferforth was abandouned to cristes feith, that men him calle moris the cristeneste of alle. and thus the wel meninge of love was ate laste set above; and so as thou hast herd tofore, the false tunges weren lore, whiche upon love wolden lie. forthi touchende of this envie which longeth unto bacbitinge, be war thou make no lesinge in hindringe of an other wiht: and if thou wolt be tawht ariht what meschief bakbitinge doth be other weie, a tale soth now miht thou hiere next suiende, which to this vice is acordende. in a cronique, as thou schalt wite, a gret ensample i finde write, which i schal telle upon this thing. philippe of macedoyne kyng two sones hadde be his wif, whos fame is yit in grece rif: demetrius the ferste brother was hote, and perse�s that other. demetrius men seiden tho the betre knyht was of the tuo, to whom the lond was entendant, as he which heir was apparant to regne after his fader dai: bot that thing which no water mai quenche in this world, bot evere brenneth, into his brother herte it renneth, the proude envie of that he sih his brother scholde clymbe on hih, and he to him mot thanne obeie: that may he soffre be no weie. with strengthe dorst he nothing fonde, so tok he lesinge upon honde, whan he sih time and spak therto. for it befell that time so, his fader grete werres hadde with rome, whiche he streite ladde thurgh mihty hond of his manhode, as he which hath ynowh knihthode, and ofte hem hadde sore grieved. bot er the werre were achieved, as he was upon ordinance at hom in grece, it fell per chance, demetrius, which ofte aboute ridende was, stod that time oute, so that this perse in his absence, which bar the tunge of pestilence, with false wordes whiche he feigneth upon his oghne brother pleigneth in privete behinde his bak, and to his fader thus he spak: "mi diere fader, i am holde be weie of kinde, as resoun wolde, that i fro yow schal nothing hide, which mihte torne in eny side of youre astat into grevance: forthi myn hertes obeissance towardes you i thenke kepe; for it is good ye take kepe upon a thing which is me told. mi brother hath ous alle sold to hem of rome, and you also; for thanne they behote him so, that he with hem schal regne in pes. thus hath he cast for his encress that youre astat schal go to noght; and this to proeve schal be broght so ferforth, that i undertake it schal noght wel mow be forsake." the king upon this tale ansuerde and seide, if this thing which he herde be soth and mai be broght to prove, "it schal noght be to his behove, which so hath schapen ous the werste, for he himself schal be the ferste that schal be ded, if that i mai." thus afterward upon a dai, whan that demetrius was come, anon his fader hath him nome, and bad unto his brother perse that he his tale schal reherse of thilke tresoun which he tolde. and he, which al untrowthe wolde, conseileth that so hih a nede be treted wher as it mai spede, in comun place of juggement. the king therto yaf his assent, demetrius was put in hold, wherof that perse�s was bold. thus stod the trowthe under the charge, and the falshede goth at large, which thurgh beheste hath overcome the greteste of the lordes some, that privelich of his acord thei stonde as witnesse of record: the jugge was mad favorable: thus was the lawe deceivable so ferforth that the trowthe fond rescousse non, and thus the lond forth with the king deceived were. the gulteles was dampned there and deide upon accusement: bot such a fals conspirement, thogh it be prive for a throwe, godd wolde noght it were unknowe; and that was afterward wel proved in him which hath the deth controved. of that his brother was so slain this perse�s was wonder fain, as he that tho was apparant, upon the regne and expectant; wherof he wax so proud and vein, that he his fader in desdeign hath take and set of non acompte, as he which thoghte him to surmonte; that wher he was ferst debonaire, he was tho rebell and contraire, and noght as heir bot as a king he tok upon him alle thing of malice and of tirannie in contempt of the regalie, livende his fader, and so wroghte, that whan the fader him bethoghte and sih to whether side it drowh, anon he wiste well ynowh how perse after his false tunge hath so thenvious belle runge, that he hath slain his oghne brother. wherof as thanne he knew non other, bot sodeinly the jugge he nom, which corrupt sat upon the dom, in such a wise and hath him pressed, that he the sothe him hath confessed of al that hath be spoke and do. mor sori than the king was tho was nevere man upon this molde, and thoghte in certain that he wolde vengance take upon this wrong. bot thother parti was so strong, that for the lawe of no statut ther mai no riht ben execut; and upon this division the lond was torned up so doun: wherof his herte is so distraght, that he for pure sorwe hath caght the maladie of which nature is queint in every creature. and whan this king was passed thus, this false tunged perse�s the regiment hath underfonge. bot ther mai nothing stonde longe which is noght upon trowthe grounded; for god, which alle thing hath bounded and sih the falshod of his guile, hath set him bot a litel while, that he schal regne upon depos; for sodeinliche as he aros so sodeinliche doun he fell. in thilke time it so befell, this newe king of newe pride with strengthe schop him forto ride, and seide he wolde rome waste, wherof he made a besi haste, and hath assembled him an host in al that evere he mihte most: what man that mihte wepne bere of alle he wolde non forbere; so that it mihte noght be nombred, the folk which after was encombred thurgh him, that god wolde overthrowe. anon it was at rome knowe, the pompe which that perse ladde; and the romeins that time hadde a consul, which was cleped thus be name, paul emilius, a noble, a worthi kniht withalle; and he, which chief was of hem alle, this werre on honde hath undertake. and whanne he scholde his leve take of a yong dowhter which was his, sche wepte, and he what cause it is hire axeth, and sche him ansuerde that perse is ded; and he it herde, and wondreth what sche meene wolde: and sche upon childhode him tolde that perse hir litel hound is ded. with that he pulleth up his hed and made riht a glad visage, and seide how that was a presage touchende unto that other perse, of that fortune him scholde adverse, he seith, for such a prenostik most of an hound was to him lik: for as it is an houndes kinde to berke upon a man behinde, riht so behinde his brother bak with false wordes whiche he spak he hath do slain, and that is rowthe. "bot he which hateth alle untrowthe, the hihe god, it schal redresse; for so my dowhter prophetesse forth with hir litel houndes deth betokneth." and thus forth he geth conforted of this evidence, with the romeins in his defence ayein the greks that ben comende. this perse�s, as noght seende this meschief which that him abod, with al his multitude rod, and prided him upon the thing, of that he was become a king, and how he hadde his regne gete; bot he hath al the riht foryete which longeth unto governance. wherof thurgh goddes ordinance it fell, upon the wynter tide that with his host he scholde ride over danubie thilke flod, which al befrose thanne stod so harde, that he wende wel to passe: bot the blinde whiel, which torneth ofte er men be war, thilke ys which that the horsmen bar tobrak, so that a gret partie was dreint; of the chivalerie the rerewarde it tok aweie, cam non of hem to londe dreie. paulus the worthi kniht romein be his aspie it herde sein, and hasteth him al that he may, so that upon that other day he cam wher he this host beheld, and that was in a large feld, wher the baneres ben desplaied. he hath anon hise men arraied, and whan that he was embatailled, he goth and hath the feld assailed, and slowh and tok al that he fond; wherof the macedoyne lond, which thurgh king alisandre honoured long time stod, was tho devoured. to perse and al that infortune thei wyte, so that the comune of al the lond his heir exile; and he despeired for the while desguised in a povere wede to rome goth, and ther for nede the craft which thilke time was, to worche in latoun and in bras, he lerneth for his sustienance. such was the sones pourveance, and of his fader it is seid, in strong prisoun that he was leid in albe, wher that he was ded for hunger and defalte of bred. the hound was tokne and prophecie that lich an hound he scholde die, which lich was of condicioun, whan he with his detraccioun bark on his brother so behinde. lo, what profit a man mai finde, which hindre wole an other wiht. forthi with al thin hole miht, mi sone, eschuie thilke vice. mi fader, elles were i nyce: for ye therof so wel have spoke, that it is in myn herte loke and evere schal: bot of envie, if ther be more in his baillie towardes love, sai me what. mi sone, as guile under the hat with sleyhtes of a tregetour is hidd, envie of such colour hath yit the ferthe deceivant, the which is cleped falssemblant, wherof the matiere and the forme now herkne and i thee schal enforme. of falssemblant if i schal telle, above alle othre it is the welle out of the which deceipte floweth. ther is noman so wys that knoweth of thilke flod which is the tyde, ne how he scholde himselven guide to take sauf passage there. and yit the wynd to mannes ere is softe, and as it semeth oute it makth clier weder al aboute; bot thogh it seme, it is noght so. for falssemblant hath everemo of his conseil in compaignie the derke untrewe ypocrisie, whos word descordeth to his thoght: forthi thei ben togedre broght of o covine, of on houshold, as it schal after this be told. of falssemblant it nedeth noght to telle of olde ensamples oght; for al dai in experience a man mai se thilke evidence of faire wordes whiche he hiereth; bot yit the barge envie stiereth and halt it evere fro the londe, wher falssemblant with ore on honde it roweth, and wol noght arive, bot let it on the wawes dryve in gret tempeste and gret debat, wherof that love and his astat empeireth. and therfore i rede, mi sone, that thou fle and drede this vice, and what that othre sein, let thi semblant be trewe and plein. for falssemblant is thilke vice, which nevere was withoute office: wher that envie thenkth to guile, he schal be for that ilke while of prive conseil messagier. for whan his semblant is most clier, thanne is he most derk in his thoght, thogh men him se, thei knowe him noght; bot as it scheweth in the glas thing which therinne nevere was, so scheweth it in his visage that nevere was in his corage: thus doth he al his thing with sleyhte. now ley thi conscience in weyhte, mi goode sone, and schrif the hier, if thou were evere custummer to falssemblant in eny wise. for ought i can me yit avise, mi goode fader, certes no. if i for love have oght do so, now asketh, i wol praie yow: for elles i wot nevere how of falssemblant that i have gilt. mi sone, and sithen that thou wilt that i schal axe, gabbe noght, bot tell if evere was thi thoght with falssemblant and coverture to wite of eny creature how that he was with love lad; so were he sori, were he glad, whan that thou wistest how it were, al that he rounede in thin ere thou toldest forth in other place, to setten him fro loves grace of what womman that thee beste liste, ther as noman his conseil wiste bot thou, be whom he was deceived of love, and from his pourpos weyved; and thoghtest that his destourbance thin oghne cause scholde avance, as who saith, "i am so celee, ther mai no mannes privete be heled half so wel as myn." art thou, mi sone, of such engin? tell on. mi goode fader, nay as for the more part i say; bot of somdiel i am beknowe, that i mai stonde in thilke rowe amonges hem that saundres use. i wol me noght therof excuse, that i with such colour ne steyne, whan i my beste semblant feigne to my felawh, til that i wot al his conseil bothe cold and hot: for be that cause i make him chiere, til i his love knowe and hiere; and if so be myn herte soucheth that oght unto my ladi toucheth of love that he wol me telle, anon i renne unto the welle and caste water in the fyr, so that his carte amidd the myr, be that i have his conseil knowe, fulofte sithe i overthrowe, whan that he weneth best to stonde. bot this i do you understonde, if that a man love elles where, so that my ladi be noght there, and he me telle, i wole it hide, ther schal no word ascape aside, for with deceipte of no semblant to him breke i no covenant; me liketh noght in other place to lette noman of his grace, ne forto ben inquisitif to knowe an other mannes lif: wher that he love or love noght, that toucheth nothing to my thoght, bot al it passeth thurgh myn ere riht as a thing that nevere were, and is foryete and leid beside. bot if it touche on eny side mi ladi, as i have er spoken, myn eres ben noght thanne loken; for certes, whanne that betitt, my will, myn herte and al my witt ben fully set to herkne and spire what eny man wol speke of hire. thus have i feigned compaignie fulofte, for i wolde aspie what thing it is that eny man telle of mi worthi lady can: and for tuo causes i do this, the ferste cause wherof is,- if that i myhte ofherkne and seke that eny man of hire mispeke, i wolde excuse hire so fully, that whan sche wist in inderly, min hope scholde be the more to have hir thank for everemore. that other cause, i you assure, is, why that i be coverture have feigned semblant ofte time to hem that passen alday byme and ben lovers als wel as i, for this i weene trewely, that ther is of hem alle non, that thei ne loven everich on mi ladi: for sothliche i lieve and durste setten it in prieve, is non so wys that scholde asterte, bot he were lustles in his herte, forwhy and he my ladi sihe, hir visage and hir goodlych yhe, bot he hire lovede, er he wente. and for that such is myn entente, that is the cause of myn aspie, why that i feigne compaignie and make felawe overal; for gladly wolde i knowen al and holde me covert alway, that i fulofte ye or nay ne liste ansuere in eny wise, bot feigne semblant as the wise and herkne tales, til i knowe mi ladi lovers al arowe. and whanne i hiere how thei have wroght, i fare as thogh i herde it noght and as i no word understode; bot that is nothing for here goode: for lieveth wel, the sothe is this, that whanne i knowe al how it is, i wol bot forthren hem a lite, bot al the worste i can endite i telle it to my ladi plat in forthringe of myn oghne astat, and hindre hem al that evere i may. bot for al that yit dar i say, i finde unto miself no bote, althogh myn herte nedes mote thurgh strengthe of love al that i hiere discovere unto my ladi diere: for in good feith i have no miht to hele fro that swete wiht, if that it touche hire eny thing. bot this wot wel the hevene king, that sithen ferst this world began, unto non other strange man ne feigned i semblant ne chiere, to wite or axe of his matiere, thogh that he lovede ten or tuelve, whanne it was noght my ladi selve: bot if he wolde axe eny red al onlich of his oghne hed, how he with other love ferde, his tales with myn ere i herde, bot to myn herte cam it noght ne sank no deppere in my thoght, bot hield conseil, as i was bede, and tolde it nevere in other stede, bot let it passen as it com. now, fader, say what is thi dom, and hou thou wolt that i be peined for such semblant as i have feigned. mi sone, if reson be wel peised, ther mai no vertu ben unpreised ne vice non be set in pris. forthi, my sone, if thou be wys, do no viser upon thi face, which as wol noght thin herte embrace: for if thou do, withinne a throwe to othre men it schal be knowe, so miht thou lihtli falle in blame and lese a gret part of thi name. and natheles in this degree fulofte time thou myht se of suche men that now aday this vice setten in a say: i speke it for no mannes blame, bot forto warne thee the same. mi sone, as i mai hiere talke in every place where i walke, i not if it be so or non, bot it is manye daies gon that i ferst herde telle this, how falssemblant hath ben and is most comunly fro yer to yere with hem that duelle among ous here, of suche as we lombardes calle. for thei ben the slyeste of alle, so as men sein in toune aboute, to feigne and schewe thing withoute which is revers to that withinne: wherof that thei fulofte winne, whan thei be reson scholden lese; thei ben the laste and yit thei chese, and we the ferste, and yit behinde we gon, there as we scholden finde the profit of oure oghne lond: thus gon thei fre withoute bond to don her profit al at large, and othre men bere al the charge. of lombardz unto this covine, whiche alle londes conne engine, mai falssemblant in special be likned, for thei overal, wher as they thenken forto duelle, among hemself, so as thei telle, ferst ben enformed forto lere a craft which cleped is fa crere: for if fa crere come aboute, thanne afterward hem stant no doute to voide with a soubtil hond the beste goodes of the lond and bringe chaf and take corn. where as fa crere goth toforn, in all his weie he fynt no lette; that dore can non huissher schette in which him list to take entre: and thus the conseil most secre of every thing fa crere knoweth, which into strange place he bloweth, where as he wot it mai most grieve. and thus fa crere makth believe, so that fulofte he hath deceived, er that he mai ben aperceived. thus is this vice forto drede; for who these olde bokes rede of suche ensamples as were ar, him oghte be the more war of alle tho that feigne chiere, wherof thou schalt a tale hiere. of falssemblant which is believed ful many a worthi wiht is grieved, and was long time er we wer bore. to thee, my sone, i wol therfore a tale telle of falssemblant, which falseth many a covenant, and many a fraude of fals conseil ther ben hangende upon his seil: and that aboghten gulteles bothe deianire and hercules, the whiche in gret desese felle thurgh falssemblant, as i schal telle. whan hercules withinne a throwe al only hath his herte throwe upon this faire deianire, it fell him on a dai desire, upon a rivere as he stod, that passe he wolde over the flod withoute bot, and with him lede his love, bot he was in drede for tendresce of that swete wiht, for he knew noght the forde ariht. ther was a geant thanne nyh, which nessus hihte, and whanne he sih this hercules and deianyre, withinne his herte he gan conspire, as he which thurgh his tricherie hath hercules in gret envie, which he bar in his herte loke, and thanne he thoghte it schal be wroke. bot he ne dorste natheles ayein this worthi hercules falle in debat as forto feihte; bot feigneth semblant al be sleihte of frendschipe and of alle goode, and comth where as thei bothe stode, and makth hem al the chiere he can, and seith that as here oghne man he is al redy forto do what thing he mai; and it fell so that thei upon his semblant triste, and axen him if that he wiste what thing hem were best to done, so that thei mihten sauf and sone the water passe, he and sche. and whan nessus the privete knew of here herte what it mente, as he that was of double entente, he made hem riht a glad visage; and whanne he herde of the passage of him and hire, he thoghte guile, and feigneth semblant for a while to don hem plesance and servise, bot he thoghte al an other wise. this nessus with hise wordes slyhe yaf such conseil tofore here yhe which semeth outward profitable and was withinne deceivable. he bad hem of the stremes depe that thei be war and take kepe, so as thei knowe noght the pas; bot forto helpe in such a cas, he seith himself that for here ese he wolde, if that it mihte hem plese, the passage of the water take, and for this ladi undertake to bere unto that other stronde and sauf to sette hire up alonde, and hercules may thanne also the weie knowe how he schal go: and herto thei acorden alle. bot what as after schal befalle, wel payd was hercules of this, and this geant also glad is, and tok this ladi up alofte and set hire on his schuldre softe, and in the flod began to wade, as he which no grucchinge made, and bar hire over sauf and sound. bot whanne he stod on dreie ground and hercules was fer behinde, he sette his trowthe al out of mynde, who so therof be lief or loth, with deianyre and forth he goth, as he that thoghte to dissevere the compaignie of hem for evere. whan hercules therof tok hiede, als faste as evere he mihte him spiede he hyeth after in a throwe; and hapneth that he hadde a bowe, the which in alle haste he bende, as he that wolde an arwe sende, which he tofore hadde envenimed. he hath so wel his schote timed, that he him thurgh the bodi smette, and thus the false wiht he lette. bot lest now such a felonie: whan nessus wiste he scholde die, he tok to deianyre his scherte, which with the blod was of his herte thurghout desteigned overal, and tolde how sche it kepe schal al prively to this entente, that if hire lord his herte wente to love in eny other place, the scherte, he seith, hath such a grace, that if sche mai so mochel make that he the scherte upon him take, he schal alle othre lete in vein and torne unto hire love ayein. who was tho glad bot deianyre? hire thoghte hire herte was afyre til it was in hire cofre loke, so that no word therof was spoke. the daies gon, the yeres passe, the hertes waxen lasse and lasse of hem that ben to love untrewe: this hercules with herte newe his love hath set on eolen, and therof spieken alle men. this eolen, this faire maide, was, as men thilke time saide, the kinges dowhter of eurice; and sche made hercules so nyce upon hir love and so assote, that he him clotheth in hire cote, and sche in his was clothed ofte; and thus fieblesce is set alofte, and strengthe was put under fote, ther can noman therof do bote. whan deianyre hath herd this speche, ther was no sorwe forto seche: of other helpe wot sche non, bot goth unto hire cofre anon; with wepende yhe and woful herte sche tok out thilke unhappi scherte, as sche that wende wel to do, and broghte hire werk aboute so that hercules this scherte on dede, to such entente as she was bede of nessus, so as i seide er. bot therof was sche noght the ner, as no fortune may be weyved; with falssemblant sche was deceived, that whan sche wende best have wonne, sche lost al that sche hath begonne. for thilke scherte unto the bon his body sette afyre anon, and cleveth so, it mai noght twinne, for the venym that was therinne. and he thanne as a wilde man unto the hihe wode he ran, and as the clerk ovide telleth, the grete tres to grounde he felleth with strengthe al of his oghne myght, and made an huge fyr upriht, and lepte himself therinne at ones and brende him bothe fleissh and bones. which thing cam al thurgh falssemblant, that false nessus the geant made unto him and to his wif; wherof that he hath lost his lif, and sche sori for everemo. forthi, my sone, er thee be wo, i rede, be wel war therfore; for whan so gret a man was lore, it oghte yive a gret conceipte to warne alle othre of such deceipte. grant mercy, fader, i am war so fer that i nomore dar of falssemblant take aqueintance; bot rathere i wol do penance that i have feigned chiere er this. now axeth forth, what so ther is of that belongeth to my schrifte. mi sone, yit ther is the fifte which is conceived of envie, and cleped is supplantarie, thurgh whos compassement and guile ful many a man hath lost his while in love als wel as otherwise, hierafter as i schal devise. the vice of supplantacioun with many a fals collacioun, which he conspireth al unknowe, full ofte time hath overthrowe the worschipe of an other man. so wel no lif awayte can ayein his sleyhte forto caste, that he his pourpos ate laste ne hath, er that it be withset. bot most of alle his herte is set in court upon these grete offices of dignitees and benefices: thus goth he with his sleyhte aboute to hindre and schowve an other oute and stonden with his slyh compas in stede there an other was; and so to sette himselven inne, he reccheth noght, be so he winne, of that an other man schal lese, and thus fulofte chalk for chese he changeth with ful litel cost, wherof an other hath the lost and he the profit schal receive. for his fortune is to deceive and forto change upon the whel his wo with othre mennes wel: of that an other man avaleth, his oghne astat thus up he haleth, and takth the bridd to his beyete, wher othre men the buisshes bete. mi sone, and in the same wise ther ben lovers of such emprise, that schapen hem to be relieved where it is wrong to ben achieved: for it is other mannes riht, which he hath taken dai and niht to kepe for his oghne stor toward himself for everemor, and is his propre be the lawe, which thing that axeth no felawe, if love holde his covenant. bot thei that worchen be supplaunt, yit wolden thei a man supplaunte, and take a part of thilke plaunte which he hath for himselve set: and so fulofte is al unknet, that som man weneth be riht fast. for supplant with his slyhe cast fulofte happneth forto mowe thing which an other man hath sowe, and makth comun of proprete with sleihte and with soubtilite, as men mai se fro yer to yere. thus cleymeth he the bot to stiere, of which an other maister is. forthi, my sone, if thou er this hast ben of such professioun, discovere thi confessioun: hast thou supplanted eny man? for oght that i you telle can, min holi fader, as of the dede i am withouten eny drede al gulteles; bot of my thoght mi conscience excuse i noght. for were it wrong or were it riht, me lakketh nothing bote myht, that i ne wolde longe er this of other mannes love ywiss be weie of supplantacioun have mad apropriacioun and holde that i nevere boghte, thogh it an other man forthoghte. and al this speke i bot of on, for whom i lete alle othre gon; bot hire i mai noght overpasse, that i ne mot alwey compasse, me roghte noght be what queintise, so that i mihte in eny wise fro suche that mi ladi serve hire herte make forto swerve withouten eny part of love. for be the goddes alle above i wolde it mihte so befalle, that i al one scholde hem alle supplante, and welde hire at mi wille. and that thing mai i noght fulfille, bot if i scholde strengthe make; and that i dar noght undertake, thogh i were as was alisaundre, for therof mihte arise sklaundre; and certes that schal i do nevere, for in good feith yit hadde i levere in my simplesce forto die, than worche such supplantarie. of otherwise i wol noght seie that if i founde a seker weie, i wolde as for conclusioun worche after supplantacioun, so hihe a love forto winne. now, fader, if that this be sinne, i am al redy to redresce the gilt of which i me confesse. mi goode sone, as of supplant thee thar noght drede tant ne quant, as for nothing that i have herd, bot only that thou hast misferd thenkende, and that me liketh noght, for godd beholt a mannes thoght. and if thou understode in soth in loves cause what it doth, a man to ben a supplantour, thou woldest for thin oghne honour be double weie take kepe: ferst for thin oghne astat to kepe, to be thiself so wel bethoght that thou supplanted were noght, and ek for worschipe of thi name towardes othre do the same, and soffren every man have his. bot natheles it was and is, that in a wayt at alle assaies supplant of love in oure daies the lief fulofte for the levere forsakth, and so it hath don evere. ensample i finde therupon, at troie how that agamenon supplantede the worthi knyht achilles of that swete wiht, which named was brexei da; and also of crisei da, whom troilus to love ches, supplanted hath diomedes. of geta and amphitrion, that whilom weren bothe as on of frendschipe and of compaignie, i rede how that supplantarie in love, as it betidde tho, beguiled hath on of hem tuo. for this geta that i of meene, to whom the lusti faire almeene assured was be weie of love, whan he best wende have ben above and sikerest of that he hadde, cupido so the cause ladde, that whil he was out of the weie, amphitrion hire love aweie hath take, and in this forme he wroghte. be nyhte unto the chambre he soghte, wher that sche lay, and with a wyle he contrefeteth for the whyle the vois of gete in such a wise, that made hire of hire bedd arise, wenende that it were he, and let him in, and whan thei be togedre abedde in armes faste, this geta cam thanne ate laste unto the dore and seide, "undo." and sche ansuerde and bad him go, and seide how that abedde al warm hir lief lay naked in hir arm; sche wende that it were soth. lo, what supplant of love doth: this geta forth bejaped wente, and yit ne wiste he what it mente; amphitrion him hath supplanted with sleyhte of love and hire enchaunted: and thus put every man out other, the schip of love hath lost his rother, so that he can no reson stiere. and forto speke of this matiere touchende love and his supplant, a tale which is acordant unto thin ere i thenke enforme. now herkne, for this is the forme. of thilke cite chief of alle which men the noble rome calle, er it was set to cristes feith, ther was, as the cronique seith, an emperour, the which it ladde in pes, that he no werres hadde: ther was nothing desobeissant which was to rome appourtenant, bot al was torned into reste. to some it thoghte for the beste, to some it thoghte nothing so, and that was only unto tho whos herte stod upon knyhthode: bot most of alle of his manhode the worthi sone of themperour, which wolde ben a werreiour, as he that was chivalerous of worldes fame and desirous, began his fadre to beseche that he the werres mihte seche, in strange marches forto ride. his fader seide he scholde abide, and wolde granten him no leve: bot he, which wolde noght beleve, a kniht of his to whom he triste, so that his fader nothing wiste, he tok and tolde him his corage, that he pourposeth a viage. if that fortune with him stonde, he seide how that he wolde fonde the grete see to passe unknowe, and there abyde for a throwe upon the werres to travaile. and to this point withoute faile this kniht, whan he hath herd his lord, is swore, and stant of his acord, as thei that bothe yonge were; so that in prive conseil there thei ben assented forto wende. and therupon to make an ende, tresor ynowh with hem thei token, and whan the time is best thei loken, that sodeinliche in a galeie fro romelond thei wente here weie and londe upon that other side. the world fell so that ilke tide, which evere hise happes hath diverse, the grete soldan thanne of perse ayein the caliphe of egipte a werre, which that him beclipte, hath in a marche costeiant. and he, which was a poursuiant worschipe of armes to atteigne, this romein, let anon ordeigne, that he was redi everydel: and whan he was arraied wel of every thing which him belongeth, straght unto kaire his weie he fongeth, wher he the soldan thanne fond, and axeth that withinne his lond he mihte him for the werre serve, as he which wolde his thonk deserve. the soldan was riht glad with al, and wel the more in special whan that he wiste he was romein; bot what was elles in certein, that mihte he wite be no weie. and thus the kniht of whom i seie toward the soldan is beleft, and in the marches now and eft, wher that the dedli werres were, he wroghte such knihthode there, that every man spak of him good. and thilke time so it stod, this mihti soldan be his wif a dowhter hath, that in this lif men seiden ther was non so fair. sche scholde ben hir fader hair, and was of yeres ripe ynowh: hire beaute many an herte drowh to bowe unto that ilke lawe fro which no lif mai be withdrawe, and that is love, whos nature set lif and deth in aventure of hem that knyhthode undertake. this lusti peine hath overtake the herte of this romein so sore, that to knihthode more and more prouesce avanceth his corage. lich to the leoun in his rage, fro whom that alle bestes fle, such was the knyht in his degre: wher he was armed in the feld, ther dorste non abide his scheld; gret pris upon the werre he hadde. bot sche which al the chance ladde, fortune, schop the marches so, that be thassent of bothe tuo, the soldan and the caliphe eke, bataille upon a dai thei seke, which was in such a wise set that lengere scholde it noght be let. thei made hem stronge on every side, and whan it drowh toward the tide that the bataille scholde be, the soldan in gret privete a goldring of his dowhter tok, and made hire swere upon a bok and ek upon the goddes alle, that if fortune so befalle in the bataille that he deie, that sche schal thilke man obeie and take him to hire housebonde, which thilke same ring to honde hire scholde bringe after his deth. this hath sche swore, and forth he geth with al the pouer of his lond unto the marche, where he fond his enemy full embatailled. the soldan hath the feld assailed: thei that ben hardy sone assemblen, wherof the dredfull hertes tremblen: that on sleth, and that other sterveth, bot above all his pris deserveth this knihtly romein; where he rod, his dedly swerd noman abod, ayein the which was no defence; egipte fledde in his presence, and thei of perse upon the chace poursuien: bot i not what grace befell, an arwe out of a bowe al sodeinly that ilke throwe the soldan smot, and ther he lay: the chace is left for thilke day, and he was bore into a tente. the soldan sih how that it wente, and that he scholde algate die; and to this knyht of romanie, as unto him whom he most triste, his dowhter ring, that non it wiste, he tok, and tolde him al the cas, upon hire oth what tokne it was of that sche scholde ben his wif. whan this was seid, the hertes lif of this soldan departeth sone; and therupon, as was to done, the dede body wel and faire thei carie til thei come at kaire, wher he was worthily begrave. the lordes, whiche as wolden save the regne which was desolat, to bringe it into good astat a parlement thei sette anon. now herkne what fell therupon: this yonge lord, this worthi kniht of rome, upon the same niht that thei amorwe trete scholde, unto his bacheler he tolde his conseil, and the ring with al he scheweth, thurgh which that he schal, he seith, the kinges dowhter wedde, for so the ring was leid to wedde, he tolde, into hir fader hond, that with what man that sche it fond sche scholde him take to hire lord. and this, he seith, stant of record, bot noman wot who hath this ring. this bacheler upon this thing his ere and his entente leide, and thoghte more thanne he seide, and feigneth with a fals visage that he was glad, bot his corage was al set in an other wise. these olde philosophres wise thei writen upon thilke while, that he mai best a man beguile in whom the man hath most credence; and this befell in evidence toward this yonge lord of rome. his bacheler, which hadde tome, whan that his lord be nihte slepte, this ring, the which his maister kepte, out of his pours awey he dede, and putte an other in the stede. amorwe, whan the court is set, the yonge ladi was forth fet, to whom the lordes don homage, and after that of mariage thei trete and axen of hir wille. bot sche, which thoghte to fulfille hire fader heste in this matiere, seide openly, that men mai hiere, the charge which hire fader bad. tho was this lord of rome glad and drowh toward his pours anon, bot al for noght, it was agon: his bacheler it hath forthdrawe, and axeth ther upon the lawe that sche him holde covenant. the tokne was so sufficant that it ne mihte be forsake, and natheles his lord hath take querelle ayein his oghne man; bot for nothing that evere he can he mihte as thanne noght ben herd, so that his cleym is unansuerd, and he hath of his pourpos failed. this bacheler was tho consailed and wedded, and of thilke empire he was coroned lord and sire, and al the lond him hath received; wherof his lord, which was deceived, a seknesse er the thridde morwe conceived hath of dedly sorwe: and as he lay upon his deth, therwhile him lasteth speche and breth, he sende for the worthieste of al the lond and ek the beste, and tolde hem al the sothe tho, that he was sone and heir also of themperour of grete rome, and how that thei togedre come, this kniht and he; riht as it was, he tolde hem al the pleine cas, and for that he his conseil tolde, that other hath al that he wolde, and he hath failed of his mede: as for the good he takth non hiede, he seith, bot only of the love, of which he wende have ben above. and therupon be lettre write he doth his fader forto wite of al this matiere as it stod; and thanne with an hertly mod unto the lordes he besoghte to telle his ladi how he boghte hire love, of which an other gladeth; and with that word his hewe fadeth, and seide, "a dieu, my ladi swete." the lif hath lost his kindly hete, and he lay ded as eny ston; wherof was sory manyon, bot non of alle so as sche. this false knyht in his degree arested was and put in hold: for openly whan it was told of the tresoun which is befalle, thurghout the lond thei seiden alle, if it be soth that men suppose, his oghne untrowthe him schal depose. and forto seche an evidence, with honour and gret reverence, wherof they mihten knowe an ende, to themperour anon thei sende the lettre which his sone wrot. and whan that he the sothe wot, to telle his sorwe is endeles, bot yit in haste natheles upon the tale which he herde his stieward into perse ferde with many a worthi romein eke, his liege tretour forto seke; and whan thei thider come were, this kniht him hath confessed there how falsly that he hath him bore, wherof his worthi lord was lore. tho seiden some he scholde deie, bot yit thei founden such a weie that he schal noght be ded in perse; and thus the skiles ben diverse. be cause that he was coroned, and that the lond was abandoned to him, althogh it were unriht, ther is no peine for him diht; bot to this point and to this ende thei granten wel that he schal wende with the romeins to rome ayein. and thus acorded ful and plein, the qwike body with the dede with leve take forth thei lede, wher that supplant hath his juise. wherof that thou thee miht avise upon this enformacioun touchende of supplantacioun, that thou, my sone, do noght so: and forto take hiede also what supplant doth in other halve, ther is noman can finde a salve pleinly to helen such a sor; it hath and schal ben everemor, whan pride is with envie joint, he soffreth noman in good point, wher that he mai his honour lette. and therupon if i schal sette ensample, in holy cherche i finde how that supplant is noght behinde; god wot if that it now be so: for in cronique of time ago i finde a tale concordable of supplant, which that is no fable, in the manere as i schal telle, so as whilom the thinges felle. at rome, as it hath ofte falle, the vicair general of alle of hem that lieven cristes feith his laste day, which non withseith, hath schet as to the worldes ije, whos name if i schal specefie, he hihte pope nicolas. and thus whan that he passed was, the cardinals, that wolden save the forme of lawe, in the conclave gon forto chese a newe pope, and after that thei cowthe agrope hath ech of hem seid his entente: til ate laste thei assente upon an holy clerk reclus, which full was of gostli vertus; his pacience and his simplesse hath set him into hih noblesse. thus was he pope canonized, with gret honour and intronized, and upon chance as it is falle, his name celestin men calle; which notefied was be bulle to holi cherche and to the fulle in alle londes magnified. bot every worschipe is envied, and that was thilke time sene: for whan this pope of whom i meene was chose, and othre set beside, a cardinal was thilke tide which the papat longe hath desired and therupon gretli conspired; bot whan he sih fortune is failed, for which long time he hath travailed, that ilke fyr which ethna brenneth thurghout his wofull herte renneth, which is resembled to envie, wherof supplant and tricherie engendred is; and natheles he feigneth love, he feigneth pes, outward he doth the reverence, bot al withinne his conscience thurgh fals ymaginacioun he thoghte supplantacioun. and therupon a wonder wyle he wroghte: for at thilke whyle it fell so that of his lignage he hadde a clergoun of yong age, whom he hath in his chambre affaited. this cardinal his time hath waited, and with his wordes slyhe and queinte, the whiche he cowthe wysly peinte, he schop this clerk of which i telle toward the pope forto duelle, so that withinne his chambre anyht he lai, and was a prive wyht toward the pope on nyhtes tide. mai noman fle that schal betide. this cardinal, which thoghte guile, upon a day whan he hath while this yonge clerc unto him tok, and made him swere upon a bok, and told him what his wille was. and forth withal a trompe of bras he hath him take, and bad him this: "thou schalt," he seide, "whan time is awaite, and take riht good kepe, whan that the pope is fast aslepe and that non other man by nyh; and thanne that thou be so slyh thurghout the trompe into his ere, fro hevene as thogh a vois it were, to soune of such prolacioun that he his meditacioun therof mai take and understonde, as thogh it were of goddes sonde. and in this wise thou schalt seie, that he do thilke astat aweie of pope, in which he stant honoured, so schal his soule be socoured of thilke worschipe ate laste in hevene which schal evere laste." this clerc, whan he hath herd the forme how he the pope scholde enforme, tok of the cardinal his leve, and goth him hom, til it was eve, and prively the trompe he hedde, til that the pope was abedde. and at the midnyht, whan he knewh the pope slepte, thanne he blewh withinne his trompe thurgh the wal, and tolde in what manere he schal his papacie leve, and take his ferste astat: and thus awake this holi pope he made thries, wherof diverse fantasies upon his grete holinesse withinne his herte he gan impresse. the pope ful of innocence conceiveth in his conscience that it is goddes wille he cesse; bot in what wise he may relesse his hihe astat, that wot he noght. and thus withinne himself bethoght, he bar it stille in his memoire, til he cam to the consistoire; and there in presence of hem alle he axeth, if it so befalle that eny pope cesse wolde, how that the lawe it soffre scholde. thei seten alle stille and herde, was non which to the point ansuerde, for to what pourpos that it mente ther was noman knew his entente, bot only he which schop the guile. this cardinal the same while al openly with wordes pleine seith, if the pope wolde ordeigne that ther be such a lawe wroght, than mihte he cesse, and elles noght. and as he seide, don it was; the pope anon upon the cas of his papal autorite hath mad and yove the decre: and whan that lawe was confermed in due forme and al affermed, this innocent, which was deceived, his papacie anon hath weyved, renounced and resigned eke. that other was nothing to seke, bot undernethe such a jape he hath so for himselve schape, that how as evere it him beseme, the mitre with the diademe he hath thurgh supplantacion: and in his confirmacion upon the fortune of his grace his name is cleped boneface. under the viser of envie, lo, thus was hid the tricherie, which hath beguiled manyon. bot such conseil ther mai be non, with treson whan it is conspired, that it nys lich the sparke fyred up in the rof, which for a throwe lith hidd, til whan the wyndes blowe it blaseth out on every side. this bonefas, which can noght hyde the tricherie of his supplant, hath openly mad his avant how he the papacie hath wonne. bot thing which is with wrong begonne mai nevere stonde wel at ende; wher pride schal the bowe bende, he schet fulofte out of the weie: and thus the pope of whom i seie, whan that he stod on hih the whiel, he can noght soffre himself be wel. envie, which is loveles, and pride, which is laweles, with such tempeste made him erre, that charite goth out of herre: so that upon misgovernance ayein lowyz the king of france he tok querelle of his oultrage, and seide he scholde don hommage unto the cherche bodily. bot he, that wiste nothing why he scholde do so gret servise after the world in such a wise, withstod the wrong of that demande; for noght the pope mai comande the king wol noght the pope obeie. this pope tho be alle weie that he mai worche of violence hath sent the bulle of his sentence with cursinge and with enterdit. the king upon this wrongful plyt, to kepe his regne fro servage, conseiled was of his barnage that miht with miht schal be withstonde. thus was the cause take on honde, and seiden that the papacie thei wolde honoure and magnefie in al that evere is spirital; bot thilke pride temporal of boneface in his persone, ayein that ilke wrong al one thei wolde stonden in debat: and thus the man and noght the stat the frensche schopen be her miht to grieve. and fell ther was a kniht, sire guilliam de langharet, which was upon this cause set; and therupon he tok a route of men of armes and rod oute, so longe and in a wayt he lay, that he aspide upon a day the pope was at avinoun, and scholde ryde out of the toun unto pontsorge, the which is a castell in provence of his. upon the weie and as he rod, this kniht, which hoved and abod embuisshed upon horse bak, al sodeinliche upon him brak and hath him be the bridel sesed, and seide: "o thou, which hast desesed the court of france be thi wrong, now schalt thou singe an other song: thin enterdit and thi sentence ayein thin oghne conscience hierafter thou schalt fiele and grope. we pleigne noght ayein the pope, for thilke name is honourable, bot thou, which hast be deceivable and tricherous in al thi werk, thou bonefas, thou proude clerk, misledere of the papacie, thi false bodi schal abye and soffre that it hath deserved." lo, thus the supplantour was served; for thei him ladden into france and setten him to his penance withinne a tour in harde bondes, wher he for hunger bothe hise hondes eet of and deide, god wot how: of whom the wrytinge is yit now registred, as a man mai hiere, which spekth and seith in this manere: thin entre lich the fox was slyh, thi regne also with pride on hih was lich the leon in his rage; bot ate laste of thi passage thi deth was to the houndes like. such is the lettre of his cronique proclamed in the court of rome, wherof the wise ensample nome. and yit, als ferforth as i dar, i rede alle othre men be war, and that thei loke wel algate that non his oghne astat translate of holi cherche in no degree be fraude ne soubtilite: for thilke honour which aaron tok schal non receive, as seith the bok, bot he be cleped as he was. what i schal thenken in this cas of that i hiere now aday, i not: bot he which can and may, be reson bothe and be nature the help of every mannes cure, he kepe simon fro the folde. for joachim thilke abbot tolde how suche daies scholden falle, that comunliche in places alle the chapmen of such mercerie with fraude and with supplantarie so manye scholden beie and selle, that he ne may for schame telle so foul a senne in mannes ere. bot god forbiede that it were in oure daies that he seith: for if the clerc beware his feith in chapmanhod at such a feire, the remenant mot nede empeire of al that to the world belongeth; for whan that holi cherche wrongeth, i not what other thing schal rihte. and natheles at mannes sihte envie forto be preferred hath conscience so differred, that noman loketh to the vice which is the moder of malice, and that is thilke false envie, which causeth many a tricherie; for wher he may an other se that is mor gracious than he, it schal noght stonden in his miht bot if he hindre such a wiht: and that is welnyh overal, this vice is now so general. envie thilke unhapp indrowh, whan joab be deceipte slowh abner, for drede he scholde be with king david such as was he. and thurgh envie also it fell of thilke false achitofell, for his conseil was noght achieved, bot that he sih cusy believed with absolon and him forsake, he heng himself upon a stake. senec witnesseth openly how that envie proprely is of the court the comun wenche, and halt taverne forto schenche that drink which makth the herte brenne, and doth the wit aboute renne, be every weie to compasse how that he mihte alle othre passe, as he which thurgh unkindeschipe envieth every felaschipe; so that thou miht wel knowe and se, ther is no vice such as he, ferst toward godd abhominable, and to mankinde unprofitable: and that be wordes bot a fewe i schal be reson prove and schewe. envie if that i schal descrive, he is noght schaply forto wyve in erthe among the wommen hiere; for ther is in him no matiere wherof he mihte do plesance. ferst for his hevy continance of that he semeth evere unglad, he is noght able to ben had; and ek he brenneth so withinne, that kinde mai no profit winne, wherof he scholde his love plese: for thilke blod which scholde have ese to regne among the moiste veines, is drye of thilke unkendeli peines thurgh whiche envie is fyred ay. and thus be reson prove i may that toward love envie is noght; and otherwise if it be soght, upon what side as evere it falle, it is the werste vice of alle, which of himself hath most malice. for understond that every vice som cause hath, wherof it groweth, bot of envie noman knoweth fro whenne he cam bot out of helle. for thus the wise clerkes telle, that no spirit bot of malice be weie of kinde upon a vice is tempted, and be such a weie envie hath kinde put aweie and of malice hath his steringe, wherof he makth his bakbitinge, and is himself therof desesed. so mai ther be no kinde plesed; for ay the mor that he envieth, the more ayein himself he plieth. thus stant envie in good espeir to ben himself the develes heir, as he which is his nexte liche and forthest fro the heveneriche, for there mai he nevere wone. forthi, my goode diere sone, if thou wolt finde a siker weie to love, put envie aweie. min holy fader, reson wolde that i this vice eschuie scholde: bot yit to strengthe mi corage, if that ye wolde in avantage therof sette a recoverir, it were tome a gret desir, that i this vice mihte flee. nou understond, my sone, and se, ther is phisique for the seke, and vertus for the vices eke. who that the vices wolde eschuie, he mot be resoun thanne suie the vertus; for be thilke weie he mai the vices don aweie, for thei togedre mai noght duelle: for as the water of a welle of fyr abateth the malice, riht so vertu fordoth the vice. ayein envie is charite, which is the moder of pite, that makth a mannes herte tendre, that it mai no malice engendre in him that is enclin therto. for his corage is tempred so, that thogh he mihte himself relieve, yit wolde he noght an other grieve, bot rather forto do plesance he berth himselven the grevance, so fain he wolde an other ese. wherof, mi sone, for thin ese now herkne a tale which i rede, and understond it wel, i rede. among the bokes of latin i finde write of constantin the worthi emperour of rome, suche infortunes to him come, whan he was in his lusti age, the lepre cawhte in his visage and so forth overal aboute, that he ne mihte ryden oute: so lefte he bothe schield and spere, as he that mihte him noght bestere, and hield him in his chambre clos. thurgh al the world the fame aros, the grete clerkes ben asent and come at his comandement to trete upon this lordes hele. so longe thei togedre dele, that thei upon this medicine apointen hem, and determine that in the maner as it stod thei wolde him bathe in childes blod withinne sevene wynter age: for, as thei sein, that scholde assuage the lepre and al the violence, which that thei knewe of accidence and noght be weie of kinde is falle. and therto thei acorden alle as for final conclusioun, and tolden here opinioun to themperour: and he anon his conseil tok, and therupon with lettres and with seales oute thei sende in every lond aboute the yonge children forto seche, whos blod, thei seiden, schal be leche for themperoures maladie. ther was ynowh to wepe and crie among the modres, whan thei herde hou wofully this cause ferde, bot natheles thei moten bowe; and thus wommen ther come ynowhe with children soukende on the tete. tho was ther manye teres lete, bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe, the wommen and the children bothe into the paleis forth be broght with many a sory hertes thoght of hem whiche of here bodi bore the children hadde, and so forlore withinne a while scholden se. the modres wepe in here degre, and manye of hem aswoune falle, the yonge babes criden alle: this noyse aros, the lord it herde, and loked out, and how it ferde he sih, and as who seith abreide out of his slep, and thus he seide: "o thou divine pourveance, which every man in the balance of kinde hast formed to be liche, the povere is bore as is the riche and deieth in the same wise, upon the fol, upon the wise siknesse and hele entrecomune; mai non eschuie that fortune which kinde hath in hire lawe set; hire strengthe and beaute ben beset to every man aliche fre, that sche preferreth no degre as in the disposicioun of bodili complexioun: and ek of soule resonable the povere child is bore als able to vertu as the kinges sone; for every man his oghne wone after the lust of his assay the vice or vertu chese may. thus stonden alle men franchised, bot in astat thei ben divised; to some worschipe and richesse, to some poverte and distresse, on lordeth and an other serveth; bot yit as every man deserveth the world yifth noght his yiftes hiere. bot certes he hath gret matiere to ben of good condicioun, which hath in his subjeccioun the men that ben of his semblance." and ek he tok a remembrance how he that made lawe of kinde wolde every man to lawe binde, and bad a man, such as he wolde toward himself, riht such he scholde toward an other don also. and thus this worthi lord as tho sette in balance his oghne astat and with himself stod in debat, and thoghte hou that it was noght good to se so mochel mannes blod be spilt for cause of him alone. he sih also the grete mone, of that the modres were unglade, and of the wo the children made, wherof that al his herte tendreth, and such pite withinne engendreth, that him was levere forto chese his oghne bodi forto lese, than se so gret a moerdre wroght upon the blod which gulteth noght. thus for the pite which he tok alle othre leches he forsok, and put him out of aventure al only into goddes cure; and seith, "who that woll maister be, he mot be servant to pite." so ferforth he was overcome with charite, that he hath nome his conseil and hise officers, and bad unto hise tresorers that thei his tresour al aboute departe among the povere route of wommen and of children bothe, wherof thei mihte hem fede and clothe and saufli tornen hom ayein withoute lost of eny grein. thurgh charite thus he despendeth his good, wherof that he amendeth the povere poeple, and contrevaileth the harm, that he hem so travaileth: and thus the woful nyhtes sorwe to joie is torned on the morwe; al was thonkinge, al was blessinge, which erst was wepinge and cursinge; thes wommen gon hom glade ynowh, echon for joie on other lowh, and preiden for this lordes hele, which hath relessed the querele, and hath his oghne will forsake in charite for goddes sake. bot now hierafter thou schalt hiere what god hath wroght in this matiere, as he which doth al equite. to him that wroghte charite he was ayeinward charitous, and to pite he was pitous: for it was nevere knowe yit that charite goth unaquit. the nyht, whan he was leid to slepe, the hihe god, which wolde him kepe, seint peter and seint poul him sende, be whom he wolde his lepre amende. thei tuo to him slepende appiere fro god, and seide in this manere: "o constantin, for thou hast served pite, thou hast pite deserved: forthi thou schalt such pite have that god thurgh pite woll thee save. so schalt thou double hele finde, ferst for thi bodiliche kinde, and for thi wofull soule also, thou schalt ben hol of bothe tuo. and for thou schalt thee noght despeire, thi lepre schal nomore empeire til thou wolt sende therupon unto the mont of celion, wher that silvestre and his clergie togedre duelle in compaignie for drede of thee, which many day hast ben a fo to cristes lay, and hast destruid to mochel schame the prechours of his holy name. bot now thou hast somdiel appesed thi god, and with good dede plesed, that thou thi pite hast bewared upon the blod which thou hast spared. forthi to thi salvacion thou schalt have enformacioun, such as silvestre schal the teche: the nedeth of non other leche." this emperour, which al this herde, "grant merci lordes," he ansuerde, "i wol do so as ye me seie. bot of o thing i wolde preie: what schal i telle unto silvestre or of youre name or of youre estre?" and thei him tolden what thei hihte, and forth withal out of his sihte thei passen up into the hevene. and he awok out of his swevene, and clepeth, and men come anon: he tolde his drem, and therupon in such a wise as he hem telleth the mont wher that silvestre duelleth thei have in alle haste soght, and founde he was and with hem broght to themperour, which to him tolde his swevene and elles what he wolde. and whan silvestre hath herd the king, he was riht joiful of this thing, and him began with al his wit to techen upon holi writ ferst how mankinde was forlore, and how the hihe god therfore his sone sende from above, which bore was for mannes love, and after of his oghne chois he tok his deth upon the crois; and how in grave he was beloke, and how that he hath helle broke, and tok hem out that were him lieve; and forto make ous full believe that he was verrai goddes sone, ayein the kinde of mannes wone fro dethe he ros the thridde day, and whanne he wolde, as he wel may, he styh up to his fader evene with fleissh and blod into the hevene; and riht so in the same forme in fleissh and blod he schal reforme, whan time comth, the qwike and dede at thilke woful dai of drede, where every man schal take his dom, als wel the maister as the grom. the mihti kinges retenue that dai may stonde of no value with worldes strengthe to defende; for every man mot thanne entende to stonde upon his oghne dedes and leve alle othre mennes nedes. that dai mai no consail availe, the pledour and the plee schal faile, the sentence of that ilke day mai non appell sette in delay; ther mai no gold the jugge plie, that he ne schal the sothe trie and setten every man upriht, als wel the plowman as the kniht: the lewed man, the grete clerk schal stonde upon his oghne werk, and such as he is founde tho, such schal he be for everemo. ther mai no peine be relessed, ther mai no joie ben encressed, bot endeles, as thei have do, he schal receive on of the tuo. and thus silvestre with his sawe the ground of al the newe lawe with gret devocion he precheth, fro point to point and pleinly techeth unto this hethen emperour; and seith, the hihe creatour hath underfonge his charite, of that he wroghte such pite, whan he the children hadde on honde. thus whan this lord hath understonde of al this thing how that it ferde, unto silvestre he thanne ansuerde, with al his hole herte and seith that he is redi to the feith. and so the vessel which for blod was mad, silvestre, ther it stod, with clene water of the welle in alle haste he let do felle, and sette constantin therinne al naked up unto the chinne. and in the while it was begunne, a liht, as thogh it were a sunne, fro hevene into the place com wher that he tok his cristendom; and evere among the holi tales lich as thei weren fisshes skales ther fellen from him now and eft, til that ther was nothing beleft of al his grete maladie. for he that wolde him purefie, the hihe god hath mad him clene, so that ther lefte nothing sene; he hath him clensed bothe tuo, the bodi and the soule also. tho knew this emperour in dede that cristes feith was forto drede, and sende anon hise lettres oute and let do crien al aboute, up peine of deth that noman weyve that he baptesme ne receive: after his moder qweene heleine he sende, and so betwen hem tweine thei treten, that the cite all was cristned, and sche forth withall. this emperour, which hele hath founde, withinne rome anon let founde tuo cherches, which he dede make for peter and for poules sake, of whom he hadde avisioun; and yaf therto possessioun of lordschipe and of worldes good. bot how so that his will was good toward the pope and his franchise, yit hath it proved other wise, to se the worchinge of the dede: for in cronique this i rede; anon as he hath mad the yifte, a vois was herd on hih the lifte, of which al rome was adrad, and seith: "to day is venym schad in holi cherche of temporal, which medleth with the spirital." and hou it stant of that degree yit mai a man the sothe se: god mai amende it, whan he wile, i can ther to non other skile. bot forto go ther i began, how charite mai helpe a man to bothe worldes, i have seid: and if thou have an ere leid, mi sone, thou miht understonde, if charite be take on honde, ther folweth after mochel grace. forthi, if that thou wolt pourchace how that thou miht envie flee, aqueinte thee with charite, which is the vertu sovereine. mi fader, i schal do my peine: for this ensample which ye tolde with al myn herte i have withholde, so that i schal for everemore eschuie envie wel the more: and that i have er this misdo, yif me my penance er i go. and over that to mi matiere of schrifte, why we sitten hiere in privete betwen ous tweie, now axeth what ther is, i preie. mi goode sone, and for thi lore i woll thee telle what is more, so that thou schalt the vices knowe: for whan thei be to thee full knowe, thou miht hem wel the betre eschuie. and for this cause i thenke suie the forme bothe and the matiere, as now suiende thou schalt hiere which vice stant next after this: and whan thou wost how that it is, as thou schalt hiere me devise, thow miht thiself the betre avise. explicit liber secundus incipit liber tercius ira suis paribus est par furiis acherontis, quo furor ad tempus nil pietatis habet. ira malencolicos animos perturbat, vt equo iure sui pondus nulla statera tenet. omnibus in causis grauat ira, set inter amantes, illa magis facili sorte grauamen agit: est vbi vir discors leuiterque repugnat amori, sepe loco ludi fletus ad ora venit. if thou the vices lest to knowe, mi sone, it hath noght ben unknowe, fro ferst that men the swerdes grounde, that ther nis on upon this grounde, a vice forein fro the lawe, wherof that many a good felawe hath be distraght be sodein chance; and yit to kinde no plesance it doth, bot wher he most achieveth his pourpos, most to kinde he grieveth, as he which out of conscience is enemy to pacience: and is be name on of the sevene, which ofte hath set this world unevene, and cleped is the cruel ire, whos herte is everemore on fyre to speke amis and to do bothe, for his servantz ben evere wrothe. mi goode fader, tell me this: what thing is ire? sone, it is that in oure englissh wrathe is hote, which hath hise wordes ay so hote, that all a mannes pacience is fyred of the violence. for he with him hath evere fyve servantz that helpen him to stryve: the ferst of hem malencolie is cleped, which in compaignie an hundred times in an houre wol as an angri beste loure, and noman wot the cause why. mi sone, schrif thee now forthi: hast thou be malencolien? ye, fader, be seint julien, bot i untrewe wordes use, i mai me noght therof excuse: and al makth love, wel i wot, of which myn herte is evere hot, so that i brenne as doth a glede for wrathe that i mai noght spede. and thus fulofte a day for noght save onlich of myn oghne thoght i am so with miselven wroth, that how so that the game goth with othre men, i am noght glad; bot i am wel the more unglad, for that is othre mennes game it torneth me to pure grame. thus am i with miself oppressed of thoght, the which i have impressed, that al wakende i dreme and meete that i with hire al one meete and preie hire of som good ansuere: bot for sche wol noght gladly swere, sche seith me nay withouten oth; and thus wexe i withinne wroth, that outward i am al affraied, and so distempred and esmaied. a thousand times on a day ther souneth in myn eres nay, the which sche seide me tofore: thus be my wittes as forlore; and namely whan i beginne to rekne with miself withinne how many yeres ben agon, siththe i have trewly loved on and nevere tok of other hede, and evere aliche fer to spede i am, the more i with hir dele, so that myn happ and al myn hele me thenkth is ay the leng the ferre, that bringth my gladschip out of herre, wherof my wittes ben empeired, and i, as who seith, al despeired. for finaly, whan that i muse and thenke how sche me wol refuse, i am with anger so bestad, for al this world mihte i be glad: and for the while that it lasteth al up so doun my joie it casteth, and ay the furthere that i be, whan i ne may my ladi se, the more i am redy to wraththe, that for the touchinge of a laththe or for the torninge of a stree i wode as doth the wylde se, and am so malencolious, that ther nys servant in myn hous ne non of tho that ben aboute, that ech of hem ne stant in doute, and wenen that i scholde rave for anger that thei se me have; and so thei wondre more and lasse, til that thei sen it overpasse. bot, fader, if it so betide, that i aproche at eny tide the place wher my ladi is, and thanne that hire like ywiss to speke a goodli word untome, for al the gold that is in rome ne cowthe i after that be wroth, bot al myn anger overgoth; so glad i am of the presence of hire, that i all offence foryete, as thogh it were noght, so overgladed is my thoght. and natheles, the soth to telle, ayeinward if it so befelle that i at thilke time sihe on me that sche miscaste hire yhe, or that sche liste noght to loke, and i therof good hiede toke, anon into my ferste astat i torne, and am with al so mat, that evere it is aliche wicke. and thus myn hand ayein the pricke i hurte and have do many day, and go so forth as i go may, fulofte bitinge on my lippe, and make unto miself a whippe. with which in many a chele and hete mi wofull herte is so tobete, that all my wittes ben unsofte and i am wroth, i not how ofte; and al it is malencolie, which groweth of the fantasie of love, that me wol noght loute: so bere i forth an angri snoute ful manye times in a yer. bot, fader, now ye sitten hier in loves stede, i yow beseche, that som ensample ye me teche, wherof i mai miself appese. mi sone, for thin hertes ese i schal fulfille thi preiere, so that thou miht the betre lere what mischief that this vice stereth, which in his anger noght forbereth, wherof that after him forthenketh, whan he is sobre and that he thenketh upon the folie of his dede; and of this point a tale i rede. ther was a king which eolus was hote, and it befell him thus, that he tuo children hadde faire, the sone cleped was machaire, the dowhter ek canace hihte. be daie bothe and ek be nyhte, whil thei be yonge, of comun wone in chambre thei togedre wone, and as thei scholden pleide hem ofte, til thei be growen up alofte into the youthe of lusti age, whan kinde assaileth the corage with love and doth him forto bowe, that he no reson can allowe, bot halt the lawes of nature: for whom that love hath under cure, as he is blind himself, riht so he makth his client blind also. in such manere as i you telle as thei al day togedre duelle, this brother mihte it noght asterte that he with al his hole herte his love upon his soster caste: and so it fell hem ate laste, that this machaire with canace whan thei were in a prive place, cupide bad hem ferst to kesse, and after sche which is maistresse in kinde and techeth every lif withoute lawe positif, of which sche takth nomaner charge, bot kepth hire lawes al at large, nature, tok hem into lore and tawht hem so, that overmore sche hath hem in such wise daunted, that thei were, as who seith, enchaunted. and as the blinde an other ledeth and til thei falle nothing dredeth, riht so thei hadde non insihte; bot as the bridd which wole alihte and seth the mete and noght the net, which in deceipte of him is set, this yonge folk no peril sihe, bot that was likinge in here yhe, so that thei felle upon the chance where witt hath lore his remembrance. so longe thei togedre assemble, the wombe aros, and sche gan tremble, and hield hire in hire chambre clos for drede it scholde be disclos and come to hire fader ere: wherof the sone hadde also fere, and feigneth cause forto ryde; for longe dorste he noght abyde, in aunter if men wolde sein that he his soster hath forlein: for yit sche hadde it noght beknowe whos was the child at thilke throwe. machaire goth, canace abit, the which was noght delivered yit, bot riht sone after that sche was. now lest and herkne a woful cas. the sothe, which mai noght ben hid, was ate laste knowe and kid unto the king, how that it stod. and whan that he it understod, anon into malencolie, as thogh it were a frenesie, he fell, as he which nothing cowthe how maistrefull love is in yowthe: and for he was to love strange, he wolde noght his herte change to be benigne and favorable to love, bot unmerciable betwen the wawe of wod and wroth into his dowhtres chambre he goth, and sih the child was late bore, wherof he hath hise othes swore that sche it schal ful sore abye. and sche began merci to crie, upon hire bare knes and preide, and to hire fader thus sche seide: "ha mercy! fader, thenk i am thi child, and of thi blod i cam. that i misdede yowthe it made, and in the flodes bad me wade, wher that i sih no peril tho: bot now it is befalle so, merci, my fader, do no wreche!" and with that word sche loste speche and fell doun swounende at his fot, as sche for sorwe nedes mot. bot his horrible crualte ther mihte attempre no pite: out of hire chambre forth he wente al full of wraththe in his entente, and tok the conseil in his herte that sche schal noght the deth asterte, as he which malencolien of pacience hath no lien, wherof the wraththe he mai restreigne. and in this wilde wode peine, whanne al his resoun was untame, a kniht he clepeth be his name, and tok him as be weie of sonde a naked swerd to bere on honde, and seide him that he scholde go and telle unto his dowhter so in the manere as he him bad, how sche that scharpe swerdes blad receive scholde and do withal so as sche wot wherto it schal. forth in message goth this kniht unto this wofull yonge wiht, this scharpe swerd to hire he tok: wherof that al hire bodi qwok, for wel sche wiste what it mente, and that it was to thilke entente that sche hireselven scholde slee. and to the kniht sche seide: "yee, now that i wot my fadres wille, that i schal in this wise spille, i wole obeie me therto, and as he wole it schal be do. bot now this thing mai be non other, i wole a lettre unto mi brother, so as my fieble hand may wryte, with al my wofull herte endite." sche tok a penne on honde tho, fro point to point and al the wo, als ferforth as hireself it wot, unto hire dedly frend sche wrot, and tolde how that hire fader grace sche mihte for nothing pourchace; and overthat, as thou schalt hiere, sche wrot and seide in this manere: "o thou my sorwe and my gladnesse, o thou myn hele and my siknesse, o my wanhope and al my trust, o my desese and al my lust, o thou my wele, o thou my wo, o thou my frend, o thou my fo, o thou my love, o thou myn hate, for thee mot i be ded algate. thilke ende may i noght asterte, and yit with al myn hole herte, whil that me lasteth eny breth, i wol the love into my deth. bot of o thing i schal thee preie, if that my litel sone deie, let him be beried in my grave beside me, so schalt thou have upon ous bothe remembrance. for thus it stant of my grevance; now at this time, as thou schalt wite, with teres and with enke write this lettre i have in cares colde: in my riht hond my penne i holde, and in my left the swerd i kepe, and in my barm ther lith to wepe thi child and myn, which sobbeth faste. now am i come unto my laste: fare wel, for i schal sone deie, and thenk how i thi love abeie." the pomel of the swerd to grounde sche sette, and with the point a wounde thurghout hire herte anon sche made, and forth with that al pale and fade sche fell doun ded fro ther sche stod. the child lay bathende in hire blod out rolled fro the moder barm, and for the blod was hot and warm, he basketh him aboute thrinne. ther was no bote forto winne, for he, which can no pite knowe, the king cam in the same throwe, and sih how that his dowhter dieth and how this babe al blody crieth; bot al that mihte him noght suffise, that he ne bad to do juise upon the child, and bere him oute, and seche in the forest aboute som wilde place, what it were, to caste him out of honde there, so that som best him mai devoure, where as noman him schal socoure. al that he bad was don in dede: ha, who herde evere singe or rede of such a thing as that was do? bot he which ladde his wraththe so hath knowe of love bot a lite; bot for al that he was to wyte, thurgh his sodein malencolie to do so gret a felonie. forthi, my sone, how so it stonde, be this cas thou miht understonde that if thou evere in cause of love schalt deme, and thou be so above that thou miht lede it at thi wille, let nevere thurgh thi wraththe spille which every kinde scholde save. for it sit every man to have reward to love and to his miht, ayein whos strengthe mai no wiht: and siththe an herte is so constreigned, the reddour oghte be restreigned to him that mai no bet aweie, whan he mot to nature obeie. for it is seid thus overal, that nedes mot that nede schal of that a lif doth after kinde, wherof he mai no bote finde. what nature hath set in hir lawe ther mai no mannes miht withdrawe, and who that worcheth therayein, fulofte time it hath be sein, ther hath befalle gret vengance, wherof i finde a remembrance. ovide after the time tho tolde an ensample and seide so, how that whilom tiresias, as he walkende goth per cas, upon an hih montaine he sih tuo serpentz in his weie nyh, and thei, so as nature hem tawhte, assembled were, and he tho cawhte a yerde which he bar on honde, and thoghte that he wolde fonde to letten hem, and smot hem bothe: wherof the goddes weren wrothe; and for he hath destourbed kinde and was so to nature unkinde, unkindeliche he was transformed, that he which erst a man was formed into a womman was forschape. that was to him an angri jape; bot for that he with angre wroghte, hise angres angreliche he boghte. lo thus, my sone, ovide hath write, wherof thou miht be reson wite, more is a man than such a beste: so mihte it nevere ben honeste a man to wraththen him to sore of that an other doth the lore of kinde, in which is no malice, bot only that it is a vice: and thogh a man be resonable, yit after kinde he is menable to love, wher he wole or non. thenk thou, my sone, therupon and do malencolie aweie; for love hath evere his lust to pleie, as he which wolde no lif grieve. mi fader, that i mai wel lieve; al that ye tellen it is skile: let every man love as he wile, be so it be noght my ladi, for i schal noght be wroth therby. bot that i wraththe and fare amis, al one upon miself it is, that i with bothe love and kinde am so bestad, that i can finde no weie how i it mai asterte: which stant upon myn oghne herte and toucheth to non other lif, save only to that swete wif for whom, bot if it be amended, mi glade daies ben despended, that i miself schal noght forbere the wraththe which that i now bere, for therof is non other leche. now axeth forth, i yow beseche, of wraththe if ther oght elles is, wherof to schryve. sone, yis. of wraththe the secounde is cheste, which hath the wyndes of tempeste to kepe, and many a sodein blast he bloweth, wherof ben agast thei that desiren pes and reste. he is that ilke ungoodlieste which many a lusti love hath twinned; for he berth evere his mowth unpinned, so that his lippes ben unloke and his corage is al tobroke, that every thing which he can telle, it springeth up as doth a welle, which mai non of his stremes hyde, bot renneth out on every syde. so buillen up the foule sawes that cheste wot of his felawes: for as a sive kepeth ale, riht so can cheste kepe a tale; al that he wot he wol desclose, and speke er eny man oppose. as a cite withoute wal, wher men mai gon out overal withouten eny resistence, so with his croked eloquence he spekth al that he wot withinne: wherof men lese mor than winne, for ofte time of his chidinge he bringth to house such tidinge, that makth werre ate beddeshed. he is the levein of the bred, which soureth al the past aboute: men oghte wel such on to doute, for evere his bowe is redi bent, and whom he hit i telle him schent, if he mai perce him with his tunge. and ek so lowde his belle is runge, that of the noise and of the soun men feeren hem in al the toun welmore than thei don of thonder. for that is cause of more wonder; for with the wyndes whiche he bloweth fulofte sythe he overthroweth the cites and the policie, that i have herd the poeple crie, and echon seide in his degre, "ha wicke tunge, wo thee be!" for men sein that the harde bon, althogh himselven have non, a tunge brekth it al to pieces. he hath so manye sondri spieces of vice, that i mai noght wel descrive hem be a thousendel: bot whan that he to cheste falleth, ful many a wonder thing befalleth, for he ne can nothing forbere. now tell me, sone, thin ansuere, if it hath evere so betidd, that thou at eny time hast chidd toward thi love. fader, nay: such cheste yit unto this day ne made i nevere, god forbede: for er i sunge such a crede, i hadde levere to be lewed; for thanne were i al beschrewed and worthi to be put abak with al the sorwe upon my bak that eny man ordeigne cowthe. bot i spak nevere yit be mowthe that unto cheste mihte touche, and that i durste riht wel vouche upon hirself as for witnesse; for i wot, of hir gentilesse that sche me wolde wel excuse, that i no suche thinges use. and if it scholde so betide that i algates moste chide, it myhte noght be to my love: for so yit was i nevere above, for al this wyde world to winne that i dorste eny word beginne, be which sche mihte have ben amoeved and i of cheste also reproeved. bot rathere, if it mihte hir like, the beste wordes wolde i pike whiche i cowthe in myn herte chese, and serve hem forth in stede of chese, for that is helplich to defie; and so wolde i my wordes plie, that mihten wraththe and cheste avale with tellinge of my softe tale. thus dar i make a foreward, that nevere unto my ladiward yit spak i word in such a wise, wherof that cheste scholde arise. this seie i noght, that i fulofte ne have, whanne i spak most softe, per cas seid more thanne ynowh; bot so wel halt noman the plowh that he ne balketh otherwhile, ne so wel can noman affile his tunge, that som time in rape him mai som liht word overscape, and yit ne meneth he no cheste. bot that i have ayein hir heste fulofte spoke, i am beknowe; and how my will is, that ye knowe: for whan my time comth aboute, that i dar speke and seie al oute mi longe love, of which sche wot that evere in on aliche hot me grieveth, thanne al my desese i telle, and though it hir desplese, i speke it forth and noght ne leve: and thogh it be beside hire leve, i hope and trowe natheles that i do noght ayein the pes; for thogh i telle hire al my thoght, sche wot wel that i chyde noght. men mai the hihe god beseche, and he wol hiere a mannes speche and be noght wroth of that he seith; so yifth it me the more feith and makth me hardi, soth to seie, that i dar wel the betre preie mi ladi, which a womman is. for thogh i telle hire that or this of love, which me grieveth sore, hire oghte noght be wroth the more, for i withoute noise or cri mi pleignte make al buxomly to puten alle wraththe away. thus dar i seie unto this day of cheste in ernest or in game mi ladi schal me nothing blame. bot ofte time it hath betidd that with miselven i have chidd, that noman couthe betre chide: and that hath ben at every tide, whanne i cam to miself al one; for thanne i made a prive mone, and every tale by and by, which as i spak to my ladi, i thenke and peise in my balance and drawe into my remembrance; and thanne, if that i finde a lak of eny word that i mispak, which was to moche in eny wise, anon my wittes i despise and make a chidinge in myn herte, that eny word me scholde asterte which as i scholde have holden inne. and so forth after i beginne and loke if ther was elles oght to speke, and i ne spak it noght: and thanne, if i mai seche and finde that eny word be left behinde, which as i scholde more have spoke, i wolde upon miself be wroke, and chyde with miselven so that al my wit is overgo. for noman mai his time lore recovere, and thus i am therfore so overwroth in al my thoght, that i myself chide al to noght: thus for to moche or for to lite fulofte i am miself to wyte. bot al that mai me noght availe, with cheste thogh i me travaile: bot oule on stock and stock on oule; the more that a man defoule, men witen wel which hath the werse; and so to me nys worth a kerse, bot torneth on myn oghne hed, thogh i, til that i were ded, wolde evere chyde in such a wise of love as i to you devise. bot, fader, now ye have al herd in this manere how i have ferd of cheste and of dissencioun, yif me youre absolucioun. mi sone, if that thou wistest al, what cheste doth in special to love and to his welwillinge, thou woldest flen his knowlechinge and lerne to be debonaire. for who that most can speke faire is most acordende unto love: fair speche hath ofte brought above ful many a man, as it is knowe, which elles scholde have be riht lowe and failed mochel of his wille. forthi hold thou thi tunge stille and let thi witt thi wille areste, so that thou falle noght in cheste, which is the source of gret destance: and tak into thi remembrance if thou miht gete pacience, which is the leche of alle offence, as tellen ous these olde wise: for whan noght elles mai suffise be strengthe ne be mannes wit, than pacience it oversit and overcomth it ate laste; bot he mai nevere longe laste, which wol noght bowe er that he breke. tak hiede, sone, of that i speke. mi fader, of your goodli speche and of the witt which ye me teche i thonke you with al myn herte: for that world schal me nevere asterte, that i ne schal your wordes holde, of pacience as ye me tolde, als ferforth as myn herte thenketh; and of my wraththe it me forthenketh. bot, fader, if ye forth withal som good ensample in special me wolden telle of som cronique, it scholde wel myn herte like of pacience forto hiere, so that i mihte in mi matiere the more unto my love obeie and puten mi desese aweie. mi sone, a man to beie him pes behoveth soffre as socrates ensample lefte, which is write: and for thou schalt the sothe wite, of this ensample what i mene, althogh it be now litel sene among the men thilke evidence, yit he was upon pacience so sett, that he himself assaie in thing which mihte him most mispaie desireth, and a wickid wif he weddeth, which in sorwe and strif ayein his ese was contraire. bot he spak evere softe and faire, til it befell, as it is told, in wynter, whan the dai is cold, this wif was fro the welle come, wher that a pot with water nome sche hath, and broghte it into house, and sih how that hire seli spouse was sett and loked on a bok nyh to the fyr, as he which tok his ese for a man of age. and sche began the wode rage, and axeth him what devel he thoghte, and bar on hond that him ne roghte what labour that sche toke on honde, and seith that such an housebonde was to a wif noght worth a stre. he seide nowther nay ne ye, bot hield him stille and let hire chyde; and sche, which mai hirself noght hyde, began withinne forto swelle, and that sche broghte in fro the welle, the waterpot sche hente alofte and bad him speke, and he al softe sat stille and noght a word ansuerde; and sche was wroth that he so ferde, and axeth him if he be ded; and al the water on his hed sche pourede oute and bad awake. bot he, which wolde noght forsake his pacience, thanne spak, and seide how that he fond no lak in nothing which sche hadde do: for it was wynter time tho, and wynter, as be weie of kinde which stormy is, as men it finde, ferst makth the wyndes forto blowe, and after that withinne a throwe he reyneth and the watergates undoth; "and thus my wif algates, which is with reson wel besein, hath mad me bothe wynd and rein after the sesoun of the yer." and thanne he sette him nerr the fer, and as he mihte hise clothes dreide, that he nomore o word ne seide; wherof he gat him somdel reste, for that him thoghte was the beste. i not if thilke ensample yit acordeth with a mannes wit, to soffre as socrates tho dede: and if it falle in eny stede a man to lese so his galle, him oghte among the wommen alle in loves court be juggement the name bere of pacient, to yive ensample to the goode of pacience how that it stode, that othre men it mihte knowe. and, sone, if thou at eny throwe be tempted ayein pacience, tak hiede upon this evidence; it schal per cas the lasse grieve. mi fader, so as i believe, of that schal be no maner nede, for i wol take so good hiede, that er i falle in such assai, i thenke eschuie it, if i mai. bot if ther be oght elles more wherof i mihte take lore, i preie you, so as i dar, now telleth, that i mai be war, som other tale in this matiere. sone, it is evere good to lere, wherof thou miht thi word restreigne, er that thou falle in eny peine. for who that can no conseil hyde, he mai noght faile of wo beside, which schal befalle er he it wite, as i finde in the bokes write. yit cam ther nevere good of strif, to seche in all a mannes lif: thogh it beginne on pure game, fulofte it torneth into grame and doth grevance upon som side. wherof the grete clerk ovide after the lawe which was tho of jupiter and of juno makth in his bokes mencioun how thei felle at dissencioun in manere as it were a borde, as thei begunne forto worde among hemself in privete: and that was upon this degree, which of the tuo more amorous is, or man or wif. and upon this thei mihten noght acorde in on, and toke a jugge therupon, which cleped is tiresias, and bede him demen in the cas; and he withoute avisement ayein juno yaf juggement. this goddesse upon his ansuere was wroth and wolde noght forbere, bot tok awey for everemo the liht fro bothe hise yhen tuo. whan jupiter this harm hath sein, an other bienfait therayein he yaf, and such a grace him doth, that for he wiste he seide soth, a sothseiere he was for evere: bot yit that other were levere, have had the lokinge of his yhe, than of his word the prophecie; bot how so that the sothe wente, strif was the cause of that he hente so gret a peine bodily. mi sone, be thou war ther by, and hold thi tunge stille clos: for who that hath his word desclos er that he wite what he mene, he is fulofte nyh his tene and lest ful many time grace, wher that he wolde his thonk pourchace. and over this, my sone diere, of othre men, if thou miht hiere in privete what thei have wroght, hold conseil and descoevere it noght, for cheste can no conseil hele, or be it wo or be it wele: and tak a tale into thi mynde, the which of olde ensample i finde. phebus, which makth the daies lihte, a love he hadde, which tho hihte cornide, whom aboven alle he pleseth: bot what schal befalle of love ther is noman knoweth, bot as fortune hire happes throweth. so it befell upon a chaunce, a yong kniht tok hire aqueintance and hadde of hire al that he wolde: bot a fals bridd, which sche hath holde and kept in chambre of pure yowthe, discoevereth all that evere he cowthe. this briddes name was as tho corvus, the which was thanne also welmore whyt than eny swan, and he that schrewe al that he can of his ladi to phebus seide; and he for wraththe his swerd outbreide, with which cornide anon he slowh. bot after him was wo ynowh, and tok a full gret repentance, wherof in tokne and remembrance of hem whiche usen wicke speche, upon this bridd he tok this wreche, that ther he was snow whyt tofore, evere afterward colblak therfore he was transformed, as it scheweth, and many a man yit him beschreweth, and clepen him into this day a raven, be whom yit men mai take evidence, whan he crieth, that som mishapp it signefieth. be war therfore and sei the beste, if thou wolt be thiself in reste, mi goode sone, as i the rede. for in an other place i rede of thilke nimphe which laar hihte: for sche the privete be nyhte, how jupiter lay be jutorne, hath told, god made hire overtorne: hire tunge he kutte, and into helle for evere he sende hir forto duelle, as sche that was noght worthi hiere to ben of love a chamberere, for sche no conseil cowthe hele. and suche adaies be now fele in loves court, as it is seid, that lete here tunges gon unteid. mi sone, be thou non of tho, to jangle and telle tales so, and namely that thou ne chyde, for cheste can no conseil hide, for wraththe seide nevere wel. mi fader, soth is everydel that ye me teche, and i wol holde the reule to which i am holde, to fle the cheste, as ye me bidde, for wel is him that nevere chidde. now tell me forth if ther be more as touchende unto wraththes lore. of wraththe yit ther is an other, which is to cheste his oghne brother, and is be name cleped hate, that soffreth noght withinne his gate that ther come owther love or pes, for he wol make no reles of no debat which is befalle. now spek, if thou art on of alle, that with this vice hast ben withholde. as yit for oght that ye me tolde, mi fader, i not what it is. in good feith, sone, i trowe yis. mi fader, nay, bot ye me lere. now lest, my sone, and thou schalt here. hate is a wraththe noght schewende, bot of long time gaderende, and duelleth in the herte loken, til he se time to be wroken; and thanne he scheweth his tempeste mor sodein than the wilde beste, which wot nothing what merci is. mi sone, art thou knowende of this? my goode fader, as i wene, now wot i somdel what ye mene; bot i dar saufly make an oth, mi ladi was me nevere loth. i wol noght swere natheles that i of hate am gulteles; for whanne i to my ladi plie fro dai to dai and merci crie, and sche no merci on me leith bot schorte wordes to me seith, thogh i my ladi love algate, tho wordes moste i nedes hate; and wolde thei were al despent, or so ferr oute of londe went that i nevere after scholde hem hiere; and yit love i my ladi diere. thus is ther hate, as ye mai se, betwen mi ladi word and me; the word i hate and hire i love, what so me schal betide of love. bot forthere mor i wol me schryve, that i have hated al my lyve these janglers, whiche of here envie ben evere redi forto lie; for with here fals compassement fuloften thei have mad me schent and hindred me fulofte time, whan thei no cause wisten bime, bot onliche of here oghne thoght: and thus fuloften have i boght the lie, and drank noght of the wyn. i wolde here happ were such as myn: for how so that i be now schrive, to hem ne mai i noght foryive, til that i se hem at debat with love, and thanne myn astat thei mihten be here oghne deme, and loke how wel it scholde hem qweme to hindre a man that loveth sore. and thus i hate hem everemore, til love on hem wol don his wreche: for that schal i alway beseche unto the mihti cupido, that he so mochel wolde do, so as he is of love a godd, to smyte hem with the same rodd with which i am of love smite; so that thei mihten knowe and wite how hindringe is a wofull peine to him that love wolde atteigne. thus evere on hem i wayte and hope, til i mai sen hem lepe a lope, and halten on the same sor which i do now: for overmor i wolde thanne do my myht so forto stonden in here lyht, that thei ne scholden finde a weie to that thei wolde, bot aweie i wolde hem putte out of the stede fro love, riht as thei me dede with that thei speke of me be mowthe. so wolde i do, if that i cowthe, of hem, and this, so god me save, is al the hate that i have, toward these janglers everydiel; i wolde alle othre ferde wel. thus have i, fader, said mi wille; say ye now forth, for i am stille. mi sone, of that thou hast me said i holde me noght fulli paid: that thou wolt haten eny man, to that acorden i ne can, thogh he have hindred thee tofore. bot this i telle thee therfore, thou miht upon my beneicoun wel haten the condicioun of tho janglers, as thou me toldest, bot furthermor, of that thou woldest hem hindre in eny other wise, such hate is evere to despise. forthi, mi sone, i wol thee rede, that thou drawe in be frendlihede that thou ne miht noght do be hate; so miht thou gete love algate and sette thee, my sone, in reste, for thou schalt finde it for the beste. and over this, so as i dar, i rede that thou be riht war of othre mennes hate aboute, which every wysman scholde doute: for hate is evere upon await, and as the fisshere on his bait sleth, whan he seth the fisshes faste, so, whan he seth time ate laste, that he mai worche an other wo, schal noman tornen him therfro, that hate nyle his felonie fulfille and feigne compaignie yit natheles, for fals semblant is toward him of covenant withholde, so that under bothe the prive wraththe can him clothe, that he schal seme of gret believe. bot war thee wel that thou ne lieve al that thou sest tofore thin yhe, so as the gregois whilom syhe: the bok of troie who so rede, ther mai he finde ensample in dede. sone after the destruccioun, whan troie was al bete doun and slain was priamus the king, the gregois, whiche of al this thing ben cause, tornen hom ayein. ther mai noman his happ withsein; it hath be sen and felt fulofte, the harde time after the softe: be see as thei forth homward wente, a rage of gret tempeste hem hente; juno let bende hire parti bowe, the sky wax derk, the wynd gan blowe, the firy welkne gan to thondre, as thogh the world scholde al to sondre; fro hevene out of the watergates the reyni storm fell doun algates and al here takel made unwelde, that noman mihte himself bewelde. ther mai men hiere schipmen crie, that stode in aunter forto die: he that behinde sat to stiere mai noght the forestempne hiere; the schip aros ayein the wawes, the lodesman hath lost his lawes, the see bet in on every side: thei nysten what fortune abide, bot sette hem al in goddes wille, wher he hem wolde save or spille. and it fell thilke time thus: ther was a king, the which namplus was hote, and he a sone hadde, at troie which the gregois ladde, as he that was mad prince of alle, til that fortune let him falle: his name was palamades. bot thurgh an hate natheles of some of hem his deth was cast and he be tresoun overcast. his fader, whan he herde it telle, he swor, if evere his time felle, he wolde him venge, if that he mihte, and therto his avou behihte: and thus this king thurgh prive hate abod upon await algate, for he was noght of such emprise to vengen him in open wise. the fame, which goth wyde where, makth knowe how that the gregois were homward with al the felaschipe fro troie upon the see be schipe. namplus, whan he this understod, and knew the tydes of the flod, and sih the wynd blew to the lond, a gret deceipte anon he fond of prive hate, as thou schalt hiere, wherof i telle al this matiere. this king the weder gan beholde, and wiste wel thei moten holde here cours endlong his marche riht, and made upon the derke nyht of grete schydes and of blockes gret fyr ayein the grete rockes, to schewe upon the helles hihe, so that the flete of grece it sihe. and so it fell riht as he thoghte: this flete, which an havene soghte, the bryghte fyres sih a ferr, and thei hem drowen nerr and nerr, and wende wel and understode how al that fyr was made for goode, to schewe wher men scholde aryve, and thiderward thei hasten blyve. in semblant, as men sein, is guile, and that was proved thilke while; the schip, which wende his helpe acroche, drof al to pieces on the roche, and so ther deden ten or twelve; ther mihte noman helpe himselve, for ther thei wenden deth ascape, withouten help here deth was schape. thus thei that comen ferst tofore upon the rockes be forlore, bot thurgh the noise and thurgh the cri these othre were al war therby; and whan the dai began to rowe, tho mihten thei the sothe knowe, that wher they wenden frendes finde, thei founden frenschipe al behinde. the lond was thanne sone weyved, wher that thei hadden be deceived, and toke hem to the hihe see; therto thei seiden alle yee, fro that dai forth and war thei were of that thei hadde assaied there. mi sone, hierof thou miht avise how fraude stant in many wise amonges hem that guile thenke; ther is no scrivein with his enke which half the fraude wryte can that stant in such a maner man: forthi the wise men ne demen the thinges after that thei semen, bot after that thei knowe and finde. the mirour scheweth in his kinde as he hadde al the world withinne, and is in soth nothing therinne; and so farth hate for a throwe: til he a man hath overthrowe, schal noman knowe be his chere which is avant, ne which arere. forthi, mi sone, thenke on this. mi fader, so i wole ywiss; and if ther more of wraththe be, now axeth forth per charite, as ye be youre bokes knowe, and i the sothe schal beknowe. mi sone, thou schalt understonde that yit towardes wraththe stonde of dedly vices othre tuo: and forto telle here names so, it is contek and homicide, that ben to drede on every side. contek, so as the bokes sein, folhast hath to his chamberlein, be whos conseil al unavised is pacience most despised, til homicide with hem meete. fro merci thei ben al unmeete, and thus ben thei the worste of alle of hem whiche unto wraththe falle, in dede bothe and ek in thoght: for thei acompte here wraththe at noght, bot if ther be schedinge of blod; and thus lich to a beste wod thei knowe noght the god of lif. be so thei have or swerd or knif here dedly wraththe forto wreke, of pite list hem noght to speke; non other reson thei ne fonge, bot that thei ben of mihtes stronge. bot war hem wel in other place, where every man behoveth grace, bot ther i trowe it schal hem faile, to whom no merci mihte availe, bot wroghten upon tiraundie, that no pite ne mihte hem plie. now tell, my sone. fader, what? if thou hast be coupable of that. mi fader, nay, crist me forbiede: i speke onliche as of the dede, of which i nevere was coupable withoute cause resonable. bot this is noght to mi matiere of schrifte, why we sitten hiere; for we ben sett to schryve of love, as we begunne ferst above: and natheles i am beknowe that as touchende of loves throwe, whan i my wittes overwende, min hertes contek hath non ende, bot evere it stant upon debat to gret desese of myn astat as for the time that it lasteth. for whan mi fortune overcasteth hire whiel and is to me so strange, and that i se sche wol noght change, than caste i al the world aboute, and thenke hou i at home and oute have al my time in vein despended, and se noght how to ben amended, bot rathere forto be empeired, as he that is welnyh despeired: for i ne mai no thonk deserve, and evere i love and evere i serve, and evere i am aliche nerr. thus, for i stonde in such a wer, i am, as who seith, out of herre; and thus upon miself the werre i bringe, and putte out alle pes, that i fulofte in such a res am wery of myn oghne lif. so that of contek and of strif i am beknowe and have ansuerd, as ye, my fader, now have herd. min herte is wonderly begon with conseil, wherof witt is on, which hath resoun in compaignie; ayein the whiche stant partie will, which hath hope of his acord, and thus thei bringen up descord. witt and resoun conseilen ofte that i myn herte scholde softe, and that i scholde will remue and put him out of retenue, or elles holde him under fote: for as thei sein, if that he mote his oghne rewle have upon honde, ther schal no witt ben understonde. of hope also thei tellen this, that overal, wher that he is, he set the herte in jeupartie with wihssinge and with fantasie, and is noght trewe of that he seith, so that in him ther is no feith: thus with reson and wit avised is will and hope aldai despised. reson seith that i scholde leve to love, wher ther is no leve to spede, and will seith therayein that such an herte is to vilein, which dar noght love and til he spede, let hope serve at such a nede: he seith ek, where an herte sit al hol governed upon wit, he hath this lyves lust forlore. and thus myn herte is al totore of such a contek as thei make: bot yit i mai noght will forsake, that he nys maister of my thoght, or that i spede, or spede noght. thou dost, my sone, ayein the riht; bot love is of so gret a miht, his lawe mai noman refuse, so miht thou thee the betre excuse. and natheles thou schalt be lerned that will scholde evere be governed of reson more than of kinde, wherof a tale write i finde. a philosophre of which men tolde ther was whilom be daies olde, and diogenes thanne he hihte. so old he was that he ne mihte the world travaile, and for the beste he schop him forto take his reste, and duelte at hom in such a wise, that nyh his hous he let devise endlong upon an axeltre to sette a tonne in such degre, that he it mihte torne aboute; wherof on hed was taken oute, for he therinne sitte scholde and torne himself so as he wolde, to take their and se the hevene and deme of the planetes sevene, as he which cowthe mochel what. and thus fulofte there he sat to muse in his philosophie solein withoute compaignie: so that upon a morwetyde, as thing which scholde so betyde, whan he was set ther as him liste to loke upon the sonne ariste, wherof the propretes he sih, it fell ther cam ridende nyh king alisandre with a route; and as he caste his yhe aboute, he sih this tonne, and what it mente he wolde wite, and thider sente a knyht, be whom he mihte it knowe, and he himself that ilke throwe abod, and hoveth there stille. this kniht after the kinges wille with spore made his hors to gon and to the tonne he cam anon, wher that he fond a man of age, and he him tolde the message, such as the king him hadde bede, and axeth why in thilke stede the tonne stod, and what it was. and he, which understod the cas, sat stille and spak no word ayein. the kniht bad speke and seith, "vilein, thou schalt me telle, er that i go; it is thi king which axeth so." "mi king," quod he, "that were unriht." "what is he thanne?" seith the kniht, "is he thi man?" "that seie i noght," quod he, "bot this i am bethoght, mi mannes man hou that he is." "thou lyest, false cherl, ywiss," the kniht him seith, and was riht wroth, and to the king ayein he goth and tolde him how this man ansuerde. the king, whan he this tale herde, bad that thei scholden alle abyde, for he himself wol thider ryde. and whan he cam tofore the tonne, he hath his tale thus begonne: "alheil," he seith, "what man art thou?" quod he, "such on as thou sest now." the king, which hadde wordes wise, his age wolde noght despise, bot seith, "mi fader, i thee preie that thou me wolt the cause seie, how that i am thi mannes man." "sire king," quod he, "and that i can, if that thou wolt." "yis," seith the king. quod he, "this is the sothe thing: sith i ferst resoun understod, and knew what thing was evel and good, the will which of my bodi moeveth, whos werkes that the god reproeveth, i have restreigned everemore, as him which stant under the lore of reson, whos soubgit he is, so that he mai noght don amis: and thus be weie of covenant will is my man and my servant, and evere hath ben and evere schal. and thi will is thi principal, and hath the lordschipe of thi witt, so that thou cowthest nevere yit take o dai reste of thi labour; bot forto ben a conquerour of worldes good, which mai noght laste, thou hiest evere aliche faste, wher thou no reson hast to winne: and thus thi will is cause of sinne, and is thi lord, to whom thou servest, wherof thou litel thonk deservest." the king of that he thus answerde was nothing wroth, bot whanne he herde the hihe wisdom which he seide, with goodly wordes this he preide, that he him wolde telle his name. "i am," quod he, "that ilke same, the which men diogenes calle." tho was the king riht glad withalle, for he hadde often herd tofore what man he was, so that therfore he seide, "o wise diogene, now schal thi grete witt be sene; for thou schalt of my yifte have what worldes thing that thou wolt crave." quod he, "thanne hove out of mi sonne, and let it schyne into mi tonne; for thou benymst me thilke yifte, which lith noght in thi miht to schifte: non other good of thee me nedeth." this king, whom every contre dredeth, lo, thus he was enformed there: wherof, my sone, thou miht lere how that thi will schal noght be lieved, where it is noght of wit relieved. and thou hast seid thiself er this how that thi will thi maister is; thurgh which thin hertes thoght withinne is evere of contek to beginne, so that it is gretli to drede that it non homicide brede. for love is of a wonder kinde, and hath hise wittes ofte blinde, that thei fro mannes reson falle; bot whan that it is so befalle that will schal the corage lede, in loves cause it is to drede: wherof i finde ensample write, which is behovely forto wite. i rede a tale, and telleth this: the cite which semiramis enclosed hath with wall aboute, of worthi folk with many a route was enhabited here and there; among the whiche tuo ther were above alle othre noble and grete, dwellende tho withinne a strete so nyh togedre, as it was sene, that ther was nothing hem betwene, bot wow to wow and wall to wall. this o lord hadde in special a sone, a lusti bacheler, in al the toun was non his pier: that other hadde a dowhter eke, in al the lond that forto seke men wisten non so faire as sche. and fell so, as it scholde be, this faire dowhter nyh this sone as thei togedre thanne wone, cupide hath so the thinges schape, that thei ne mihte his hand ascape, that he his fyr on hem ne caste: wherof her herte he overcaste to folwe thilke lore and suie which nevere man yit miht eschuie; and that was love, as it is happed, which hath here hertes so betrapped, that thei be alle weies seche how that thei mihten winne a speche, here wofull peine forto lisse. who loveth wel, it mai noght misse, and namely whan ther be tuo of on acord, how so it go, bot if that thei som weie finde; for love is evere of such a kinde and hath his folk so wel affaited, that howso that it be awaited, ther mai noman the pourpos lette: and thus betwen hem tuo thei sette and hole upon a wall to make, thurgh which thei have her conseil take at alle times, whan thei myhte. this faire maiden tisbee hihte, and he whom that sche loveth hote was piramus be name hote. so longe here lecoun thei recorden, til ate laste thei acorden be nihtes time forto wende al one out fro the tounes ende, wher was a welle under a tree; and who cam ferst, or sche or he, he scholde stille there abide. so it befell the nyhtes tide this maiden, which desguised was, al prively the softe pas goth thurgh the large toun unknowe, til that sche cam withinne a throwe wher that sche liketh forto duelle, at thilke unhappi freisshe welle, which was also the forest nyh. wher sche comende a leoun syh into the feld to take his preie, in haste and sche tho fledde aweie, so as fortune scholde falle, for feere and let hire wympel falle nyh to the welle upon therbage. this leoun in his wilde rage a beste, which that he fond oute, hath slain, and with his blodi snoute, whan he hath eten what he wolde, to drynke of thilke stremes colde cam to the welle, where he fond the wympel, which out of hire hond was falle, and he it hath todrawe, bebled aboute and al forgnawe; and thanne he strawhte him forto drinke upon the freisshe welles brinke, and after that out of the plein he torneth to the wode ayein. and tisbee dorste noght remue, bot as a bridd which were in mue withinne a buissh sche kepte hire clos so stille that sche noght aros; unto hirself and pleigneth ay. and fell, whil that sche there lay, this piramus cam after sone unto the welle, and be the mone he fond hire wimpel blodi there. cam nevere yit to mannes ere tidinge, ne to mannes sihte merveile, which so sore aflihte a mannes herte, as it tho dede to him, which in the same stede with many a wofull compleignynge began his handes forto wringe, as he which demeth sikerly that sche be ded: and sodeinly his swerd al nakid out he breide in his folhaste, and thus he seide: "i am cause of this felonie, so it is resoun that i die, as sche is ded be cause of me." and with that word upon his kne he fell, and to the goddes alle up to the hevene he gan to calle, and preide, sithen it was so that he may noght his love as tho have in this world, that of her grace he miht hire have in other place, for hiere wolde he noght abide, he seith: bot as it schal betide, the pomel of his swerd to grounde he sette, and thurgh his herte a wounde he made up to the bare hilte: and in this wise himself he spilte with his folhaste and deth he nam; for sche withinne a while cam, wher he lai ded upon his knif. so wofull yit was nevere lif as tisbee was, whan sche him sih: sche mihte noght o word on hih speke oute, for hire herte schette, that of hir lif no pris sche sette, bot ded swounende doun sche fell. til after, whanne it so befell that sche out of hire traunce awok, with many a wofull pitous lok hire yhe alwei among sche caste upon hir love, and ate laste sche cawhte breth and seide thus: "o thou which cleped art venus, goddesse of love, and thou, cupide, which loves cause hast forto guide, i wot now wel that ye be blinde, of thilke unhapp which i now finde only betwen my love and me. this piramus, which hiere i se bledende, what hath he deserved? for he youre heste hath kept and served, and was yong and i bothe also: helas, why do ye with ous so? ye sette oure herte bothe afyre, and maden ous such thing desire wherof that we no skile cowthe; bot thus oure freisshe lusti yowthe withoute joie is al despended, which thing mai nevere ben amended: for as of me this wol i seie, that me is levere forto deie than live after this sorghful day." and with this word, where as he lay, hire love in armes sche embraseth, hire oghne deth and so pourchaseth that now sche wepte and nou sche kiste, til ate laste, er sche it wiste, so gret a sorwe is to hire falle, which overgoth hire wittes alle. as sche which mihte it noght asterte, the swerdes point ayein hire herte sche sette, and fell doun therupon, wherof that sche was ded anon: and thus bothe on o swerd bledende thei weren founde ded liggende. now thou, mi sone, hast herd this tale, bewar that of thin oghne bale thou be noght cause in thi folhaste, and kep that thou thi witt ne waste upon thi thoght in aventure, wherof thi lyves forfeture mai falle: and if thou have so thoght er this, tell on and hyde it noght. mi fader, upon loves side mi conscience i woll noght hyde, how that for love of pure wo i have ben ofte moeved so, that with my wisshes if i myhte, a thousand times, i yow plyhte, i hadde storven in a day; and therof i me schryve may, though love fully me ne slowh, mi will to deie was ynowh, so am i of my will coupable: and yit is sche noght merciable, which mai me yive lif and hele. bot that hir list noght with me dele, i wot be whos conseil it is, and him wolde i long time er this, and yit i wolde and evere schal, slen and destruie in special. the gold of nyne kinges londes ne scholde him save fro myn hondes, in my pouer if that he were; bot yit him stant of me no fere for noght that evere i can manace. he is the hindrere of mi grace, til he be ded i mai noght spede; so mot i nedes taken hiede and schape how that he were aweie, if i therto mai finde a weie. mi sone, tell me now forthi, which is that mortiel enemy that thou manacest to be ded. mi fader, it is such a qwed, that wher i come, he is tofore, and doth so, that mi cause is lore. what is his name? it is daunger, which is mi ladi consailer: for i was nevere yit so slyh, to come in eny place nyh wher as sche was be nyht or day, that danger ne was redy ay, with whom for speche ne for mede yit mihte i nevere of love spede; for evere this i finde soth, al that my ladi seith or doth to me, daunger schal make an ende, and that makth al mi world miswende: and evere i axe his help, bot he mai wel be cleped sanz pite; for ay the more i to him bowe, the lasse he wol my tale alowe. he hath mi ladi so englued, sche wol noght that he be remued; for evere he hangeth on hire seil, and is so prive of conseil, that evere whanne i have oght bede, i finde danger in hire stede and myn ansuere of him i have; bot for no merci that i crave, of merci nevere a point i hadde. i finde his ansuere ay so badde, that werse mihte it nevere be: and thus betwen danger and me is evere werre til he dye. bot mihte i ben of such maistrie, that i danger hadde overcome, with that were al my joie come. thus wolde i wonde for no sinne, ne yit for al this world to winne; if that i mihte finde a sleyhte, to leie al myn astat in weyhte, i wolde him fro the court dissevere, so that he come ayeinward nevere. therfore i wisshe and wolde fain that he were in som wise slain; for while he stant in thilke place, ne gete i noght my ladi grace. thus hate i dedly thilke vice, and wolde he stode in non office in place wher mi ladi is; for if he do, i wot wel this, that owther schal he deie or i withinne a while; and noght forthi on my ladi fulofte i muse, how that sche mai hirself excuse, if that i deie in such a plit. me thenkth sche mihte noght be qwyt that sche ne were an homicide: and if it scholde so betide, as god forbiede it scholde be, be double weie it is pite. for i, which al my will and witt have yove and served evere yit, and thanne i scholde in such a wise in rewardinge of my servise be ded, me thenkth it were a rowthe: and furthermor, to telle trowthe, sche, that hath evere be wel named, were worthi thanne to be blamed and of reson to ben appeled, whan with o word sche mihte have heled a man, and soffreth him so deie. ha, who sawh evere such a weie? ha, who sawh evere such destresse? withoute pite gentilesse, withoute mercy wommanhede, that wol so quyte a man his mede, which evere hath be to love trewe. mi goode fader, if ye rewe upon mi tale, tell me now, and i wol stinte and herkne yow. mi sone, attempre thi corage fro wraththe, and let thin herte assuage: for who so wole him underfonge, he mai his grace abide longe, er he of love be received; and ek also, bot it be weyved, ther mihte mochel thing befalle, that scholde make a man to falle fro love, that nevere afterward ne durste he loke thiderward. in harde weies men gon softe, and er thei clymbe avise hem ofte: men sen alday that rape reweth; and who so wicked ale breweth, fulofte he mot the werse drinke: betre is to flete than to sincke; betre is upon the bridel chiewe thanne if he felle and overthrewe, the hors and stikede in the myr: to caste water in the fyr betre is than brenne up al the hous: the man which is malicious and folhastif, fulofte he falleth, and selden is whan love him calleth. forthi betre is to soffre a throwe than be to wilde and overthrowe; suffrance hath evere be the beste to wissen him that secheth reste: and thus, if thou wolt love and spede, mi sone, soffre, as i the rede. what mai the mous ayein the cat? and for this cause i axe that, who mai to love make a werre, that he ne hath himself the werre? love axeth pes and evere schal, and who that fihteth most withal schal lest conquere of his emprise: for this thei tellen that ben wise, wicke is to stryve and have the werse; to hasten is noght worth a kerse; thing that a man mai noght achieve, that mai noght wel be don at eve, it mot abide til the morwe. ne haste noght thin oghne sorwe, mi sone, and tak this in thi witt, he hath noght lost that wel abitt. ensample that it falleth thus, thou miht wel take of piramus, whan he in haste his swerd outdrowh and on the point himselve slowh for love of tisbee pitously, for he hire wympel fond blody and wende a beste hire hadde slain; wher as him oghte have be riht fain, for sche was there al sauf beside: bot for he wolde noght abide, this meschief fell. forthi be war, mi sone, as i the warne dar, do thou nothing in such a res, for suffrance is the welle of pes. thogh thou to loves court poursuie, yit sit it wel that thou eschuie that thou the court noght overhaste, for so miht thou thi time waste; bot if thin happ therto be schape, it mai noght helpe forto rape. therfore attempre thi corage; folhaste doth non avantage, bot ofte it set a man behinde in cause of love, and that i finde be olde ensample, as thou schalt hiere, touchende of love in this matiere. a maiden whilom ther was on, which daphne hihte, and such was non of beaute thanne, as it was seid. phebus his love hath on hire leid, and therupon to hire he soghte in his folhaste, and so besoghte, that sche with him no reste hadde; for evere upon hire love he gradde, and sche seide evere unto him nay. so it befell upon a dai, cupide, which hath every chance of love under his governance, syh phebus hasten him so sore: and for he scholde him haste more, and yit noght speden ate laste, a dart thurghout his herte he caste, which was of gold and al afyre, that made him manyfold desire of love more thanne he dede. to daphne ek in the same stede a dart of led he caste and smot, which was al cold and nothing hot. and thus phebus in love brenneth, and in his haste aboute renneth, to loke if that he mihte winne; bot he was evere to beginne, for evere awei fro him sche fledde, so that he nevere his love spedde. and forto make him full believe that no folhaste mihte achieve to gete love in such degree, this daphne into a lorer tre was torned, which is evere grene, in tokne, as yit it mai be sene, that sche schal duelle a maiden stille, and phebus failen of his wille. be suche ensamples, as thei stonde, mi sone, thou miht understonde, to hasten love is thing in vein, whan that fortune is therayein. to take where a man hath leve good is, and elles he mot leve; for whan a mannes happes failen, ther is non haste mai availen. mi fader, grant merci of this: bot while i se mi ladi is no tre, but halt hire oghne forme, ther mai me noman so enforme, to whether part fortune wende, that i unto mi lyves ende ne wol hire serven everemo. mi sone, sithen it is so, i seie nomor; bot in this cas bewar how it with phebus was. noght only upon loves chance, bot upon every governance which falleth unto mannes dede, folhaste is evere forto drede, and that a man good consail take, er he his pourpos undertake, for consail put folhaste aweie. now goode fader, i you preie, that forto wisse me the more, som good ensample upon this lore ye wolden telle of that is write, that i the betre mihte wite how i folhaste scholde eschuie, and the wisdom of conseil suie. mi sone, that thou miht enforme thi pacience upon the forme of old essamples, as thei felle, now understond what i schal telle. whan noble troie was belein and overcome, and hom ayein the gregois torned fro the siege, the kinges founde here oghne liege in manye places, as men seide, that hem forsoke and desobeide. among the whiche fell this cas to demephon and athemas, that weren kinges bothe tuo, and bothe weren served so: here lieges wolde hem noght receive, so that thei mote algates weyve to seche lond in other place, for there founde thei no grace. wherof they token hem to rede, and soghten frendes ate nede, and ech of hem asseureth other to helpe as to his oghne brother, to vengen hem of thilke oultrage and winne ayein here heritage. and thus thei ryde aboute faste to gete hem help, and ate laste thei hadden pouer sufficant, and maden thanne a covenant, that thei ne scholden no lif save, ne prest, ne clerc, ne lord, ne knave, ne wif, ne child, of that thei finde, which berth visage of mannes kinde, so that no lif schal be socoured, bot with the dedly swerd devoured: in such folhaste here ordinance thei schapen forto do vengance. whan this pourpos was wist and knowe among here host, tho was ther blowe of wordes many a speche aboute: of yonge men the lusti route were of this tale glad ynowh, ther was no care for the plowh; as thei that weren folhastif, thei ben acorded to the strif, and sein it mai noght be to gret to vengen hem of such forfet: thus seith the wilde unwise tonge of hem that there weren yonge. bot nestor, which was old and hor, the salve sih tofore the sor, as he that was of conseil wys: so that anon be his avis ther was a prive conseil nome. the lordes ben togedre come; this demephon and athemas here pourpos tolden, as it was; thei sieten alle stille and herde, was non bot nestor hem ansuerde. he bad hem, if thei wolde winne, they scholden se, er thei beginne, here ende, and sette here ferste entente, that thei hem after ne repente: and axeth hem this questioun, to what final conclusioun thei wolde regne kinges there, if that no poeple in londe were; and seith, it were a wonder wierde to sen a king become an hierde, wher no lif is bot only beste under the liegance of his heste; for who that is of man no king, the remenant is as no thing. he seith ek, if the pourpos holde to sle the poeple, as thei tuo wolde, whan thei it mihte noght restore, al grece it scholde abegge sore, to se the wilde beste wone wher whilom duelte a mannes sone: and for that cause he bad hem trete, and stinte of the manaces grete. betre is to winne be fair speche, he seith, than such vengance seche; for whanne a man is most above, him nedeth most to gete him love. whan nestor hath his tale seid, ayein him was no word withseid; it thoghte hem alle he seide wel: and thus fortune hire dedly whiel fro werre torneth into pes. bot forth thei wenten natheles; and whan the contres herde sein how that here kinges be besein of such a pouer as thei ladde, was non so bold that hem ne dradde, and forto seche pes and grith thei sende and preide anon forthwith, so that the kinges ben appesed, and every mannes herte is esed; al was foryete and noght recorded. and thus thei ben togedre acorded; the kinges were ayein received, and pes was take and wraththe weived, and al thurgh conseil which was good of him that reson understod. be this ensample, sone, attempre thin herte and let no will distempre thi wit, and do nothing be myht which mai be do be love and riht. folhaste is cause of mochel wo; forthi, mi sone, do noght so. and as touchende of homicide which toucheth unto loves side, fulofte it falleth unavised thurgh will, which is noght wel assised, whan wit and reson ben aweie and that folhaste is in the weie, wherof hath falle gret vengance. forthi tak into remembrance to love in such a maner wise that thou deserve no juise: for wel i wot, thou miht noght lette, that thou ne schalt thin herte sette to love, wher thou wolt or non; bot if thi wit be overgon, so that it torne into malice, ther wot noman of thilke vice, what peril that ther mai befalle: wherof a tale amonges alle, which is gret pite forto hiere, i thenke forto tellen hiere, that thou such moerdre miht withstonde, whan thou the tale hast understonde. of troie at thilke noble toun, whos fame stant yit of renoun and evere schal to mannes ere, the siege laste longe there, er that the greks it mihten winne, whil priamus was king therinne; bot of the greks that lyhe aboute agamenon ladde al the route. this thing is knowen overal, bot yit i thenke in special to my matiere therupon telle in what wise agamenon, thurgh chance which mai noght be weived, of love untrewe was deceived. an old sawe is, "who that is slyh in place where he mai be nyh, he makth the ferre lieve loth": of love and thus fulofte it goth. ther while agamenon batailleth to winne troie, and it assailleth, fro home and was long time ferr, egistus drowh his qweene nerr, and with the leiser which he hadde this ladi at his wille he ladde: climestre was hire rihte name, sche was therof gretli to blame, to love there it mai noght laste. bot fell to meschief ate laste; for whan this noble worthi kniht fro troie cam, the ferste nyht that he at home abedde lay, egistus, longe er it was day, as this climestre him hadde asent, and weren bothe of on assent, be treson slowh him in his bedd. bot moerdre, which mai noght ben hedd, sprong out to every mannes ere, wherof the lond was full of fere. agamenon hath be this qweene a sone, and that was after sene; bot yit as thanne he was of yowthe, a babe, which no reson cowthe, and as godd wolde, it fell him thus. a worthi kniht taltabius this yonge child hath in kepinge, and whan he herde of this tidinge, of this treson, of this misdede, he gan withinne himself to drede, in aunter if this false egiste upon him come, er he it wiste, to take and moerdre of his malice this child, which he hath to norrice: and for that cause in alle haste out of the lond he gan him haste and to the king of crete he strawhte and him this yonge lord betawhte, and preide him for his fader sake that he this child wolde undertake and kepe him til he be of age, so as he was of his lignage; and tolde him over al the cas, how that his fadre moerdred was, and hou egistus, as men seide, was king, to whom the lond obeide. and whanne ydomeneux the king hath understondinge of this thing, which that this kniht him hadde told, he made sorwe manyfold, and tok this child into his warde, and seide he wolde him kepe and warde, til that he were of such a myht to handle a swerd and ben a knyht, to venge him at his oghne wille. and thus horestes duelleth stille, such was the childes rihte name, which after wroghte mochel schame in vengance of his fader deth. the time of yeres overgeth, that he was man of brede and lengthe, of wit, of manhod and of strengthe, a fair persone amonges alle. and he began to clepe and calle, as he which come was to manne, unto the king of crete thanne, preiende that he wolde him make a kniht and pouer with him take, for lengere wolde he noght beleve, he seith, bot preith the king of leve to gon and cleyme his heritage and vengen him of thilke oultrage which was unto his fader do. the king assenteth wel therto, with gret honour and knyht him makth, and gret pouer to him betakth, and gan his journe forto caste: so that horestes ate laste his leve tok and forth he goth. as he that was in herte wroth, his ferste pleinte to bemene, unto the cite of athene he goth him forth and was received, so there was he noght deceived. the duc and tho that weren wise thei profren hem to his servise; and he hem thonketh of here profre and seith himself he wol gon offre unto the goddes for his sped, as alle men him yeven red. so goth he to the temple forth: of yiftes that be mochel worth his sacrifice and his offringe he made; and after his axinge he was ansuerd, if that he wolde his stat recovere, thanne he scholde upon his moder do vengance so cruel, that the remembrance therof mihte everemore abide, as sche that was an homicide and of hire oghne lord moerdrice. horestes, which of thilke office was nothing glad, as thanne he preide unto the goddes there and seide that thei the juggement devise, how sche schal take the juise. and therupon he hadde ansuere, that he hire pappes scholde of tere out of hire brest his oghne hondes, and for ensample of alle londes with hors sche scholde be todrawe, til houndes hadde hire bones gnawe withouten eny sepulture: this was a wofull aventure. and whan horestes hath al herd, how that the goddes have ansuerd, forth with the strengthe which he ladde the duc and his pouer he hadde, and to a cite forth thei gon, the which was cleped cropheon, where as phoieus was lord and sire, which profreth him withouten hyre his help and al that he mai do, as he that was riht glad therto, to grieve his mortiel enemy: and tolde hem certein cause why, how that egiste in mariage his dowhter whilom of full age forlai, and afterward forsok, whan he horestes moder tok. men sein, "old senne newe schame": thus more and more aros the blame ayein egiste on every side. horestes with his host to ride began, and phoieus with hem wente; i trowe egiste him schal repente. thei riden forth unto micene, wher lay climestre thilke qweene, the which horestes moder is: and whan sche herde telle of this, the gates weren faste schet, and thei were of here entre let. anon this cite was withoute belein and sieged al aboute, and evere among thei it assaile, fro day to nyht and so travaile, til ate laste thei it wonne; tho was ther sorwe ynowh begonne. horestes dede his moder calle anon tofore the lordes alle and ek tofor the poeple also, to hire and tolde his tale tho, and seide, "o cruel beste unkinde, how mihtest thou thin herte finde, for eny lust of loves drawhte, that thou acordest to the slawhte of him which was thin oghne lord? thi treson stant of such record, thou miht thi werkes noght forsake; so mot i for mi fader sake vengance upon thi bodi do, as i comanded am therto. unkindely for thou hast wroght, unkindeliche it schal be boght, the sone schal the moder sle, for that whilom thou seidest yee to that thou scholdest nay have seid." and he with that his hond hath leid upon his moder brest anon, and rente out fro the bare bon hire pappes bothe and caste aweie amiddes in the carte weie, and after tok the dede cors and let it drawe awey with hors unto the hound and to the raven; sche was non other wise graven. egistus, which was elles where, tidinges comen to his ere how that micenes was belein, bot what was more herd he noght sein; with gret manace and mochel bost he drowh pouer and made an host and cam in rescousse of the toun. bot al the sleyhte of his tresoun horestes wiste it be aspie, and of his men a gret partie he made in buisshement abide, to waite on him in such a tide that he ne mihte here hond ascape: and in this wise as he hath schape the thing befell, so that egiste was take, er he himself it wiste, and was forth broght hise hondes bounde, as whan men han a tretour founde. and tho that weren with him take, whiche of tresoun were overtake, togedre in o sentence falle; bot false egiste above hem alle was demed to diverse peine, the worste that men cowthe ordeigne, and so forth after be the lawe he was unto the gibet drawe, where he above alle othre hongeth, as to a tretour it belongeth. tho fame with hire swifte wynges aboute flyh and bar tidinges, and made it cowth in alle londes how that horestes with hise hondes climestre his oghne moder slowh. some sein he dede wel ynowh, and som men sein he dede amis, diverse opinion ther is: that sche is ded thei speken alle, bot pleinli hou it is befalle, the matiere in so litel throwe in soth ther mihte noman knowe bot thei that weren ate dede: and comunliche in every nede the worste speche is rathest herd and lieved, til it be ansuerd. the kinges and the lordes grete begonne horestes forto threte to puten him out of his regne: "he is noght worthi forto regne, the child which slowh his moder so," thei saide; and therupon also the lordes of comun assent a time sette of parlement, and to athenes king and lord togedre come of on accord, to knowe hou that the sothe was: so that horestes in this cas thei senden after, and he com. king menelay the wordes nom and axeth him of this matiere: and he, that alle it mihten hiere, ansuerde and tolde his tale alarge, and hou the goddes in his charge comanded him in such a wise his oghne hond to do juise. and with this tale a duc aros, which was a worthi kniht of los, his name was meneste�s, and seide unto the lordes thus: "the wreeche which horeste dede, it was thing of the goddes bede, and nothing of his crualte; and if ther were of mi degree in al this place such a kniht that wolde sein it was no riht, i wole it with my bodi prove." and therupon he caste his glove, and ek this noble duc alleide ful many an other skile, and seide sche hadde wel deserved wreche, ferst for the cause of spousebreche, and after wroghte in such a wise that al the world it oghte agrise, whan that sche for so foul a vice was of hire oghne lord moerdrice. thei seten alle stille and herde, bot therto was noman ansuerde, it thoghte hem alle he seide skile, ther is noman withseie it wile; whan thei upon the reson musen, horestes alle thei excusen: so that with gret solempnete he was unto his dignete received, and coroned king. and tho befell a wonder thing: egiona, whan sche this wiste, which was the dowhter of egiste and soster on the moder side to this horeste, at thilke tide, whan sche herde how hir brother spedde, for pure sorwe, which hire ledde, that he ne hadde ben exiled, sche hath hire oghne lif beguiled anon and hyng hireselve tho. it hath and schal ben everemo, to moerdre who that wole assente, he mai noght faille to repente: this false egiona was on, which forto moerdre agamenon yaf hire acord and hire assent, so that be goddes juggement, thogh that non other man it wolde, sche tok hire juise as sche scholde; and as sche to an other wroghte, vengance upon hireself sche soghte, and hath of hire unhappi wit a moerdre with a moerdre quit. such is of moerdre the vengance. forthi, mi sone, in remembrance of this ensample tak good hiede: for who that thenkth his love spiede with moerdre, he schal with worldes schame himself and ek his love schame. mi fader, of this aventure which ye have told, i you assure min herte is sory forto hiere, bot only for i wolde lere what is to done, and what to leve. and over this now be your leve, that ye me wolden telle i preie, if ther be lieffull eny weie withoute senne a man to sle. mi sone, in sondri wise ye. what man that is of traiterie, of moerdre or elles robberie atteint, the jugge schal noght lette, bot he schal slen of pure dette, and doth gret senne, if that he wonde. for who that lawe hath upon honde, and spareth forto do justice for merci, doth noght his office, that he his mercy so bewareth, whan for o schrewe which he spareth a thousand goode men he grieveth: with such merci who that believeth to plese god, he is deceived, or elles resoun mot be weyved. the lawe stod er we were bore, how that a kinges swerd is bore in signe that he schal defende his trewe poeple and make an ende of suche as wolden hem devoure. lo thus, my sone, to socoure the lawe and comun riht to winne, a man mai sle withoute sinne, and do therof a gret almesse, so forto kepe rihtwisnesse. and over this for his contre in time of werre a man is fre himself, his hous and ek his lond defende with his oghne hond, and slen, if that he mai no bet, after the lawe which is set. now, fader, thanne i you beseche of hem that dedly werres seche in worldes cause and scheden blod, if such an homicide is good. mi sone, upon thi question the trowthe of myn opinion, als ferforth as my wit arecheth and as the pleine lawe techeth, i woll thee telle in evidence, to rewle with thi conscience. the hihe god of his justice that ilke foule horrible vice of homicide he hath forbede, be moi ses as it was bede. whan goddes sone also was bore, he sende hise anglis doun therfore, whom the schepherdes herden singe, pes to the men of welwillinge in erthe be among ous here. so forto speke in this matiere after the lawe of charite, ther schal no dedly werre be: and ek nature it hath defended and in hir lawe pes comended, which is the chief of mannes welthe, of mannes lif, of mannes helthe. bot dedly werre hath his covine of pestilence and of famine, of poverte and of alle wo, wherof this world we blamen so, which now the werre hath under fote, til god himself therof do bote. for alle thing which god hath wroght in erthe, werre it bringth to noght: the cherche is brent, the priest is slain, the wif, the maide is ek forlain, the lawe is lore and god unserved: i not what mede he hath deserved that suche werres ledeth inne. if that he do it forto winne, ferst to acompte his grete cost forth with the folk that he hath lost, as to the wordes rekeninge ther schal he finde no winnynge; and if he do it to pourchace the hevene mede, of such a grace i can noght speke, and natheles crist hath comanded love and pes, and who that worcheth the revers, i trowe his mede is ful divers. and sithen thanne that we finde that werres in here oghne kinde ben toward god of no decerte, and ek thei bringen in poverte of worldes good, it is merveile among the men what it mai eyle, that thei a pes ne conne sette. i trowe senne be the lette, and every mede of senne is deth; so wot i nevere hou that it geth: bot we that ben of o believe among ousself, this wolde i lieve, that betre it were pes to chese, than so be double weie lese. i not if that it now so stonde, bot this a man mai understonde, who that these olde bokes redeth, that coveitise is on which ledeth, and broghte ferst the werres inne. at grece if that i schal beginne, ther was it proved hou it stod: to perce, which was ful of good, thei maden werre in special, and so thei deden overal, wher gret richesse was in londe, so that thei leften nothing stonde unwerred, bot onliche archade. for there thei no werres made, be cause it was bareigne and povere, wherof thei mihten noght recovere; and thus poverte was forbore, he that noght hadde noght hath lore. bot yit it is a wonder thing, whan that a riche worthi king, or other lord, what so he be, wol axe and cleyme proprete in thing to which he hath no riht, bot onliche of his grete miht: for this mai every man wel wite, that bothe kinde and lawe write expressly stonden therayein. bot he mot nedes somwhat sein, althogh ther be no reson inne, which secheth cause forto winne: for wit that is with will oppressed, whan coveitise him hath adressed, and alle resoun put aweie, he can wel finde such a weie to werre, where as evere him liketh, wherof that he the world entriketh, that many a man of him compleigneth: bot yit alwei som cause he feigneth, and of his wrongful herte he demeth that al is wel, what evere him semeth, be so that he mai winne ynowh. for as the trew man to the plowh only to the gaignage entendeth, riht so the werreiour despendeth his time and hath no conscience. and in this point for evidence of hem that suche werres make, thou miht a gret ensample take, how thei her tirannie excusen of that thei wrongfull werres usen, and how thei stonde of on acord, the souldeour forth with the lord, the povere man forth with the riche, as of corage thei ben liche, to make werres and to pile for lucre and for non other skyle: wherof a propre tale i rede, as it whilom befell in dede. of him whom al this erthe dradde, whan he the world so overladde thurgh werre, as it fortuned is, king alisandre, i rede this; how in a marche, where he lay, it fell per chance upon a day a rovere of the see was nome, which many a man hadde overcome and slain and take here good aweie: this pilour, as the bokes seie, a famous man in sondri stede was of the werkes whiche he dede. this prisoner tofor the king was broght, and there upon this thing in audience he was accused: and he his dede hath noght excused, bot preith the king to don him riht, and seith, "sire, if i were of miht, i have an herte lich to thin; for if the pouer were myn, mi will is most in special to rifle and geten overal the large worldes good aboute. bot for i lede a povere route and am, as who seith, at meschief, the name of pilour and of thief i bere; and thou, which routes grete miht lede and take thi beyete, and dost riht as i wolde do, thi name is nothing cleped so, bot thou art named emperour. oure dedes ben of o colour and in effect of o decerte, bot thi richesse and my poverte tho ben noght taken evene liche. and natheles he that is riche this dai, tomorwe he mai be povere; and in contraire also recovere a povere man to gret richesse men sen: forthi let rihtwisnesse be peised evene in the balance. the king his hardi contienance behield, and herde hise wordes wise, and seide unto him in this wise: "thin ansuere i have understonde, wherof my will is, that thou stonde in mi service and stille abide." and forth withal the same tide he hath him terme of lif withholde, the mor and for he schal ben holde, he made him kniht and yaf him lond, which afterward was of his hond and orped kniht in many a stede, and gret prouesce of armes dede, as the croniqes it recorden. and in this wise thei acorden, the whiche of o condicioun be set upon destruccioun: such capitein such retenue. bot forto se to what issue the thing befalleth ate laste, it is gret wonder that men caste here herte upon such wrong to winne, wher no beyete mai ben inne, and doth desese on every side: bot whan reson is put aside and will governeth the corage, the faucon which that fleth ramage and soeffreth nothing in the weie, wherof that he mai take his preie, is noght mor set upon ravine, than thilke man which his covine hath set in such a maner wise: for al the world ne mai suffise to will which is noght resonable. wherof ensample concordable lich to this point of which i meene, was upon alisandre sene, which hadde set al his entente, so as fortune with him wente, that reson mihte him non governe, bot of his will he was so sterne, that al the world he overran and what him list he tok and wan. in ynde the superiour whan that he was ful conquerour, and hadde his wilful pourpos wonne of al this erthe under the sonne, this king homward to macedoine, whan that he cam to babiloine, and wende most in his empire, as he which was hol lord and sire, in honour forto be received, most sodeinliche he was deceived, and with strong puison envenimed. and as he hath the world mistimed noght as he scholde with his wit, noght as he wolde it was aquit. thus was he slain that whilom slowh, and he which riche was ynowh this dai, tomorwe he hadde noght: and in such wise as he hath wroght in destorbance of worldes pes, his werre he fond thanne endeles, in which for evere desconfit he was. lo now, for what profit of werre it helpeth forto ryde, for coveitise and worldes pride to sle the worldes men aboute, as bestes whiche gon theroute. for every lif which reson can oghth wel to knowe that a man ne scholde thurgh no tirannie lich to these othre bestes die, til kinde wolde for him sende. i not hou he it mihte amende, which takth awei for everemore the lif that he mai noght restore. forthi, mi sone, in alle weie be wel avised, i thee preie, of slawhte er that thou be coupable withoute cause resonable. mi fader, understonde it is, that ye have seid; bot over this i prei you tell me nay or yee, to passe over the grete see to werre and sle the sarazin, is that the lawe? sone myn, to preche and soffre for the feith, that have i herd the gospell seith; bot forto slee, that hiere i noght. crist with his oghne deth hath boght alle othre men, and made hem fre, in tokne of parfit charite; and after that he tawhte himselve, whan he was ded, these othre tuelve of hise apostles wente aboute the holi feith to prechen oute, wherof the deth in sondri place thei soffre, and so god of his grace the feith of crist hath mad aryse: bot if thei wolde in other wise be werre have broght in the creance, it hadde yit stonde in balance. and that mai proven in the dede; for what man the croniqes rede, fro ferst that holi cherche hath weyved to preche, and hath the swerd received, wherof the werres ben begonne, a gret partie of that was wonne to cristes feith stant now miswent: godd do therof amendement, so as he wot what is the beste. bot, sone, if thou wolt live in reste of conscience wel assised, er that thou sle, be wel avised: for man, as tellen ous the clerkes, hath god above alle ertheli werkes ordeined to be principal, and ek of soule in special he is mad lich to the godhiede. so sit it wel to taken hiede and forto loke on every side, er that thou falle in homicide, which senne is now so general, that it welnyh stant overal, in holi cherche and elles where. bot al the while it stant so there, the world mot nede fare amis: for whan the welle of pite is thurgh coveitise of worldes good defouled with schedinge of blod, the remenant of folk aboute unethe stonden eny doute to werre ech other and to slee. so is it all noght worth a stree, the charite wherof we prechen, for we do nothing as we techen: and thus the blinde conscience of pes hath lost thilke evidence which crist upon this erthe tawhte. now mai men se moerdre and manslawhte lich as it was be daies olde, whan men the sennes boghte and solde. in grece afore cristes feith, i rede, as the cronique seith, touchende of this matiere thus, in thilke time hou pele�s his oghne brother phocus slowh; bot for he hadde gold ynowh to yive, his senne was despensed with gold, wherof it was compensed: achastus, which with venus was hire priest, assoilede in that cas, al were ther no repentance. and as the bok makth remembrance, it telleth of medee also; of that sche slowh her sones tuo, ege�s in the same plit hath mad hire of hire senne quit. the sone ek of amphioras, whos rihte name alme�s was, his moder slowh, eriphile; bot achilo the priest and he, so as the bokes it recorden, for certein somme of gold acorden that thilke horrible sinfull dede assoiled was. and thus for mede of worldes good it falleth ofte that homicide is set alofte hiere in this lif; bot after this ther schal be knowe how that it is of hem that suche thinges werche, and hou also that holi cherche let suche sennes passe quyte, and how thei wole hemself aquite of dedly werres that thei make. for who that wolde ensample take, the lawe which is naturel be weie of kinde scheweth wel that homicide in no degree, which werreth ayein charite, among the men ne scholde duelle. for after that the bokes telle, to seche in al this worldesriche, men schal noght finde upon his liche a beste forto take his preie: and sithen kinde hath such a weie, thanne is it wonder of a man, which kynde hath and resoun can, that he wol owther more or lasse his kinde and resoun overpasse, and sle that is to him semblable. so is the man noght resonable ne kinde, and that is noght honeste, whan he is worse than a beste. among the bokes whiche i finde solyns spekth of a wonder kinde, and seith of fowhles ther is on, which hath a face of blod and bon lich to a man in resemblance. and if it falle him so per chance, as he which is a fowhl of preie, that he a man finde in his weie, he wol him slen, if that he mai: bot afterward the same dai, whan he hath eten al his felle, and that schal be beside a welle, in which whan he wol drinke take, of his visage and seth the make that he hath slain, anon he thenketh of his misdede, and it forthenketh so gretly, that for pure sorwe he liveth noght til on the morwe. be this ensample it mai well suie that man schal homicide eschuie, for evere is merci good to take, bot if the lawe it hath forsake and that justice is therayein. for ofte time i have herd sein amonges hem that werres hadden, that thei som while here cause ladden be merci, whan thei mihte have slain, wherof that thei were after fain: and, sone, if that thou wolt recorde the vertu of misericorde, thou sihe nevere thilke place, where it was used, lacke grace. for every lawe and every kinde the mannes wit to merci binde; and namely the worthi knihtes, whan that thei stonden most uprihtes and ben most mihti forto grieve, thei scholden thanne most relieve him whom thei mihten overthrowe, as be ensample a man mai knowe. he mai noght failen of his mede that hath merci: for this i rede, in a cronique and finde thus. whan achilles with telaphus his sone toward troie were, it fell hem, er thei comen there, ayein theucer the king of mese to make werre and forto sese his lond, as thei that wolden regne and theucer pute out of his regne. and thus the marches thei assaile, bot theucer yaf to hem bataille; thei foghte on bothe sides faste, bot so it hapneth ate laste, this worthi grek, this achilles, the king among alle othre ches: as he that was cruel and fell, with swerd in honde on him he fell, and smot him with a dethes wounde, that he unhorsed fell to grounde. achilles upon him alyhte, and wolde anon, as he wel mihte, have slain him fullich in the place; bot thelaphus his fader grace for him besoghte, and for pite preith that he wolde lete him be, and caste his schield betwen hem tuo. achilles axeth him why so, and thelaphus his cause tolde, and seith that he is mochel holde, for whilom theucer in a stede gret grace and socour to him dede, and seith that he him wolde aquite, and preith his fader to respite. achilles tho withdrowh his hond; bot al the pouer of the lond, whan that thei sihe here king thus take, thei fledde and han the feld forsake: the grecs unto the chace falle, and for the moste part of alle of that contre the lordes grete thei toke, and wonne a gret beyete. and anon after this victoire the king, which hadde good memoire, upon the grete merci thoghte, which telaphus toward him wroghte, and in presence of al the lond he tok him faire be the hond, and in this wise he gan to seie: "mi sone, i mot be double weie love and desire thin encress; ferst for thi fader achilles whilom ful many dai er this, whan that i scholde have fare amis, rescousse dede in mi querele and kepte al myn astat in hele: how so ther falle now distance amonges ous, yit remembrance i have of merci which he dede as thanne: and thou now in this stede of gentilesce and of franchise hast do mercy the same wise. so wol i noght that eny time be lost of that thou hast do byme; for hou so this fortune falle, yit stant mi trust aboven alle, for the mercy which i now finde, that thou wolt after this be kinde: and for that such is myn espeir, as for my sone and for myn eir i thee receive, and al my lond i yive and sese into thin hond." and in this wise thei acorde, the cause was misericorde: the lordes dede here obeissance to thelaphus, and pourveance was mad so that he was coroned: and thus was merci reguerdoned, which he to theucer dede afore. lo, this ensample is mad therfore, that thou miht take remembrance, mi sone; and whan thou sest a chaunce, of other mennes passioun tak pite and compassioun, and let nothing to thee be lief, which to an other man is grief. and after this if thou desire to stonde ayein the vice of ire, consaile thee with pacience, and tak into thi conscience merci to be thi governour. so schalt thou fiele no rancour, wherof thin herte schal debate with homicide ne with hate for cheste or for malencolie: thou schalt be soft in compaignie withoute contek or folhaste: for elles miht thou longe waste thi time, er that thou have thi wille of love; for the weder stille men preise, and blame the tempestes. mi fader, i wol do youre hestes, and of this point ye have me tawht, toward miself the betre sawht i thenke be, whil that i live. bot for als moche as i am schrive of wraththe and al his circumstance, yif what you list to my penance, and asketh forthere of my lif, if otherwise i be gultif of eny thing that toucheth sinne. mi sone, er we departe atwinne, i schal behinde nothing leve. mi goode fader, be your leve thanne axeth forth what so you list, for i have in you such a trist, as ye that be my soule hele, that ye fro me wol nothing hele, for i schal telle you the trowthe. mi sone, art thou coupable of slowthe in eny point which to him longeth? my fader, of tho pointz me longeth to wite pleinly what thei meene, so that i mai me schrive cleene. now herkne, i schal the pointz devise; and understond wel myn aprise: for schrifte stant of no value to him that wol him noght vertue to leve of vice the folie: for word is wynd, bot the maistrie is that a man himself defende of thing which is noght to comende, wherof ben fewe now aday. and natheles, so as i may make unto thi memoire knowe, the pointz of slowthe thou schalt knowe. explicit liber tercius incipit liber quartus dicunt accidiam fore nutricem viciorum, torpet et in cunctis tarda que lenta bonis: que fieri possent hodie transfert piger in cras, furatoque prius ostia claudit equo. poscenti tardo negat emolumenta cupido, set venus in celeri ludit amore viri. upon the vices to procede after the cause of mannes dede, the ferste point of slowthe i calle lachesce, and is the chief of alle, and hath this propreliche of kinde, to leven alle thing behinde. of that he mihte do now hier he tarieth al the longe yer, and everemore he seith, "tomorwe"; and so he wol his time borwe, and wissheth after "god me sende," that whan he weneth have an ende, thanne is he ferthest to beginne. thus bringth he many a meschief inne unwar, til that he be meschieved, and may noght thanne be relieved. and riht so nowther mor ne lesse it stant of love and of lachesce: som time he slowtheth in a day that he nevere after gete mai. now, sone, as of this ilke thing, if thou have eny knowleching, that thou to love hast don er this, tell on. mi goode fader, yis. as of lachesce i am beknowe that i mai stonde upon his rowe, as i that am clad of his suite: for whanne i thoghte mi poursuite to make, and therto sette a day to speke unto the swete may, lachesce bad abide yit, and bar on hond it was no wit ne time forto speke as tho. thus with his tales to and fro mi time in tariinge he drowh: whan ther was time good ynowh, he seide, "an other time is bettre; thou schalt mowe senden hire a lettre, and per cas wryte more plein than thou be mowthe durstest sein." thus have i lete time slyde for slowthe, and kepte noght my tide, so that lachesce with his vice fulofte hath mad my wit so nyce, that what i thoghte speke or do with tariinge he hield me so, til whanne i wolde and mihte noght. i not what thing was in my thoght, or it was drede, or it was schame; bot evere in ernest and in game i wot ther is long time passed. bot yit is noght the love lassed, which i unto mi ladi have; for thogh my tunge is slowh to crave at alle time, as i have bede, min herte stant evere in o stede and axeth besiliche grace, the which i mai noght yit embrace. and god wot that is malgre myn; for this i wot riht wel a fin, mi grace comth so selde aboute, that is the slowthe of which i doute mor than of al the remenant which is to love appourtenant. and thus as touchende of lachesce, as i have told, i me confesse to you, mi fader, and beseche that furthermor ye wol me teche; and if ther be to this matiere som goodly tale forto liere how i mai do lachesce aweie, that ye it wolden telle i preie. to wisse thee, my sone, and rede, among the tales whiche i rede, an old ensample therupon now herkne, and i wol tellen on. ayein lachesce in loves cas i finde how whilom eneas, whom anchises to sone hadde, with gret navie, which he ladde fro troie, aryveth at cartage, wher for a while his herbergage he tok; and it betidde so, with hire which was qweene tho of the cite his aqueintance he wan, whos name in remembrance is yit, and dido sche was hote; which loveth eneas so hote upon the wordes whiche he seide, that al hire herte on him sche leide and dede al holi what he wolde. bot after that, as it be scholde, fro thenne he goth toward ytaile be schipe, and there his arivaile hath take, and schop him forto ryde. bot sche, which mai noght longe abide the hote peine of loves throwe, anon withinne a litel throwe a lettre unto hir kniht hath write, and dede him pleinly forto wite, if he made eny tariinge, to drecche of his ayeincomynge, that sche ne mihte him fiele and se, sche scholde stonde in such degre as whilom stod a swan tofore, of that sche hadde hire make lore; for sorwe a fethere into hire brain sche schof and hath hireselve slain; as king menander in a lay the sothe hath founde, wher sche lay sprantlende with hire wynges tweie, as sche which scholde thanne deie for love of him which was hire make. "and so schal i do for thi sake," this qweene seide, "wel i wot." lo, to enee thus sche wrot with many an other word of pleinte: bot he, which hadde hise thoghtes feinte towardes love and full of slowthe, his time lette, and that was rowthe: for sche, which loveth him tofore, desireth evere more and more, and whan sche sih him tarie so, hire herte was so full of wo, that compleignende manyfold sche hath hire oghne tale told, unto hirself and thus sche spak: "ha, who fond evere such a lak of slowthe in eny worthi kniht? now wot i wel my deth is diht thurgh him which scholde have be mi lif." bot forto stinten al this strif, thus whan sche sih non other bote, riht evene unto hire herte rote a naked swerd anon sche threste, and thus sche gat hireselve reste in remembrance of alle slowe. wherof, my sone, thou miht knowe how tariinge upon the nede in loves cause is forto drede; and that hath dido sore aboght, whos deth schal evere be bethoght. and overmore if i schal seche in this matiere an other spieche, in a cronique i finde write a tale which is good to wite. at troie whan king ulixes upon the siege among the pres of hem that worthi knihtes were abod long time stille there, in thilke time a man mai se how goodli that penolope, which was to him his trewe wif, of his lachesce was pleintif; wherof to troie sche him sende hire will be lettre, thus spekende: "mi worthi love and lord also, it is and hath ben evere so, that wher a womman is al one, it makth a man in his persone the more hardi forto wowe, in hope that sche wolde bowe to such thing as his wille were, whil that hire lord were elleswhere. and of miself i telle this; for it so longe passed is, sithe ferst than ye fro home wente, that welnyh every man his wente to there i am, whil ye ben oute, hath mad, and ech of hem aboute, which love can, my love secheth, with gret preiere and me besecheth: and some maken gret manace, that if thei mihten come in place, wher that thei mihte here wille have, ther is nothing me scholde save, that thei ne wolde werche thinges; and some tellen me tidynges that ye ben ded, and some sein that certeinly ye ben besein to love a newe and leve me. bot hou as evere that it be, i thonke unto the goddes alle, as yit for oght that is befalle mai noman do my chekes rede: bot natheles it is to drede, that lachesse in continuance fortune mihte such a chance, which noman after scholde amende." lo, thus this ladi compleignende a lettre unto hire lord hath write, and preyde him that he wolde wite and thenke hou that sche was al his, and that he tarie noght in this, bot that he wolde his love aquite, to hire ayeinward and noght wryte, bot come himself in alle haste, that he non other paper waste; so that he kepe and holde his trowthe withoute lette of eny slowthe. unto hire lord and love liege to troie, wher the grete siege was leid, this lettre was conveied. and he, which wisdom hath pourveied of al that to reson belongeth, with gentil herte it underfongeth: and whan he hath it overrad, in part he was riht inly glad, and ek in part he was desesed: bot love his herte hath so thorghsesed with pure ymaginacioun, that for non occupacioun which he can take on other side, he mai noght flitt his herte aside fro that his wif him hadde enformed; wherof he hath himself conformed with al the wille of his corage to schape and take the viage homward, what time that he mai: so that him thenketh of a day a thousand yer, til he mai se the visage of penolope, which he desireth most of alle. and whan the time is so befalle that troie was destruid and brent, he made non delaiement, bot goth him home in alle hihe, wher that he fond tofore his yhe his worthi wif in good astat: and thus was cessed the debat of love, and slowthe was excused, which doth gret harm, where it is used, and hindreth many a cause honeste. for of the grete clerc grossteste i rede how besy that he was upon clergie an hed of bras to forge, and make it forto telle of suche thinges as befelle. and sevene yeres besinesse he leyde, bot for the lachesse of half a minut of an houre, fro ferst that he began laboure he loste all that he hadde do. and otherwhile it fareth so, in loves cause who is slow, that he withoute under the wow be nyhte stant fulofte acold, which mihte, if that he hadde wold his time kept, have be withinne. bot slowthe mai no profit winne, bot he mai singe in his karole how latewar cam to the dole, wher he no good receive mihte. and that was proved wel be nyhte whilom of the maidenes fyve, whan thilke lord cam forto wyve: for that here oyle was aweie to lihte here lampes in his weie, here slowthe broghte it so aboute, fro him that thei ben schet withoute. wherof, my sone, be thou war, als ferforth as i telle dar. for love moste ben awaited: and if thou be noght wel affaited in love to eschuie slowthe, mi sone, forto telle trowthe, thou miht noght of thiself ben able to winne love or make it stable, all thogh thou mihtest love achieve. mi fader, that i mai wel lieve. bot me was nevere assigned place, wher yit to geten eny grace, ne me was non such time apointed; for thanne i wolde i were unjoynted of every lime that i have, if i ne scholde kepe and save min houre bothe and ek my stede, if my ladi it hadde bede. bot sche is otherwise avised than grante such a time assised; and natheles of mi lachesse ther hath be no defalte i gesse of time lost, if that i mihte: bot yit hire liketh noght alyhte upon no lure which i caste; for ay the more i crie faste, the lasse hire liketh forto hiere. so forto speke of this matiere, i seche that i mai noght finde, i haste and evere i am behinde, and wot noght what it mai amounte. bot, fader, upon myn acompte, which ye be sett to examine of schrifte after the discipline, sey what your beste conseil is. mi sone, my conseil is this: hou so it stonde of time go, do forth thi besinesse so, that no lachesce in the be founde: for slowthe is mihti to confounde the spied of every mannes werk. for many a vice, as seith the clerk, ther hongen upon slowthes lappe of suche as make a man mishappe, to pleigne and telle of hadde i wist. and therupon if that thee list to knowe of slowthes cause more, in special yit overmore ther is a vice full grevable to him which is therof coupable, and stant of alle vertu bare, hierafter as i schal declare. touchende of slowthe in his degre, ther is yit pusillamite, which is to seie in this langage, he that hath litel of corage and dar no mannes werk beginne: so mai he noght be resoun winne; for who that noght dar undertake, be riht he schal no profit take. bot of this vice the nature dar nothing sette in aventure, him lacketh bothe word and dede, wherof he scholde his cause spede: he woll no manhed understonde, for evere he hath drede upon honde: al is peril that he schal seie, him thenkth the wolf is in the weie, and of ymaginacioun he makth his excusacioun and feigneth cause of pure drede, and evere he faileth ate nede, til al be spilt that he with deleth. he hath the sor which noman heleth, the which is cleped lack of herte; thogh every grace aboute him sterte, he wol noght ones stere his fot; so that be resoun lese he mot, that wol noght auntre forto winne. and so forth, sone, if we beginne to speke of love and his servise, ther ben truantz in such a wise, that lacken herte, whan best were to speke of love, and riht for fere thei wexen doumb and dar noght telle, withoute soun as doth the belle, which hath no claper forto chyme; and riht so thei as for the tyme ben herteles withoute speche of love, and dar nothing beseche; and thus thei lese and winne noght. forthi, my sone, if thou art oght coupable as touchende of this slowthe, schrif thee therof and tell me trowthe. mi fader, i am al beknowe that i have ben on of tho slowe, as forto telle in loves cas. min herte is yit and evere was, as thogh the world scholde al tobreke, so ferful, that i dar noght speke of what pourpos that i have nome, whan i toward mi ladi come, bot let it passe and overgo. mi sone, do nomore so: for after that a man poursuieth to love, so fortune suieth, fulofte and yifth hire happi chance to him which makth continuance to preie love and to beseche; as be ensample i schal thee teche. i finde hou whilom ther was on, whos name was pymaleon, which was a lusti man of yowthe: the werkes of entaile he cowthe above alle othre men as tho; and thurgh fortune it fell him so, as he whom love schal travaile, he made an ymage of entaile lich to a womman in semblance of feture and of contienance, so fair yit nevere was figure. riht as a lyves creature sche semeth, for of yvor whyt he hath hire wroght of such delit, that sche was rody on the cheke and red on bothe hire lippes eke; wherof that he himself beguileth. for with a goodly lok sche smyleth, so that thurgh pure impression of his ymaginacion with al the herte of his corage his love upon this faire ymage he sette, and hire of love preide; bot sche no word ayeinward seide. the longe day, what thing he dede, this ymage in the same stede was evere bi, that ate mete he wolde hire serve and preide hire ete, and putte unto hire mowth the cuppe; and whan the bord was taken uppe, he hath hire into chambre nome, and after, whan the nyht was come, he leide hire in his bed al nakid. he was forwept, he was forwakid, he keste hire colde lippes ofte, and wissheth that thei weren softe, and ofte he rouneth in hire ere, and ofte his arm now hier now there he leide, as he hir wolde embrace, and evere among he axeth grace, as thogh sche wiste what he mente: and thus himself he gan tormente with such desese of loves peine, that noman mihte him more peine. bot how it were, of his penance he made such continuance fro dai to nyht, and preith so longe, that his preiere is underfonge, which venus of hire grace herde; be nyhte and whan that he worst ferde, and it lay in his nakede arm, the colde ymage he fieleth warm of fleissh and bon and full of lif. lo, thus he wan a lusti wif, which obeissant was at his wille; and if he wolde have holde him stille and nothing spoke, he scholde have failed: bot for he hath his word travailed and dorste speke, his love he spedde, and hadde al that he wolde abedde. for er thei wente thanne atwo, a knave child betwen hem two thei gete, which was after hote paphus, of whom yit hath the note a certein yle, which paphos men clepe, and of his name it ros. be this ensample thou miht finde that word mai worche above kinde. forthi, my sone, if that thou spare to speke, lost is al thi fare, for slowthe bringth in alle wo. and over this to loke also, the god of love is favorable to hem that ben of love stable, and many a wonder hath befalle: wherof to speke amonges alle, if that thee list to taken hede, therof a solein tale i rede, which i schal telle in remembraunce upon the sort of loves chaunce. the king ligdus upon a strif spak unto thelacuse his wif, which thanne was with childe grete; he swor it scholde noght be lete, that if sche have a dowhter bore, that it ne scholde be forlore and slain, wherof sche sory was. so it befell upon this cas, whan sche delivered scholde be, isis be nyhte in privete, which of childinge is the goddesse, cam forto helpe in that destresse, til that this lady was al smal, and hadde a dowhter forth withal; which the goddesse in alle weie bad kepe, and that thei scholden seie it were a sone: and thus iphis thei namede him, and upon this the fader was mad so to wene. and thus in chambre with the qweene this iphis was forthdrawe tho, and clothed and arraied so riht as a kinges sone scholde. til after, as fortune it wolde, whan it was of a ten yer age, him was betake in mariage a duckes dowhter forto wedde, which iante hihte, and ofte abedde these children leien, sche and sche, whiche of on age bothe be. so that withinne time of yeeres, togedre as thei ben pleiefieres, liggende abedde upon a nyht, nature, which doth every wiht upon hire lawe forto muse, constreigneth hem, so that thei use thing which to hem was al unknowe; wherof cupide thilke throwe tok pite for the grete love, and let do sette kinde above, so that hir lawe mai ben used, and thei upon here lust excused. for love hateth nothing more than thing which stant ayein the lore of that nature in kinde hath sett: forthi cupide hath so besett his grace upon this aventure, that he acordant to nature, whan that he syh the time best, that ech of hem hath other kest, transformeth iphe into a man, wherof the kinde love he wan of lusti yonge iante his wif; and tho thei ladde a merie lif, which was to kinde non offence. and thus to take an evidence, it semeth love is welwillende to hem that ben continuende with besy herte to poursuie thing which that is to love due. wherof, my sone, in this matiere thou miht ensample taken hiere, that with thi grete besinesse thou miht atteigne the richesse of love, if that ther be no slowthe. i dar wel seie be mi trowthe, als fer as i my witt can seche, mi fader, as for lacke of speche, bot so as i me schrof tofore, ther is non other time lore, wherof ther mihte ben obstacle to lette love of his miracle, which i beseche day and nyht. bot, fader, so as it is riht in forme of schrifte to beknowe what thing belongeth to the slowe, your faderhode i wolde preie, if ther be forthere eny weie touchende unto this ilke vice. mi sone, ye, of this office ther serveth on in special, which lost hath his memorial, so that he can no wit withholde in thing which he to kepe is holde, wherof fulofte himself he grieveth: and who that most upon him lieveth, whan that hise wittes ben so weyved, he mai full lihtly be deceived. to serve accidie in his office, ther is of slowthe an other vice, which cleped is foryetelnesse; that noght mai in his herte impresse of vertu which reson hath sett, so clene his wittes he foryet. for in the tellinge of his tale nomore his herte thanne his male hath remembrance of thilke forme, wherof he scholde his wit enforme as thanne, and yit ne wot he why. thus is his pourpos noght forthi forlore of that he wolde bidde, and skarsly if he seith the thridde to love of that he hadde ment: thus many a lovere hath be schent. tell on therfore, hast thou be oon of hem that slowthe hath so begon? ye, fader, ofte it hath be so, that whanne i am mi ladi fro and thenke untoward hire drawe, than cast i many a newe lawe and al the world torne up so doun, and so recorde i mi lecoun and wryte in my memorial what i to hire telle schal, riht al the matiere of mi tale: bot al nys worth a note schale; for whanne i come ther sche is, i have it al foryete ywiss; of that i thoghte forto telle i can noght thanne unethes spelle that i wende altherbest have rad, so sore i am of hire adrad. for as a man that sodeinli a gost behelde, so fare i; so that for feere i can noght gete mi witt, bot i miself foryete, that i wot nevere what i am, ne whider i schal, ne whenne i cam, bot muse as he that were amased. lich to the bok in which is rased the lettre, and mai nothing be rad, so ben my wittes overlad, that what as evere i thoghte have spoken, it is out fro myn herte stoken, and stonde, as who seith, doumb and def, that all nys worth an yvy lef, of that i wende wel have seid. and ate laste i make abreid, caste up myn hed and loke aboute, riht as a man that were in doute and wot noght wher he schal become. thus am i ofte al overcome, ther as i wende best to stonde: bot after, whanne i understonde, and am in other place al one, i make many a wofull mone unto miself, and speke so: "ha fol, wher was thin herte tho, whan thou thi worthi ladi syhe? were thou afered of hire yhe? for of hire hand ther is no drede: so wel i knowe hir wommanhede, that in hire is nomore oultrage than in a child of thre yeer age. whi hast thou drede of so good on, whom alle vertu hath begon, that in hire is no violence bot goodlihiede and innocence withouten spot of eny blame? ha, nyce herte, fy for schame] ha, couard herte of love unlered, wherof art thou so sore afered, that thou thi tunge soffrest frese, and wolt thi goode wordes lese, whan thou hast founde time and space? how scholdest thou deserve grace, whan thou thiself darst axe non, bot al thou hast foryete anon?" and thus despute i loves lore, bot help ne finde i noght the more, bot stomble upon myn oghne treine and make an ekinge of my peine. for evere whan i thenke among how al is on miself along, i seie, "o fol of alle foles, thou farst as he betwen tuo stoles that wolde sitte and goth to grounde. it was ne nevere schal be founde, betwen foryetelnesse and drede that man scholde any cause spede." and thus, myn holi fader diere, toward miself, as ye mai hiere, i pleigne of my foryetelnesse; bot elles al the besinesse, that mai be take of mannes thoght, min herte takth, and is thorghsoght to thenken evere upon that swete withoute slowthe, i you behete. for what so falle, or wel or wo, that thoght foryete i neveremo, wher so i lawhe or so i loure: noght half the minut of an houre ne mihte i lete out of my mende, bot if i thoghte upon that hende. therof me schal no slowthe lette, til deth out of this world me fette, althogh i hadde on such a ring, as moises thurgh his enchanting som time in ethiope made, whan that he tharbis weddid hade. which ring bar of oblivion the name, and that was be resoun that where it on a finger sat, anon his love he so foryat, as thogh he hadde it nevere knowe: and so it fell that ilke throwe, whan tharbis hadde it on hire hond, no knowlechinge of him sche fond, bot al was clene out of memoire, as men mai rede in his histoire; and thus he wente quit away, that nevere after that ilke day sche thoghte that ther was such on; al was foryete and overgon. bot in good feith so mai noght i: for sche is evere faste by, so nyh that sche myn herte toucheth, that for nothing that slowthe voucheth i mai foryete hire, lief ne loth; for overal, where as sche goth, min herte folwith hire aboute. thus mai i seie withoute doute, for bet, for wers, for oght, for noght, sche passeth nevere fro my thoght; bot whanne i am ther as sche is, min herte, as i you saide er this, som time of hire is sore adrad, and som time it is overglad, al out of reule and out of space. for whan i se hir goodli face and thenke upon hire hihe pris, as thogh i were in paradis, i am so ravisht of the syhte, that speke unto hire i ne myhte as for the time, thogh i wolde: for i ne mai my wit unfolde to finde o word of that i mene, bot al it is foryete clene; and thogh i stonde there a myle, al is foryete for the while, a tunge i have and wordes none. and thus i stonde and thenke al one of thing that helpeth ofte noght; bot what i hadde afore thoght to speke, whanne i come there, it is foryete, as noght ne were, and stonde amased and assoted, that of nothing which i have noted i can noght thanne a note singe, bot al is out of knowlechinge: thus, what for joie and what for drede, al is foryeten ate nede. so that, mi fader, of this slowthe i have you said the pleine trowthe; ye mai it as you list redresce: for thus stant my foryetelnesse and ek my pusillamite. sey now forth what you list to me, for i wol only do be you. mi sone, i have wel herd how thou hast seid, and that thou most amende: for love his grace wol noght sende to that man which dar axe non. for this we knowen everichon, a mannes thoght withoute speche god wot, and yit that men beseche his will is; for withoute bedes he doth his grace in fewe stedes: and what man that foryet himselve, among a thousand be noght tuelve, that wol him take in remembraunce, bot lete him falle and take his chaunce. forthi pull up a besi herte, mi sone, and let nothing asterte of love fro thi besinesse: for touchinge of foryetelnesse, which many a love hath set behinde, a tale of gret ensample i finde, wherof it is pite to wite in the manere as it is write. king demephon, whan he be schipe to troieward with felaschipe sailende goth, upon his weie it hapneth him at rodopeie, as eolus him hadde blowe, to londe, and rested for a throwe. and fell that ilke time thus, the dowhter of ligurgius, which qweene was of the contre, was sojournende in that cite withinne a castell nyh the stronde, wher demephon cam up to londe. phillis sche hihte, and of yong age and of stature and of visage sche hadde al that hire best besemeth. of demephon riht wel hire qwemeth, whan he was come, and made him chiere; and he, that was of his manere a lusti knyht, ne myhte asterte that he ne sette on hire his herte; so that withinne a day or tuo he thoghte, how evere that it go, he wolde assaie the fortune, and gan his herte to commune with goodly wordes in hire ere; and forto put hire out of fere, he swor and hath his trowthe pliht to be for evere hire oghne knyht. and thus with hire he stille abod, ther while his schip on anker rod, and hadde ynowh of time and space to speke of love and seche grace. this ladi herde al that he seide, and hou he swor and hou he preide, which was as an enchantement to hire, that was innocent: as thogh it were trowthe and feith, sche lieveth al that evere he seith, and as hire infortune scholde, sche granteth him al that he wolde. thus was he for the time in joie, til that he scholde go to troie; bot tho sche made mochel sorwe, and he his trowthe leith to borwe to come, if that he live may, ayein withinne a monthe day, and therupon thei kisten bothe: bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe, to schipe he goth and forth he wente to troie, as was his ferste entente. the daies gon, the monthe passeth, hire love encresceth and his lasseth, for him sche lefte slep and mete, and he his time hath al foryete; so that this wofull yonge qweene, which wot noght what it mihte meene, a lettre sende and preide him come, and seith how sche is overcome with strengthe of love in such a wise, that sche noght longe mai suffise to liven out of his presence; and putte upon his conscience the trowthe which he hath behote, wherof sche loveth him so hote, sche seith, that if he lengere lette of such a day as sche him sette, sche scholde sterven in his slowthe, which were a schame unto his trowthe. this lettre is forth upon hire sonde, wherof somdiel confort on honde sche tok, as she that wolde abide and waite upon that ilke tyde which sche hath in hire lettre write. bot now is pite forto wite, as he dede erst, so he foryat his time eftsone and oversat. bot sche, which mihte noght do so, the tyde awayteth everemo, and caste hire yhe upon the see: somtime nay, somtime yee, somtime he cam, somtime noght, thus sche desputeth in hire thoght and wot noght what sche thenke mai; bot fastende al the longe day sche was into the derke nyht, and tho sche hath do set up lyht in a lanterne on hih alofte upon a tour, wher sche goth ofte, in hope that in his cominge he scholde se the liht brenninge, wherof he mihte his weies rihte to come wher sche was be nyhte. bot al for noght, sche was deceived, for venus hath hire hope weyved, and schewede hire upon the sky how that the day was faste by, so that withinne a litel throwe the daies lyht sche mihte knowe. tho sche behield the see at large; and whan sche sih ther was no barge ne schip, als ferr as sche may kenne, doun fro the tour sche gan to renne into an herber all hire one, wher many a wonder woful mone sche made, that no lif it wiste, as sche which all hire joie miste, that now sche swouneth, now sche pleigneth, and al hire face sche desteigneth with teres, whiche, as of a welle the stremes, from hire yhen felle; so as sche mihte and evere in on sche clepede upon demephon, and seide, "helas, thou slowe wiht, wher was ther evere such a knyht, that so thurgh his ungentilesce of slowthe and of foryetelnesse ayein his trowthe brak his stevene?" and tho hire yhe up to the hevene sche caste, and seide, "o thou unkinde, hier schalt thou thurgh thi slowthe finde, if that thee list to come and se, a ladi ded for love of thee, so as i schal myselve spille; whom, if it hadde be thi wille, thou mihtest save wel ynowh." with that upon a grene bowh a ceinte of selk, which sche ther hadde, sche knette, and so hireself sche ladde, that sche aboute hire whyte swere it dede, and hyng hirselven there. wherof the goddes were amoeved, and demephon was so reproeved, that of the goddes providence was schape such an evidence evere afterward ayein the slowe, that phillis in the same throwe was schape into a notetre, that alle men it mihte se, and after phillis philliberd this tre was cleped in the yerd, and yit for demephon to schame into this dai it berth the name. this wofull chance how that it ferde anon as demephon it herde, and every man it hadde in speche, his sorwe was noght tho to seche; he gan his slowthe forto banne, bot it was al to late thanne. lo thus, my sone, miht thou wite ayein this vice how it is write; for noman mai the harmes gesse, that fallen thurgh foryetelnesse, wherof that i thi schrifte have herd. bot yit of slowthe hou it hath ferd in other wise i thenke oppose, if thou have gult, as i suppose. fulfild of slowthes essamplaire ther is yit on, his secretaire, and he is cleped negligence: which wol noght loke his evidence, wherof he mai be war tofore; bot whanne he hath his cause lore, thanne is he wys after the hond: whanne helpe may no maner bond, thanne ate ferste wolde he binde: thus everemore he stant behinde. whanne he the thing mai noght amende, thanne is he war, and seith at ende, "ha, wolde god i hadde knowe]" wherof bejaped with a mowe he goth, for whan the grete stiede is stole, thanne he taketh hiede, and makth the stable dore fast: thus evere he pleith an aftercast of al that he schal seie or do. he hath a manere eke also, him list noght lerne to be wys, for he set of no vertu pris bot as him liketh for the while; so fieleth he fulofte guile, whan that he weneth siker stonde. and thus thou miht wel understonde, mi sone, if thou art such in love, thou miht noght come at thin above of that thou woldest wel achieve. mi holi fader, as i lieve, i mai wel with sauf conscience excuse me of necgligence towardes love in alle wise: for thogh i be non of the wise, i am so trewly amerous, that i am evere curious of hem that conne best enforme to knowe and witen al the forme, what falleth unto loves craft. bot yit ne fond i noght the haft, which mihte unto that bladd acorde; for nevere herde i man recorde what thing it is that myhte availe to winne love withoute faile. yit so fer cowthe i nevere finde man that be resoun ne be kinde me cowthe teche such an art, that he ne failede of a part; and as toward myn oghne wit, controeve cowthe i nevere yit to finden eny sikernesse, that me myhte outher more or lesse of love make forto spede: for lieveth wel withoute drede, if that ther were such a weie, as certeinliche as i schal deie i hadde it lerned longe ago. bot i wot wel ther is non so: and natheles it may wel be, i am so rude in my degree and ek mi wittes ben so dulle, that i ne mai noght to the fulle atteigne to so hih a lore. bot this i dar seie overmore, althogh mi wit ne be noght strong, it is noght on mi will along, for that is besi nyht and day to lerne al that he lerne may, how that i mihte love winne: bot yit i am as to beginne of that i wolde make an ende, and for i not how it schal wende, that is to me mi moste sorwe. bot i dar take god to borwe, as after min entendement, non other wise necgligent thanne i yow seie have i noght be: forthi per seinte charite tell me, mi fader, what you semeth. in good feith, sone, wel me qwemeth, that thou thiself hast thus aquit toward this vice, in which no wit abide mai, for in an houre he lest al that he mai laboure the longe yer, so that men sein, what evere he doth it is in vein. for thurgh the slowthe of negligence ther was yit nevere such science ne vertu, which was bodely, that nys destruid and lost therby. ensample that it hath be so in boke i finde write also. phebus, which is the sonne hote, that schyneth upon erthe hote and causeth every lyves helthe, he hadde a sone in al his welthe, which pheton hihte, and he desireth and with his moder he conspireth, the which was cleped clemenee, for help and conseil, so that he his fader carte lede myhte upon the faire daies brihte. and for this thing thei bothe preide unto the fader, and he seide he wolde wel, bot forth withal thre pointz he bad in special unto his sone in alle wise, that he him scholde wel avise and take it as be weie of lore. ferst was, that he his hors to sore ne prike, and over that he tolde that he the renes faste holde; and also that he be riht war in what manere he lede his charr, that he mistake noght his gate, bot up avisement algate he scholde bere a siker yhe, that he to lowe ne to hyhe his carte dryve at eny throwe, wherof that he mihte overthrowe. and thus be phebus ordinance tok pheton into governance the sonnes carte, which he ladde: bot he such veine gloire hadde of that he was set upon hyh, that he his oghne astat ne syh thurgh negligence and tok non hiede; so mihte he wel noght longe spede. for he the hors withoute lawe the carte let aboute drawe wher as hem liketh wantounly, that ate laste sodeinly, for he no reson wolde knowe, this fyri carte he drof to lowe, and fyreth al the world aboute; wherof thei weren alle in doubte, and to the god for helpe criden of suche unhappes as betyden. phebus, which syh the necgligence, how pheton ayein his defence his charr hath drive out of the weie, ordeigneth that he fell aweie out of the carte into a flod and dreynte. lo now, hou it stod with him that was so necgligent, that fro the hyhe firmament, for that he wolde go to lowe, he was anon doun overthrowe. in hih astat it is a vice to go to lowe, and in service it grieveth forto go to hye, wherof a tale in poesie i finde, how whilom dedalus, which hadde a sone, and icharus he hihte, and thogh hem thoghte lothe, in such prison thei weren bothe with minotaurus, that aboute thei mihten nawher wenden oute; so thei begonne forto schape how thei the prison mihte ascape. this dedalus, which fro his yowthe was tawht and manye craftes cowthe, of fetheres and of othre thinges hath mad to fle diverse wynges for him and for his sone also; to whom he yaf in charge tho and bad him thenke therupon, how that his wynges ben set on with wex, and if he toke his flyhte to hyhe, al sodeinliche he mihte make it to melte with the sonne. and thus thei have her flyht begonne out of the prison faire and softe; and whan thei weren bothe alofte, this icharus began to monte, and of the conseil non accompte he sette, which his fader tawhte, til that the sonne his wynges cawhte, wherof it malt, and fro the heihte withouten help of eny sleihte he fell to his destruccion. and lich to that condicion ther fallen ofte times fele for lacke of governance in wele, als wel in love as other weie. now goode fader, i you preie, if ther be more in the matiere of slowthe, that i mihte it hiere. mi sone, and for thi diligence, which every mannes conscience be resoun scholde reule and kepe, if that thee list to taken kepe, i wol thee telle, aboven alle in whom no vertu mai befalle, which yifth unto the vices reste and is of slowe the sloweste. among these othre of slowthes kinde, which alle labour set behinde, and hateth alle besinesse, ther is yit on, which ydelnesse is cleped, and is the norrice in mannes kinde of every vice, which secheth eases manyfold. in wynter doth he noght for cold, in somer mai he noght for hete; so whether that he frese or swete, or he be inne, or he be oute, he wol ben ydel al aboute, bot if he pleie oght ate dees. for who as evere take fees and thenkth worschipe to deserve, ther is no lord whom he wol serve, as forto duelle in his servise, bot if it were in such a wise, of that he seth per aventure that be lordschipe and coverture he mai the more stonde stille, and use his ydelnesse at wille. for he ne wol no travail take to ryde for his ladi sake, bot liveth al upon his wisshes; and as a cat wolde ete fisshes withoute wetinge of his cles, so wolde he do, bot natheles he faileth ofte of that he wolde. mi sone, if thou of such a molde art mad, now tell me plein thi schrifte. nay, fader, god i yive a yifte. that toward love, as be mi wit, al ydel was i nevere yit, ne nevere schal, whil i mai go. now, sone, tell me thanne so, what hast thou don of besischipe to love and to the ladischipe of hire which thi ladi is? mi fader, evere yit er this in every place, in every stede, what so mi lady hath me bede, with al myn herte obedient i have therto be diligent. and if so is sche bidde noght, what thing that thanne into my thoght comth ferst of that i mai suffise, i bowe and profre my servise, somtime in chambre, somtime in halle, riht as i se the times falle. and whan sche goth to hiere masse, that time schal noght overpasse, that i naproche hir ladihede, in aunter if i mai hire lede unto the chapelle and ayein. thanne is noght al mi weie in vein, somdiel i mai the betre fare, whan i, that mai noght fiele hir bare, mai lede hire clothed in myn arm: bot afterward it doth me harm of pure ymaginacioun; for thanne this collacioun i make unto miselven ofte, and seie, "ha lord, hou sche is softe, how sche is round, hou sche is smal] now wolde god i hadde hire al withoute danger at mi wille]" and thanne i sike and sitte stille, of that i se mi besi thoght is torned ydel into noght. bot for al that lete i ne mai, whanne i se time an other dai, that i ne do my besinesse unto mi ladi worthinesse. for i therto mi wit afaite to se the times and awaite what is to done and what to leve: and so, whan time is, be hir leve, what thing sche bit me don, i do, and wher sche bidt me gon, i go, and whanne hir list to clepe, i come. thus hath sche fulliche overcome min ydelnesse til i sterve, so that i mot hire nedes serve, for as men sein, nede hath no lawe. thus mot i nedly to hire drawe, i serve, i bowe, i loke, i loute, min yhe folweth hire aboute, what so sche wole so wol i, whan sche wol sitte, i knele by, and whan sche stant, than wol i stonde: bot whan sche takth hir werk on honde of wevinge or enbrouderie, than can i noght bot muse and prie upon hir fingres longe and smale, and now i thenke, and now i tale, and now i singe, and now i sike, and thus mi contienance i pike. and if it falle, as for a time hir liketh noght abide bime, bot besien hire on other thinges, than make i othre tariinges to dreche forth the longe dai, for me is loth departe away. and thanne i am so simple of port, that forto feigne som desport i pleie with hire litel hound now on the bedd, now on the ground, now with hir briddes in the cage; for ther is non so litel page, ne yit so simple a chamberere, that i ne make hem alle chere, al for thei scholde speke wel: thus mow ye sen mi besi whiel, that goth noght ydeliche aboute. and if hir list to riden oute on pelrinage or other stede, i come, thogh i be noght bede, and take hire in min arm alofte and sette hire in hire sadel softe, and so forth lede hire be the bridel, for that i wolde noght ben ydel. and if hire list to ride in char, and thanne i mai therof be war, anon i schape me to ryde riht evene be the chares side; and as i mai, i speke among, and otherwhile i singe a song, which ovide in his bokes made, and seide, "o whiche sorwes glade, o which wofull prosperite belongeth to the proprete of love, who so wole him serve] and yit therfro mai noman swerve, that he ne mot his lawe obeie." and thus i ryde forth mi weie, and am riht besi overal with herte and with mi body al, as i have said you hier tofore. my goode fader, tell therfore, of ydelnesse if i have gilt. mi sone, bot thou telle wilt oght elles than i mai now hiere, thou schalt have no penance hiere. and natheles a man mai se, how now adayes that ther be ful manye of suche hertes slowe, that wol noght besien hem to knowe what thing love is, til ate laste, that he with strengthe hem overcaste, that malgre hem thei mote obeie and don al ydelschipe aweie, to serve wel and besiliche. bot, sone, thou art non of swiche, for love schal the wel excuse: bot otherwise, if thou refuse to love, thou miht so per cas ben ydel, as somtime was a kinges dowhter unavised, til that cupide hire hath chastised: wherof thou schalt a tale hiere acordant unto this matiere. of armenye, i rede thus, ther was a king, which herupus was hote, and he a lusti maide to dowhter hadde, and as men saide hire name was rosiphelee; which tho was of gret renomee, for sche was bothe wys and fair and scholde ben hire fader hair. bot sche hadde o defalte of slowthe towardes love, and that was rowthe; for so wel cowde noman seie, which mihte sette hire in the weie of loves occupacion thurgh non ymaginacion; that scole wolde sche noght knowe. and thus sche was on of the slowe as of such hertes besinesse, til whanne venus the goddesse, which loves court hath forto reule, hath broght hire into betre reule, forth with cupide and with his miht: for thei merveille how such a wiht, which tho was in hir lusti age, desireth nother mariage ne yit the love of paramours, which evere hath be the comun cours amonges hem that lusti were. so was it schewed after there: for he that hihe hertes loweth with fyri dartes whiche he throweth, cupide, which of love is godd, in chastisinge hath mad a rodd to dryve awei hir wantounesse; so that withinne a while, i gesse, sche hadde on such a chance sporned, that al hire mod was overtorned, which ferst sche hadde of slow manere: for thus it fell, as thou schalt hiere. whan come was the monthe of maii, sche wolde walke upon a dai, and that was er the sonne ariste; of wommen bot a fewe it wiste, and forth sche wente prively unto the park was faste by, al softe walkende on the gras, til sche cam ther the launde was, thurgh which ther ran a gret rivere. it thoghte hir fair, and seide, "here i wole abide under the schawe": and bad hire wommen to withdrawe, and ther sche stod al one stille, to thenke what was in hir wille. sche sih the swote floures springe, sche herde glade foules singe, sche sih the bestes in her kinde, the buck, the do, the hert, the hinde, the madle go with the femele; and so began ther a querele betwen love and hir oghne herte, fro which sche couthe noght asterte. and as sche caste hire yhe aboute, sche syh clad in o suite a route of ladis, wher thei comen ryde along under the wodes syde: on faire amblende hors thei sete, that were al whyte, fatte and grete, and everichon thei ride on side. the sadles were of such a pride, with perle and gold so wel begon, so riche syh sche nevere non; in kertles and in copes riche thei weren clothed, alle liche, departed evene of whyt and blew; with alle lustes that sche knew thei were enbrouded overal. here bodies weren long and smal, the beaute faye upon her face non erthly thing it may desface; corones on here hed thei beere, as ech of hem a qweene weere, that al the gold of cresus halle the leste coronal of alle ne mihte have boght after the worth: thus come thei ridende forth. the kinges dowhter, which this syh, for pure abaissht drowh hire adryh and hield hire clos under the bowh, and let hem passen stille ynowh; for as hire thoghte in hire avis, to hem that were of such a pris sche was noght worthi axen there, fro when they come or what thei were: bot levere than this worldes good sche wolde have wist hou that it stod, and putte hire hed alitel oute; and as sche lokede hire aboute, sche syh comende under the linde a womman up an hors behinde. the hors on which sche rod was blak, al lene and galled on the back, and haltede, as he were encluyed, wherof the womman was annuied; thus was the hors in sori plit, bot for al that a sterre whit amiddes in the front he hadde. hir sadel ek was wonder badde, in which the wofull womman sat, and natheles ther was with that a riche bridel for the nones of gold and preciouse stones. hire cote was somdiel totore; aboute hir middel twenty score of horse haltres and wel mo ther hyngen ate time tho. thus whan sche cam the ladi nyh, than tok sche betre hiede and syh this womman fair was of visage, freyssh, lusti, yong and of tendre age; and so this ladi, ther sche stod, bethoghte hire wel and understod that this, which com ridende tho, tidinges couthe telle of tho, which as sche sih tofore ryde, and putte hir forth and preide abide, and seide, "ha, suster, let me hiere, what ben thei, that now riden hiere, and ben so richeliche arraied?" this womman, which com so esmaied, ansuerde with ful softe speche, and seith, "ma dame, i schal you teche. these ar of tho that whilom were servantz to love, and trowthe beere, ther as thei hadde here herte set. fare wel, for i mai noght be let: ma dame, i go to mi servise, so moste i haste in alle wise; forthi, ma dame, yif me leve, i mai noght longe with you leve." "ha, goode soster, yit i preie, tell me whi ye ben so beseie and with these haltres thus begon." "ma dame, whilom i was on that to mi fader hadde a king; bot i was slow, and for no thing me liste noght to love obeie, and that i now ful sore abeie. for i whilom no love hadde, min hors is now so fieble and badde, and al totore is myn arai, and every yeer this freisshe maii these lusti ladis ryde aboute, and i mot nedes suie here route in this manere as ye now se, and trusse here haltres forth with me, and am bot as here horse knave. non other office i ne have, hem thenkth i am worthi nomore, for i was slow in loves lore, whan i was able forto lere, and wolde noght the tales hiere of hem that couthen love teche." "now tell me thanne, i you beseche, wherof that riche bridel serveth." with that hire chere awei sche swerveth, and gan to wepe, and thus sche tolde: "this bridel, which ye nou beholde so riche upon myn horse hed,- ma dame, afore, er i was ded, whan i was in mi lusti lif, ther fel into myn herte a strif of love, which me overcom, so that therafter hiede i nom and thoghte i wolde love a kniht: that laste wel a fourtenyht, for it no lengere mihte laste, so nyh my lif was ate laste. bot now, allas, to late war that i ne hadde him loved ar: for deth cam so in haste bime, er i therto hadde eny time, that it ne mihte ben achieved. bot for al that i am relieved, of that mi will was good therto, that love soffreth it be so that i schal swiche a bridel were. now have ye herd al myn ansuere: to godd, ma dame, i you betake, and warneth alle for mi sake, of love that thei ben noght ydel, and bidd hem thenke upon mi brydel." and with that word al sodeinly sche passeth, as it were a sky, al clene out of this ladi sihte: and tho for fere hire herte afflihte, and seide to hirself, "helas] i am riht in the same cas. bot if i live after this day, i schal amende it, if i may." and thus homward this lady wente, and changede al hire ferste entente, withinne hire herte and gan to swere that sche none haltres wolde bere. lo, sone, hier miht thou taken hiede, how ydelnesse is forto drede, namliche of love, as i have write. for thou miht understonde and wite, among the gentil nacion love is an occupacion, which forto kepe hise lustes save scholde every gentil herte have: for as the ladi was chastised, riht so the knyht mai ben avised, which ydel is and wol noght serve to love, he mai per cas deserve a grettere peine than sche hadde, whan sche aboute with hire ladde the horse haltres; and forthi good is to be wel war therbi. bot forto loke aboven alle, these maidens, hou so that it falle, thei scholden take ensample of this which i have told, for soth it is. mi ladi venus, whom i serve, what womman wole hire thonk deserve, sche mai noght thilke love eschuie of paramours, bot sche mot suie cupides lawe; and natheles men sen such love sielde in pes, that it nys evere upon aspie of janglinge and of fals envie, fulofte medlid with disese: bot thilke love is wel at ese, which set is upon mariage; for that dar schewen the visage in alle places openly. a gret mervaile it is forthi, how that a maiden wolde lette, that sche hir time ne besette to haste unto that ilke feste, wherof the love is al honeste. men mai recovere lost of good, bot so wys man yit nevere stod, which mai recovere time lore: so mai a maiden wel therfore ensample take, of that sche strangeth hir love, and longe er that sche changeth hir herte upon hir lustes greene to mariage, as it is seene. for thus a yer or tuo or thre sche lest, er that sche wedded be, whyl sche the charge myhte bere of children, whiche the world forbere ne mai, bot if it scholde faile. bot what maiden hire esposaile wol tarie, whan sche take mai, sche schal per chance an other dai be let, whan that hire lievest were. wherof a tale unto hire ere, which is coupable upon this dede, i thenke telle of that i rede. among the jewes, as men tolde, ther was whilom be daies olde a noble duck, which jepte hihte. and fell, he scholde go to fyhte ayein amon the cruel king: and forto speke upon this thing, withinne his herte he made avou to god and seide, "ha lord, if thou wolt grante unto thi man victoire, i schal in tokne of thi memoire the ferste lif that i mai se, of man or womman wher it be, anon as i come hom ayein, to thee, which art god sovereign, slen in thi name and sacrifie." and thus with his chivalerie he goth him forth, wher that he scholde, and wan al that he winne wolde and overcam his fomen alle. mai noman lette that schal falle. this duc a lusti dowhter hadde, and fame, which the wordes spradde, hath broght unto this ladi ere how that hire fader hath do there. sche waiteth upon his cominge with dansinge and with carolinge, as sche that wolde be tofore al othre, and so sche was therfore in masphat at hir fader gate the ferste; and whan he com therate, and sih his douhter, he tobreide hise clothes and wepende he seide: "o mihti god among ous hiere, nou wot i that in no manere this worldes joie mai be plein. i hadde al that i coude sein ayein mi fomen be thi grace, so whan i cam toward this place ther was non gladdere man than i: but now, mi lord, al sodeinli mi joie is torned into sorwe, for i mi dowhter schal tomorwe tohewe and brenne in thi servise to loenge of thi sacrifise thurgh min avou, so as it is." the maiden, whan sche wiste of this, and sih the sorwe hir fader made, so as sche mai with wordes glade conforteth him, and bad him holde the covenant which he is holde towardes god, as he behihte. bot natheles hire herte aflihte of that sche sih hire deth comende; and thanne unto the ground knelende tofore hir fader sche is falle, and seith, so as it is befalle upon this point that sche schal deie, of o thing ferst sche wolde him preie, that fourty daies of respit he wolde hir grante upon this plit, that sche the whyle mai bewepe hir maidenhod, which sche to kepe so longe hath had and noght beset; wherof her lusti youthe is let, that sche no children hath forthdrawe in mariage after the lawe, so that the poeple is noght encressed. bot that it mihte be relessed, that sche hir time hath lore so, sche wolde be his leve go with othre maidens to compleigne, and afterward unto the peine of deth sche wolde come ayein. the fader herde his douhter sein, and therupon of on assent the maidens were anon asent, that scholden with this maiden wende. so forto speke unto this ende, thei gon the dounes and the dales with wepinge and with wofull tales, and every wyht hire maidenhiede compleigneth upon thilke nede, that sche no children hadde bore, wherof sche hath hir youthe lore, which nevere sche recovere mai: for so fell that hir laste dai was come, in which sche scholde take hir deth, which sche may noght forsake. lo, thus sche deiede a wofull maide for thilke cause which i saide, as thou hast understonde above. mi fader, as toward the love of maidens forto telle trowthe, ye have thilke vice of slowthe, me thenkth, riht wonder wel declared, that ye the wommen have noght spared of hem that tarien so behinde. bot yit it falleth in my minde, toward the men hou that ye spieke of hem that wole no travail sieke in cause of love upon decerte: to speke in wordes so coverte, i not what travaill that ye mente. mi sone, and after min entente i woll thee telle what i thoghte, hou whilom men here loves boghte thurgh gret travaill in strange londes, wher that thei wroghten with here hondes of armes many a worthi dede, in sondri place as men mai rede. that every love of pure kinde is ferst forthdrawe, wel i finde: bot natheles yit overthis decerte doth so that it is the rather had in mani place. forthi who secheth loves grace, wher that these worthi wommen are, he mai noght thanne himselve spare upon his travail forto serve, wherof that he mai thonk deserve, there as these men of armes be, somtime over the grete se: so that be londe and ek be schipe he mot travaile for worschipe and make manye hastyf rodes, somtime in prus, somtime in rodes, and somtime into tartarie; so that these heraldz on him crie, "vailant, vailant, lo, wher he goth]" and thanne he yifth hem gold and cloth, so that his fame mihte springe, and to his ladi ere bringe som tidinge of his worthinesse; so that sche mihte of his prouesce of that sche herde men recorde, the betre unto his love acorde and danger pute out of hire mod, whanne alle men recorden good, and that sche wot wel, for hir sake that he no travail wol forsake. mi sone, of this travail i meene: nou schrif thee, for it schal be sene if thou art ydel in this cas. my fader ye, and evere was: for as me thenketh trewely that every man doth mor than i as of this point, and if so is that i have oght so don er this, it is so litel of acompte, as who seith, it mai noght amonte to winne of love his lusti yifte. for this i telle you in schrifte, that me were levere hir love winne than kaire and al that is ther inne: and forto slen the hethen alle, i not what good ther mihte falle, so mochel blod thogh ther be schad. this finde i writen, hou crist bad that noman other scholde sle. what scholde i winne over the se, if i mi ladi loste at hom? bot passe thei the salte fom, to whom crist bad thei scholden preche to al the world and his feith teche: bot now thei rucken in here nest and resten as hem liketh best in all the swetnesse of delices. thus thei defenden ous the vices, and sitte hemselven al amidde; to slen and feihten thei ous bidde hem whom thei scholde, as the bok seith, converten unto cristes feith. bot hierof have i gret mervaile, hou thei wol bidde me travaile: a sarazin if i sle schal, i sle the soule forth withal, and that was nevere cristes lore. bot nou ho ther, i seie nomore. bot i wol speke upon mi schrifte; and to cupide i make a yifte, that who as evere pris deserve of armes, i wol love serve; and thogh i scholde hem bothe kepe, als wel yit wolde i take kepe whan it were time to abide, as forto travaile and to ryde: for how as evere a man laboure, cupide appointed hath his houre. for i have herd it telle also, achilles lefte hise armes so bothe of himself and of his men at troie for polixenen, upon hire love whanne he fell, that for no chance that befell among the grecs or up or doun, he wolde noght ayein the toun ben armed, for the love of hire. and so me thenketh, lieve sire, a man of armes mai him reste somtime in hope for the beste, if he mai finde a weie nerr. what scholde i thanne go so ferr in strange londes many a mile to ryde, and lese at hom therwhile mi love? it were a schort beyete to winne chaf and lese whete. bot if mi ladi bidde wolde, that i for hire love scholde travaile, me thenkth trewely i mihte fle thurghout the sky, and go thurghout the depe se, for al ne sette i at a stre what thonk that i mihte elles gete. what helpeth it a man have mete, wher drinke lacketh on the bord? what helpeth eny mannes word to seie hou i travaile faste, wher as me faileth ate laste that thing which i travaile fore? o in good time were he bore, that mihte atteigne such a mede. bot certes if i mihte spede with eny maner besinesse of worldes travail, thanne i gesse, ther scholde me non ydelschipe departen fro hir ladischipe. bot this i se, on daies nou the blinde god, i wot noght hou, cupido, which of love is lord, he set the thinges in discord, that thei that lest to love entende fulofte he wole hem yive and sende most of his grace; and thus i finde that he that scholde go behinde, goth many a time ferr tofore: so wot i noght riht wel therfore, on whether bord that i schal seile. thus can i noght miself conseile, bot al i sette on aventure, and am, as who seith, out of cure for ought that i can seie or do: for everemore i finde it so, the more besinesse i leie, the more that i knele and preie with goode wordes and with softe, the more i am refused ofte, with besinesse and mai noght winne. and in good feith that is gret sinne; for i mai seie, of dede and thoght that ydel man have i be noght; for hou as evere i be deslaied, yit evermore i have assaied. bot thogh my besinesse laste, al is bot ydel ate laste, for whan theffect is ydelnesse, i not what thing is besinesse. sei, what availeth al the dede, which nothing helpeth ate nede? for the fortune of every fame schal of his ende bere a name. and thus for oght is yit befalle, an ydel man i wol me calle as after myn entendement: bot upon youre amendement, min holi fader, as you semeth, mi reson and my cause demeth. mi sone, i have herd thi matiere, of that thou hast thee schriven hiere: and forto speke of ydel fare, me semeth that thou tharst noght care, bot only that thou miht noght spede. and therof, sone, i wol thee rede, abyd, and haste noght to faste; thi dees ben every dai to caste, thou nost what chance schal betyde. betre is to wayte upon the tyde than rowe ayein the stremes stronge: for thogh so be thee thenketh longe, per cas the revolucion of hevene and thi condicion ne be noght yit of on acord. bot i dar make this record to venus, whos prest that i am, that sithen that i hidir cam to hiere, as sche me bad, thi lif, wherof thou elles be gultif, thou miht hierof thi conscience excuse, and of gret diligence, which thou to love hast so despended, thou oghtest wel to be comended. bot if so be that ther oght faile, of that thou slowthest to travaile in armes forto ben absent, and for thou makst an argument of that thou seidest hiere above, hou achilles thurgh strengthe of love hise armes lefte for a throwe, thou schalt an other tale knowe, which is contraire, as thou schalt wite. for this a man mai finde write, whan that knyhthode schal be werred, lust mai noght thanne be preferred; the bedd mot thanne be forsake and schield and spere on honde take, which thing schal make hem after glade, whan thei ben worthi knihtes made. wherof, so as it comth to honde, a tale thou schalt understonde, hou that a kniht schal armes suie, and for the while his ese eschuie. upon knyhthode i rede thus, how whilom whan the king nauplus, the fader of palamades, cam forto preien ulixes with othre gregois ek also, that he with hem to troie go, wher that the siege scholde be, anon upon penolope his wif, whom that he loveth hote, thenkende, wolde hem noght behote. bot he schop thanne a wonder wyle, how that he scholde hem best beguile, so that he mihte duelle stille at home and welde his love at wille: wherof erli the morwe day out of his bedd, wher that he lay, whan he was uppe, he gan to fare into the field and loke and stare, as he which feigneth to be wod: he tok a plowh, wher that it stod, wherinne anon in stede of oxes he let do yoken grete foxes, and with gret salt the lond he siew. but nauplus, which the cause kniew, ayein the sleihte which he feigneth an other sleihte anon ordeigneth. and fell that time ulixes hadde a chyld to sone, and nauplus radde how men that sone taken scholde, and setten him upon the molde, wher that his fader hield the plowh, in thilke furgh which he tho drowh. for in such wise he thoghte assaie, hou it ulixes scholde paie, if that he were wod or non. the knihtes for this child forthgon; thelamacus anon was fett, tofore the plowh and evene sett, wher that his fader scholde dryve. bot whan he sih his child, als blyve he drof the plowh out of the weie, and nauplus tho began to seie, and hath half in a jape cryd: "o ulixes, thou art aspyd: what is al this thou woldest meene? for openliche it is now seene that thou hast feigned al this thing, which is gret schame to a king, whan that for lust of eny slowthe thou wolt in a querele of trowthe of armes thilke honour forsake, and duelle at hom for loves sake: for betre it were honour to winne than love, which likinge is inne. forthi tak worschipe upon honde, and elles thou schalt understonde these othre worthi kinges alle of grece, which unto thee calle, towardes thee wol be riht wrothe, and grieve thee per chance bothe: which schal be tothe double schame most for the hindrynge of thi name, that thou for slouthe of eny love schalt so thi lustes sette above and leve of armes the knyhthode, which is the pris of thi manhode and oghte ferst to be desired." bot he, which hadde his herte fyred upon his wif, whan he this herde, noght o word therayein ansuerde, bot torneth hom halvinge aschamed, and hath withinne himself so tamed his herte, that al the sotie of love for chivalerie he lefte, and be him lief or loth, to troie forth with hem he goth, that he him mihte noght excuse. thus stant it, if a knyht refuse the lust of armes to travaile, ther mai no worldes ese availe, bot if worschipe be with al. and that hath schewed overal; for it sit wel in alle wise a kniht to ben of hih emprise and puten alle drede aweie; for in this wise, i have herd seie, the worthi king protheselai on his passage wher he lai towardes troie thilke siege, sche which was al his oghne liege, laodomie his lusti wif, which for his love was pensif, as he which al hire herte hadde, upon a thing wherof sche dradde a lettre, forto make him duelle fro troie, sende him, thus to telle, hou sche hath axed of the wyse touchende of him in such a wise, that thei have don hire understonde, towardes othre hou so it stonde, the destine it hath so schape that he schal noght the deth ascape in cas that he arryve at troie. forthi as to hir worldes joie with al hire herte sche him preide, and many an other cause alleide, that he with hire at home abide. bot he hath cast hir lettre aside, as he which tho no maner hiede tok of hire wommannysshe drede; and forth he goth, as noght ne were, to troie, and was the ferste there which londeth, and tok arryvaile: for him was levere in the bataille, he seith, to deien as a knyht, than forto lyve in al his myht and be reproeved of his name. lo, thus upon the worldes fame knyhthode hath evere yit be set, which with no couardie is let. of king sa�l also i finde, whan samuel out of his kinde, thurgh that the phitonesse hath lered, in samarie was arered long time after that he was ded, the king sa�l him axeth red, if that he schal go fyhte or non. and samuel him seide anon, "the ferste day of the bataille thou schalt be slain withoute faile and jonathas thi sone also." bot hou as evere it felle so, this worthi kniht of his corage hath undertake the viage, and wol noght his knyhthode lette for no peril he couthe sette; wherof that bothe his sone and he upon the montz of gelboe assemblen with here enemys: for thei knyhthode of such a pris be olde daies thanne hielden, that thei non other thing behielden. and thus the fader for worschipe forth with his sone of felaschipe thurgh lust of armes weren dede, as men mai in the bible rede; the whos knyhthode is yit in mende, and schal be to the worldes ende. and forto loken overmore, it hath and schal ben evermore that of knihthode the prouesse is grounded upon hardinesse of him that dar wel undertake. and who that wolde ensample take upon the forme of knyhtes lawe, how that achilles was forthdrawe with chiro, which centaurus hihte, of many a wondre hiere he mihte. for it stod thilke time thus, that this chiro, this centaurus, withinne a large wildernesse, wher was leon and leonesse, the lepard and the tigre also, with hert and hynde, and buck and doo, hadde his duellinge, as tho befell, of pileon upon the hel, wherof was thanne mochel speche. ther hath chiro this chyld to teche, what time he was of tuelve yer age; wher forto maken his corage the more hardi be other weie, in the forest to hunte and pleie whan that achilles walke wolde, centaurus bad that he ne scholde after no beste make his chace, which wolde flen out of his place, as buck and doo and hert and hynde, with whiche he mai no werre finde; bot tho that wolden him withstonde, ther scholde he with his dart on honde upon the tigre and the leon pourchace and take his veneison, as to a kniht is acordant. and therupon a covenant this chiro with achilles sette, that every day withoute lette he scholde such a cruel beste or slen or wounden ate leste, so that he mihte a tokne bringe of blod upon his hom cominge. and thus of that chiro him tawhte achilles such an herte cawhte, that he nomore a leon dradde, whan he his dart on honde hadde, thanne if a leon were an asse: and that hath mad him forto passe alle othre knihtes of his dede, whan it cam to the grete nede, as it was afterward wel knowe. lo, thus, my sone, thou miht knowe that the corage of hardiesce is of knyhthode the prouesce, which is to love sufficant aboven al the remenant that unto loves court poursuie. bot who that wol no slowthe eschuie, upon knihthode and noght travaile, i not what love him scholde availe; bot every labour axeth why of som reward, wherof that i ensamples couthe telle ynowe of hem that toward love drowe be olde daies, as thei scholde. mi fader, therof hiere i wolde. mi sone, it is wel resonable, in place which is honorable if that a man his herte sette, that thanne he for no slowthe lette to do what longeth to manhede. for if thou wolt the bokes rede of lancelot and othre mo, ther miht thou sen hou it was tho of armes, for thei wolde atteigne to love, which withoute peine mai noght be gete of ydelnesse. and that i take to witnesse an old cronique in special, the which into memorial is write, for his loves sake hou that a kniht schal undertake. ther was a king, which oe nes was hote, and he under his pes hield calidoyne in his empire, and hadde a dowhter deianire. men wiste in thilke time non so fair a wiht as sche was on; and as sche was a lusti wiht, riht so was thanne a noble kniht, to whom mercurie fader was. this kniht the tuo pilers of bras, the whiche yit a man mai finde, sette up in the desert of ynde; that was the worthi hercules, whos name schal ben endeles for the merveilles whiche he wroghte. this hercules the love soghte of deianire, and of this thing unto hir fader, which was king, he spak touchende of mariage. the king knowende his hih lignage, and dradde also hise mihtes sterne, to him ne dorste his dowhter werne; and natheles this he him seide, how achelons er he ferst preide to wedden hire, and in accord thei stode, as it was of record: bot for al that this he him granteth, that which of hem that other daunteth in armes, him sche scholde take, and that the king hath undertake. this achelons was a geant, a soubtil man, a deceivant, which thurgh magique and sorcerie couthe al the world of tricherie: and whan that he this tale herde, hou upon that the king ansuerde with hercules he moste feighte, he tristeth noght upon his sleighte al only, whan it comth to nede, bot that which voydeth alle drede and every noble herte stereth, the love, that no lif forbereth, for his ladi, whom he desireth, with hardiesse his herte fyreth, and sende him word withoute faile that he wol take the bataille. thei setten day, they chosen field, the knihtes coevered under schield togedre come at time set, and echon is with other met. it fell thei foghten bothe afote, ther was no ston, ther was no rote, which mihte letten hem the weie, but al was voide and take aweie. thei smyten strokes bot a fewe, for hercules, which wolde schewe his grete strengthe as for the nones, he sterte upon him al at ones and cawhte him in hise armes stronge. this geant wot he mai noght longe endure under so harde bondes, and thoghte he wolde out of hise hondes be sleyhte in som manere ascape. and as he couthe himself forschape, in liknesse of an eddre he slipte out of his hond, and forth he skipte; and efte, as he that feighte wole, he torneth him into a bole, and gan to belwe of such a soun, as thogh the world scholde al go doun: the ground he sporneth and he tranceth, hise large hornes he avanceth and caste hem here and there aboute. bot he, which stant of him no doute, awaiteth wel whan that he cam, and him be bothe hornes nam and al at ones he him caste unto the ground, and hield him faste, that he ne mihte with no sleighte out of his hond gete upon heighte, til he was overcome and yolde, and hercules hath what he wolde. the king him granteth to fulfille his axinge at his oghne wille, and sche for whom he hadde served, hire thoghte he hath hire wel deserved. and thus with gret decerte of armes he wan him forto ligge in armes, as he which hath it dere aboght, for otherwise scholde he noght. and overthis if thou wolt hiere upon knihthode of this matiere, hou love and armes ben aqueinted, a man mai se bothe write and peinted so ferforth that pantasilee, which was the queene of feminee, the love of hector forto sieke and for thonour of armes eke, to troie cam with spere and schield, and rod hirself into the field with maidens armed al a route in rescouss of the toun aboute, which with the gregois was belein. fro pafagoine and as men sein, which stant upon the worldes ende, that time it likede ek to wende to philemenis, which was king, to troie, and come upon this thing in helpe of thilke noble toun; and al was that for the renoun of worschipe and of worldes fame, of which he wolde bere a name: and so he dede, and forth withal he wan of love in special a fair tribut for everemo. for it fell thilke time so; pirrus the sone of achilles this worthi queene among the press with dedli swerd soghte out and fond, and slowh hire with his oghne hond; wherof this king of pafagoine pantasilee of amazoine, wher sche was queene, with him ladde, with suche maidens as sche hadde of hem that were left alyve, forth in his schip, til thei aryve; wher that the body was begrave with worschipe, and the wommen save. and for the goodschipe of this dede thei granten him a lusti mede, that every yeer as for truage to him and to his heritage of maidens faire he schal have thre. and in this wise spedde he, which the fortune of armes soghte, with his travail his ese he boghte; for otherwise he scholde have failed, if that he hadde noght travailed. eneas ek withinne ytaile, ne hadde he wonne the bataille and don his miht so besily ayein king turne his enemy, he hadde noght lavine wonne; bot for he hath him overronne and gete his pris, he gat hire love. be these ensamples here above, lo, now, mi sone, as i have told, thou miht wel se, who that is bold and dar travaile and undertake the cause of love, he schal be take the rathere unto loves grace; for comunliche in worthi place the wommen loven worthinesse of manhode and of gentilesse, for the gentils ben most desired. mi fader, bot i were enspired thurgh lore of you, i wot no weie what gentilesce is forto seie, wherof to telle i you beseche. the ground, mi sone, forto seche upon this diffinicion, the worldes constitucion hath set the name of gentilesse upon the fortune of richesse which of long time is falle in age. thanne is a man of hih lignage after the forme, as thou miht hiere, bot nothing after the matiere. for who that resoun understonde, upon richesse it mai noght stonde, for that is thing which faileth ofte: for he that stant to day alofte and al the world hath in hise wones, tomorwe he falleth al at ones out of richesse into poverte, so that therof is no decerte, which gentilesce makth abide. and forto loke on other side hou that a gentil man is bore, adam, which alle was tofore with eve his wif, as of hem tuo, al was aliche gentil tho; so that of generacion to make declaracion, ther mai no gentilesce be. for to the reson if we se, of mannes berthe the mesure, it is so comun to nature, that it yifth every man aliche, als wel to povere as to the riche; for naked thei ben bore bothe, the lord nomore hath forto clothe as of himself that ilke throwe, than hath the povereste of the rowe. and whan thei schulle both passe, i not of hem which hath the lasse of worldes good, bot as of charge the lord is more forto charge, whan god schal his accompte hiere, for he hath had hise lustes hiere. bot of the bodi, which schal deie, althogh ther be diverse weie to deth, yit is ther bot on ende, to which that every man schal wende, als wel the beggere as the lord, of o nature, of on acord: sche which oure eldemoder is, the erthe, bothe that and this receiveth and alich devoureth, that sche to nouther part favoureth. so wot i nothing after kinde where i mai gentilesse finde. for lacke of vertu lacketh grace, wherof richesse in many place, whan men best wene forto stonde, al sodeinly goth out of honde: bot vertu set in the corage, ther mai no world be so salvage, which mihte it take and don aweie, til whanne that the bodi deie; and thanne he schal be riched so, that it mai faile neveremo; so mai that wel be gentilesse, which yifth so gret a sikernesse. for after the condicion of resonable entencion, the which out of the soule groweth and the vertu fro vice knoweth, wherof a man the vice eschuieth, withoute slowthe and vertu suieth, that is a verrai gentil man, and nothing elles which he can, ne which he hath, ne which he mai. bot for al that yit nou aday, in loves court to taken hiede, the povere vertu schal noght spiede, wher that the riche vice woweth; for sielde it is that love alloweth the gentil man withoute good, thogh his condicion be good. bot if a man of bothe tuo be riche and vertuous also, thanne is he wel the more worth: bot yit to putte himselve forth he moste don his besinesse, for nowther good ne gentilesse mai helpen him whiche ydel be. bot who that wole in his degre travaile so as it belongeth, it happeth ofte that he fongeth worschipe and ese bothe tuo. for evere yit it hath be so, that love honeste in sondri weie profiteth, for it doth aweie the vice, and as the bokes sein, it makth curteis of the vilein, and to the couard hardiesce it yifth, so that verrai prouesse is caused upon loves reule to him that can manhode reule; and ek toward the wommanhiede, who that therof wol taken hiede, for thei the betre affaited be in every thing, as men may se. for love hath evere hise lustes grene in gentil folk, as it is sene, which thing ther mai no kinde areste: i trowe that ther is no beste, if he with love scholde aqueinte, that he ne wolde make it queinte as for the while that it laste. and thus i conclude ate laste, that thei ben ydel, as me semeth, whiche unto thing that love demeth forslowthen that thei scholden do. and overthis, mi sone, also after the vertu moral eke to speke of love if i schal seke, among the holi bokes wise i finde write in such a wise, "who loveth noght is hier as ded"; for love above alle othre is hed, which hath the vertus forto lede, of al that unto mannes dede belongeth: for of ydelschipe he hateth all the felaschipe. for slowthe is evere to despise, which in desdeign hath al apprise, and that acordeth noght to man: for he that wit and reson kan, it sit him wel that he travaile upon som thing which mihte availe, for ydelschipe is noght comended, bot every lawe it hath defended. and in ensample therupon the noble wise salomon, which hadde of every thing insihte, seith, "as the briddes to the flihte ben made, so the man is bore to labour," which is noght forbore to hem that thenken forto thryve. for we, whiche are now alyve, of hem that besi whylom were, als wel in scole as elleswhere, mowe every day ensample take, that if it were now to make thing which that thei ferst founden oute, it scholde noght be broght aboute. here lyves thanne were longe, here wittes grete, here mihtes stronge, here hertes ful of besinesse, wherof the worldes redinesse in bodi bothe and in corage stant evere upon his avantage. and forto drawe into memoire here names bothe and here histoire, upon the vertu of her dede in sondri bokes thou miht rede. of every wisdom the parfit the hyhe god of his spirit yaf to the men in erthe hiere upon the forme and the matiere of that he wolde make hem wise: and thus cam in the ferste apprise of bokes and of alle goode thurgh hem that whilom understode the lore which to hem was yive, wherof these othre, that now live, ben every day to lerne newe. bot er the time that men siewe, and that the labour forth it broghte, ther was no corn, thogh men it soghte, in non of al the fieldes oute; and er the wisdom cam aboute of hem that ferst the bokes write, this mai wel every wys man wite, ther was gret labour ek also. thus was non ydel of the tuo, that on the plogh hath undertake with labour which the hond hath take, that other tok to studie and muse, as he which wolde noght refuse the labour of hise wittes alle. and in this wise it is befalle, of labour which that thei begunne we be now tawht of that we kunne: here besinesse is yit so seene, that it stant evere alyche greene; al be it so the bodi deie, the name of hem schal nevere aweie. in the croniqes as i finde, cham, whos labour is yit in minde, was he which ferst the lettres fond and wrot in hebreu with his hond: of naturel philosophie he fond ferst also the clergie. cadmus the lettres of gregois ferst made upon his oghne chois. theges of thing which schal befalle, he was the ferste augurre of alle: and philemon be the visage fond to descrive the corage. cladyns, esdras and sulpices, termegis, pandulf, frigidilles, menander, ephiloquorus, solins, pandas and josephus the ferste were of enditours, of old cronique and ek auctours: and heredot in his science of metre, of rime and of cadence the ferste was of which men note. and of musique also the note in mannes vois or softe or scharpe, that fond jubal; and of the harpe the merie soun, which is to like, that fond poulins forth with phisique. zenzis fond ferst the pourtreture, and promothe�s the sculpture; after what forme that hem thoghte, the resemblance anon thei wroghte. tubal in iren and in stel fond ferst the forge and wroghte it wel: and jadahel, as seith the bok, ferst made net and fisshes tok: of huntynge ek he fond the chace, which now is knowe in many place: a tente of cloth with corde and stake he sette up ferst and dede it make. verconius of cokerie ferst made the delicacie. the craft minerve of wolle fond and made cloth hire oghne hond; and delbora made it of lyn: tho wommen were of great engyn. bot thing which yifth ous mete and drinke and doth the labourer to swinke to tile lond and sette vines, wherof the cornes and the wynes ben sustenance to mankinde, in olde bokes as i finde, saturnus of his oghne wit hath founde ferst, and more yit of chapmanhode he fond the weie, and ek to coigne the moneie of sondri metall, as it is, he was the ferste man of this. bot hou that metall cam a place thurgh mannes wit and goddes grace the route of philosophres wise controeveden be sondri wise, ferst forto gete it out of myne, and after forto trie and fyne. and also with gret diligence thei founden thilke experience, which cleped is alconomie, wherof the selver multeplie thei made and ek the gold also. and forto telle hou it is so, of bodies sevene in special with foure spiritz joynt withal stant the substance of this matiere. the bodies whiche i speke of hiere of the planetes ben begonne: the gold is titled to the sonne, the mone of selver hath his part, and iren that stant upon mart, the led after satorne groweth, and jupiter the bras bestoweth, the coper set is to venus, and to his part mercurius hath the quikselver, as it falleth, the which, after the bok it calleth, is ferst of thilke fowre named of spiritz, whiche ben proclamed; and the spirit which is secounde in sal armoniak is founde: the thridde spirit sulphur is; the ferthe suiende after this arcennicum be name is hote. with blowinge and with fyres hote in these thinges, whiche i seie, thei worchen be diverse weie. for as the philosophre tolde of gold and selver, thei ben holde tuo principal extremites, to whiche alle othre be degres of the metalls ben acordant, and so thurgh kinde resemblant, that what man couthe aweie take the rust, of which thei waxen blake, and the savour and the hardnesse, thei scholden take the liknesse of gold or selver parfitly. bot forto worche it sikirly, betwen the corps and the spirit, er that the metall be parfit, in sevene formes it is set; of alle and if that on be let, the remenant mai noght availe, bot otherwise it mai noght faile. for thei be whom this art was founde to every point a certain bounde ordeignen, that a man mai finde this craft is wroght be weie of kinde, so that ther is no fallas inne. bot what man that this werk beginne, he mot awaite at every tyde, so that nothing be left aside, ferst of the distillacion, forth with the congelacion, solucion, descencion, and kepe in his entencion the point of sublimacion, and forth with calcinacion of veray approbacion do that ther be fixacion with tempred hetes of the fyr, til he the parfit elixir of thilke philosophres ston mai gete, of which that many on of philosophres whilom write. and if thou wolt the names wite of thilke ston with othre tuo, whiche as the clerkes maden tho, so as the bokes it recorden, the kinde of hem i schal recorden. these olde philosophres wyse be weie of kinde in sondri wise thre stones maden thurgh clergie. the ferste, if i schal specefie, was lapis vegetabilis, of which the propre vertu is to mannes hele forto serve, as forto kepe and to preserve the bodi fro siknesses alle, til deth of kinde upon him falle. the ston seconde i thee behote is lapis animalis hote, the whos vertu is propre and cowth for ere and yhe and nase and mouth, wherof a man mai hiere and se and smelle and taste in his degre, and forto fiele and forto go it helpeth man of bothe tuo: the wittes fyve he underfongeth to kepe, as it to him belongeth. the thridde ston in special be name is cleped minerall, which the metalls of every mine attempreth, til that thei ben fyne, and pureth hem be such a weie, that al the vice goth aweie of rust, of stink and of hardnesse: and whan thei ben of such clennesse, this mineral, so as i finde, transformeth al the ferste kynde and makth hem able to conceive thurgh his vertu, and to receive bothe in substance and in figure of gold and selver the nature. for thei tuo ben thextremetes, to whiche after the propretes hath every metal his desir, with help and confort of the fyr forth with this ston, as it is seid, which to the sonne and mone is leid; for to the rede and to the whyte this ston hath pouer to profite. it makth mulptiplicacioun of gold, and the fixacioun it causeth, and of his habit he doth the werk to be parfit of thilke elixer which men calle alconomie, as is befalle to hem that whilom weren wise. bot now it stant al otherwise; thei speken faste of thilke ston, bot hou to make it, nou wot non after the sothe experience. and natheles gret diligence thei setten upon thilke dede, and spille more than thei spede; for allewey thei finde a lette, which bringeth in poverte and dette to hem that riche were afore: the lost is had, the lucre is lore, to gete a pound thei spenden fyve; i not hou such a craft schal thryve in the manere as it is used: it were betre be refused than forto worchen upon weene in thing which stant noght as thei weene. bot noght forthi, who that it knewe, the science of himself is trewe upon the forme as it was founded, wherof the names yit ben grounded of hem that ferste it founden oute; and thus the fame goth aboute to suche as soghten besinesse of vertu and of worthinesse. of whom if i the names calle, hermes was on the ferste of alle, to whom this art is most applied; geber therof was magnefied, and ortolan and morien, among the whiche is avicen, which fond and wrot a gret partie the practique of alconomie; whos bokes, pleinli as thei stonde upon this craft, fewe understonde; bot yit to put hem in assai ther ben full manye now aday, that knowen litel what thei meene. it is noght on to wite and weene; in forme of wordes thei it trete, bot yit they failen of beyete, for of tomoche or of tolyte ther is algate founde a wyte, so that thei folwe noght the lyne of the parfite medicine, which grounded is upon nature. bot thei that writen the scripture of grek, arabe and of caldee, thei were of such auctorite that thei ferst founden out the weie of al that thou hast herd me seie; wherof the cronique of her lore schal stonde in pris for everemore. bot toward oure marches hiere, of the latins if thou wolt hiere, of hem that whilom vertuous were and therto laborious, carmente made of hire engin the ferste lettres of latin, of which the tunge romein cam, wherof that aristarchus nam forth with donat and dindimus the ferste reule of scole, as thus, how that latin schal be componed and in what wise it schal be soned, that every word in his degre schal stonde upon congruite. and thilke time at rome also was tullius with cithero, that writen upon rethorike, hou that men schal the wordes pike after the forme of eloquence, which is, men sein, a gret prudence: and after that out of hebreu jerom, which the langage kneu, the bible, in which the lawe is closed, into latin he hath transposed; and many an other writere ek out of caldee, arabe and grek with gret labour the bokes wise translateden. and otherwise the latins of hemself also here studie at thilke time so with gret travaile of scole toke in sondri forme forto boke, that we mai take here evidences upon the lore of the sciences, of craftes bothe and of clergie; among the whiche in poesie to the lovers ovide wrot and tawhte, if love be to hot, in what manere it scholde akiele. forthi, mi sone, if that thou fiele that love wringe thee to sore, behold ovide and take his lore. my fader, if thei mihte spede mi love, i wolde his bokes rede; and if thei techen to restreigne mi love, it were an ydel peine to lerne a thing which mai noght be. for lich unto the greene tree, if that men toke his rote aweie, riht so myn herte scholde deie, if that mi love be withdrawe. wherof touchende unto this sawe there is bot only to poursuie mi love, and ydelschipe eschuie. mi goode sone, soth to seie, if ther be siker eny weie to love, thou hast seid the beste: for who that wolde have al his reste and do no travail at the nede, it is no resoun that he spede in loves cause forto winne; for he which dar nothing beginne, i not what thing he scholde achieve. bot overthis thou schalt believe, so as it sit thee wel to knowe, that ther ben othre vices slowe, whiche unto love don gret lette, if thou thin herte upon hem sette. toward the slowe progenie ther is yit on of compaignie, and he is cleped sompnolence, which doth to slouthe his reverence, as he which is his chamberlein, that many an hundrid time hath lein to slepe, whan he scholde wake. he hath with love trewes take, that wake who so wake wile, if he mai couche a doun his bile, he hath al wowed what him list; that ofte he goth to bedde unkist, and seith that for no druerie he wol noght leve his sluggardie. for thogh noman it wole allowe, to slepe levere than to wowe is his manere, and thus on nyhtes, whan that he seth the lusti knyhtes revelen, wher these wommen are, awey he skulketh as an hare, and goth to bedde and leith him softe, and of his slouthe he dremeth ofte hou that he stiketh in the myr, and hou he sitteth be the fyr and claweth on his bare schanckes, and hou he clymbeth up the banckes and falleth into slades depe. bot thanne who so toke kepe, whanne he is falle in such a drem, riht as a schip ayein the strem, he routeth with a slepi noise, and brustleth as a monkes froise, whanne it is throwe into the panne. and otherwhile sielde whanne that he mai dreme a lusti swevene, him thenkth as thogh he were in hevene and as the world were holi his: and thanne he spekth of that and this, and makth his exposicion after the disposicion of that he wolde, and in such wise he doth to love all his service; i not what thonk he schal deserve. bot, sone, if thou wolt love serve, i rede that thou do noght so. ha, goode fader, certes no. i hadde levere be mi trowthe, er i were set on such a slouthe and beere such a slepi snoute, bothe yhen of myn hed were oute. for me were betre fulli die, thanne i of such a slugardie hadde eny name, god me schilde; for whan mi moder was with childe, and i lay in hire wombe clos, i wolde rathere atropos, which is goddesse of alle deth, anon as i hadde eny breth, me hadde fro mi moder cast. bot now i am nothing agast, i thonke godd; for lachesis, ne cloto, which hire felawe is, me schopen no such destine, whan thei at mi nativite my weerdes setten as thei wolde; bot thei me schopen that i scholde eschuie of slep the truandise, so that i hope in such a wise to love forto ben excused, that i no sompnolence have used. for certes, fader genius, yit into nou it hath be thus, at alle time if it befelle so that i mihte come and duelle in place ther my ladi were, i was noght slow ne slepi there: for thanne i dar wel undertake, that whanne hir list on nyhtes wake in chambre as to carole and daunce, me thenkth i mai me more avaunce, if i mai gon upon hir hond, thanne if i wonne a kinges lond. for whanne i mai hire hand beclippe, with such gladnesse i daunce and skippe, me thenkth i touche noght the flor; the ro, which renneth on the mor, is thanne noght so lyht as i: so mow ye witen wel forthi, that for the time slep i hate. and whanne it falleth othergate, so that hire like noght to daunce, bot on the dees to caste chaunce or axe of love som demande, or elles that hir list comaunde to rede and here of troilus, riht as sche wole or so or thus, i am al redi to consente. and if so is that i mai hente somtime among a good leisir, so as i dar of mi desir i telle a part; bot whanne i preie, anon sche bidt me go mi weie and seith it is ferr in the nyht; and i swere it is even liht. bot as it falleth ate laste, ther mai no worldes joie laste, so mot i nedes fro hire wende and of my wachche make an ende: and if sche thanne hiede toke, hou pitousliche on hire i loke, whan that i schal my leve take, hire oghte of mercy forto slake hire daunger, which seith evere nay. bot he seith often, "have good day," that loth is forto take his leve: therfore, while i mai beleve, i tarie forth the nyht along, for it is noght on me along to slep that i so sone go, til that i mot algate so; and thanne i bidde godd hire se, and so doun knelende on mi kne i take leve, and if i schal, i kisse hire, and go forth withal. and otherwhile, if that i dore, er i come fulli to the dore, i torne ayein and feigne a thing, as thogh i hadde lost a ring or somwhat elles, for i wolde kisse hire eftsones, if i scholde, bot selden is that i so spede. and whanne i se that i mot nede departen, i departe, and thanne with al myn herte i curse and banne that evere slep was mad for yhe; for, as me thenkth, i mihte dryhe withoute slep to waken evere, so that i scholde noght dissevere fro hire, in whom is al my liht: and thanne i curse also the nyht with al the will of mi corage, and seie, "awey, thou blake ymage, which of thi derke cloudy face makst al the worldes lyht deface, and causest unto slep a weie, be which i mot nou gon aweie out of mi ladi compaignie. o slepi nyht, i thee defie, and wolde that thou leye in presse with proserpine the goddesse and with pluto the helle king: for til i se the daies spring, i sette slep noght at a risshe." and with that word i sike and wisshe, and seie, "ha, whi ne were it day? for yit mi ladi thanne i may beholde, thogh i do nomore." and efte i thenke forthermore, to som man hou the niht doth ese, whan he hath thing that mai him plese the longe nyhtes be his side, where as i faile and go beside. bot slep, i not wherof it serveth, of which noman his thonk deserveth to gete him love in eny place, bot is an hindrere of his grace and makth him ded as for a throwe, riht as a stok were overthrowe. and so, mi fader, in this wise the slepi nyhtes i despise, and evere amiddes of mi tale i thenke upon the nyhtingale, which slepeth noght be weie of kinde for love, in bokes as i finde. thus ate laste i go to bedde, and yit min herte lith to wedde with hire, wher as i cam fro; thogh i departe, he wol noght so, ther is no lock mai schette him oute, him nedeth noght to gon aboute, that perce mai the harde wall; thus is he with hire overall, that be hire lief, or be hire loth, into hire bedd myn herte goth, and softly takth hire in his arm and fieleth hou that sche is warm, and wissheth that his body were to fiele that he fieleth there. and thus miselven i tormente, til that the dede slep me hente: bot thanne be a thousand score welmore than i was tofore i am tormented in mi slep, bot that i dreme is noght of schep; for i ne thenke noght on wulle, bot i am drecched to the fulle of love, that i have to kepe, that nou i lawhe and nou i wepe, and nou i lese and nou i winne, and nou i ende and nou beginne. and otherwhile i dreme and mete that i al one with hire mete and that danger is left behinde; and thanne in slep such joie i finde, that i ne bede nevere awake. bot after, whanne i hiede take, and schal arise upon the morwe, thanne is al torned into sorwe, noght for the cause i schal arise, bot for i mette in such a wise, and ate laste i am bethoght that al is vein and helpeth noght: bot yit me thenketh be my wille i wolde have leie and slepe stille, to meten evere of such a swevene, for thanne i hadde a slepi hevene. mi sone, and for thou tellest so, a man mai finde of time ago that many a swevene hath be certein, al be it so, that som men sein that swevenes ben of no credence. bot forto schewe in evidence that thei fulofte sothe thinges betokne, i thenke in my wrytinges to telle a tale therupon, which fell be olde daies gon. this finde i write in poesie: cei x the king of trocinie hadde alceone to his wif, which as hire oghne hertes lif him loveth; and he hadde also a brother, which was cleped tho dedalion, and he per cas fro kinde of man forschape was into a goshauk of liknesse; wherof the king gret hevynesse hath take, and thoghte in his corage to gon upon a pelrinage into a strange regioun, wher he hath his devocioun to don his sacrifice and preie, if that he mihte in eny weie toward the goddes finde grace his brother hele to pourchace, so that he mihte be reformed of that he hadde be transformed. to this pourpos and to this ende this king is redy forto wende, as he which wolde go be schipe; and forto don him felaschipe his wif unto the see him broghte, with al hire herte and him besoghte, that he the time hire wolde sein, whan that he thoghte come ayein: "withinne," he seith, "tuo monthe day." and thus in al the haste he may he tok his leve, and forth he seileth wepende, and sche hirself beweileth, and torneth hom, ther sche cam fro. bot whan the monthes were ago, the whiche he sette of his comynge, and that sche herde no tydinge, ther was no care forto seche: wherof the goddes to beseche tho sche began in many wise, and to juno hire sacrifise above alle othre most sche dede, and for hir lord sche hath so bede to wite and knowe hou that he ferde, that juno the goddesse hire herde, anon and upon this matiere sche bad yris hir messagere to slepes hous that sche schal wende, and bidde him that he make an ende be swevene and schewen al the cas unto this ladi, hou it was. this yris, fro the hihe stage which undertake hath the message, hire reyny cope dede upon, the which was wonderli begon with colours of diverse hewe, an hundred mo than men it knewe; the hevene lich into a bowe sche bende, and so she cam doun lowe, the god of slep wher that sche fond. and that was in a strange lond, which marcheth upon chymerie: for ther, as seith the poesie, the god of slep hath mad his hous, which of entaille is merveilous. under an hell ther is a cave, which of the sonne mai noght have, so that noman mai knowe ariht the point betwen the dai and nyht: ther is no fyr, ther is no sparke, ther is no dore, which mai charke, wherof an yhe scholde unschette, so that inward ther is no lette. and forto speke of that withoute, ther stant no gret tree nyh aboute wher on ther myhte crowe or pie alihte, forto clepe or crie: ther is no cok to crowe day, ne beste non which noise may the hell, bot al aboute round ther is growende upon the ground popi, which berth the sed of slep, with othre herbes suche an hep. a stille water for the nones rennende upon the smale stones, which hihte of lethes the rivere, under that hell in such manere ther is, which yifth gret appetit to slepe. and thus full of delit slep hath his hous; and of his couche withinne his chambre if i schal touche, of hebenus that slepi tree the bordes al aboute be, and for he scholde slepe softe, upon a fethrebed alofte he lith with many a pilwe of doun: the chambre is strowed up and doun with swevenes many thousendfold. thus cam yris into this hold, and to the bedd, which is al blak, sche goth, and ther with slep sche spak, and in the wise as sche was bede the message of juno sche dede. fulofte hir wordes sche reherceth, er sche his slepi eres perceth; with mochel wo bot ate laste his slombrende yhen he upcaste and seide hir that it schal be do. wherof among a thousend tho, withinne his hous that slepi were, in special he ches out there thre, whiche scholden do this dede: the ferste of hem, so as i rede, was morphe�s, the whos nature is forto take the figure of what persone that him liketh, wherof that he fulofte entriketh the lif which slepe schal be nyhte; and ithecus that other hihte, which hath the vois of every soun, the chiere and the condicioun of every lif, what so it is: the thridde suiende after this is panthasas, which may transforme of every thing the rihte forme, and change it in an other kinde. upon hem thre, so as i finde, of swevenes stant al thapparence, which otherwhile is evidence and otherwhile bot a jape. bot natheles it is so schape, that morphe�s be nyht al one appiereth until alceone in liknesse of hir housebonde al naked ded upon the stronde, and hou he dreynte in special these othre tuo it schewen al. the tempeste of the blake cloude, the wode see, the wyndes loude, al this sche mette, and sih him dyen; wherof that sche began to crien, slepende abedde ther sche lay, and with that noise of hire affray hir wommen sterten up aboute, whiche of here ladi were in doute, and axen hire hou that sche ferde; and sche, riht as sche syh and herde, hir swevene hath told hem everydel. and thei it halsen alle wel and sein it is a tokne of goode; bot til sche wiste hou that it stode, sche hath no confort in hire herte, upon the morwe and up sche sterte, and to the see, wher that sche mette the bodi lay, withoute lette sche drowh, and whan that sche cam nyh, stark ded, hise harmes sprad, sche syh hire lord flietende upon the wawe. wherof hire wittes ben withdrawe, and sche, which tok of deth no kepe, anon forth lepte into the depe and wolde have cawht him in hire arm. this infortune of double harm the goddes fro the hevene above behielde, and for the trowthe of love, which in this worthi ladi stod, thei have upon the salte flod hire dreinte lord and hire also fro deth to lyve torned so, that thei ben schapen into briddes swimmende upon the wawe amiddes. and whan sche sih hire lord livende in liknesse of a bridd swimmende, and sche was of the same sort, so as sche mihte do desport, upon the joie which sche hadde hire wynges bothe abrod sche spradde, and him, so as sche mai suffise, beclipte and keste in such a wise, as sche was whilom wont to do: hire wynges for hire armes tuo sche tok, and for hire lippes softe hire harde bile, and so fulofte sche fondeth in hire briddes forme, if that sche mihte hirself conforme to do the plesance of a wif, as sche dede in that other lif: for thogh sche hadde hir pouer lore, hir will stod as it was tofore, and serveth him so as sche mai. wherof into this ilke day togedre upon the see thei wone, wher many a dowhter and a sone thei bringen forth of briddes kinde; and for men scholden take in mynde this alceoun the trewe queene, hire briddes yit, as it is seene, of alceoun the name bere. lo thus, mi sone, it mai thee stere of swevenes forto take kepe, for ofte time a man aslepe mai se what after schal betide. forthi it helpeth at som tyde a man to slepe, as it belongeth, bot slowthe no lif underfongeth which is to love appourtenant. mi fader, upon covenant i dar wel make this avou, of all mi lif that into nou, als fer as i can understonde, yit tok i nevere slep on honde, whan it was time forto wake; for thogh myn yhe it wolde take, min herte is evere therayein. bot natheles to speke it plein, al this that i have seid you hiere of my wakinge, as ye mai hiere, it toucheth to mi lady swete; for otherwise, i you behiete, in strange place whanne i go, me list nothing to wake so. for whan the wommen listen pleie, and i hir se noght in the weie, of whom i scholde merthe take, me list noght longe forto wake, bot if it be for pure schame, of that i wolde eschuie a name, that thei ne scholde have cause non to seie, "ha, lo, wher goth such on, that hath forlore his contenaunce]" and thus among i singe and daunce, and feigne lust ther as non is. for ofte sithe i fiele this; of thoght, which in mi herte falleth whanne it is nyht, myn hed appalleth, and that is for i se hire noght, which is the wakere of mi thoght: and thus as tymliche as i may, fulofte whanne it is brod day, i take of all these othre leve and go my weie, and thei beleve, that sen per cas here loves there; and i go forth as noght ne were unto mi bedd, so that al one i mai ther ligge and sighe and grone and wisshen al the longe nyht, til that i se the daies lyht. i not if that be sompnolence, bot upon youre conscience, min holi fader, demeth ye. my sone, i am wel paid with thee, of slep that thou the sluggardie be nyhte in loves compaignie eschuied hast, and do thi peine so that thi love thar noght pleine: for love upon his lust wakende is evere, and wolde that non ende were of the longe nyhtes set. wherof that thou be war the bet, to telle a tale i am bethoght, hou love and slep acorden noght. for love who that list to wake be nyhte, he mai ensample take of cephalus, whan that he lay with aurora that swete may in armes all the longe nyht. bot whanne it drogh toward the liht, that he withinne his herte sih the dai which was amorwe nyh, anon unto the sonne he preide for lust of love, and thus he seide: "o phebus, which the daies liht governest, til that it be nyht, and gladest every creature after the lawe of thi nature,- bot natheles ther is a thing, which onli to the knouleching belongeth as in privete to love and to his duete, which asketh noght to ben apert, bot in cilence and in covert desireth forto be beschaded: and thus whan that thi liht is faded and vesper scheweth him alofte, and that the nyht is long and softe, under the cloudes derke and stille thanne hath this thing most of his wille. forthi unto thi myhtes hyhe, as thou which art the daies yhe, of love and myht no conseil hyde, upon this derke nyhtes tyde with al myn herte i thee beseche that i plesance myhte seche with hire which lith in min armes. withdrawgh the banere of thin armes, and let thi lyhtes ben unborn, and in the signe of capricorn, the hous appropred to satorne, i preie that thou wolt sojorne, wher ben the nihtes derke and longe: for i mi love have underfonge, which lith hier be mi syde naked, as sche which wolde ben awaked, and me lest nothing forto slepe. so were it good to take kepe nou at this nede of mi preiere, and that the like forto stiere thi fyri carte, and so ordeigne, that thou thi swifte hors restreigne lowe under erthe in occident, that thei towardes orient be cercle go the longe weie. and ek to thee, diane, i preie, which cleped art of thi noblesse the nyhtes mone and the goddesse, that thou to me be gracious: and in cancro thin oghne hous ayein phebus in opposit stond al this time, and of delit behold venus with a glad yhe. for thanne upon astronomie of due constellacion thou makst prolificacion, and dost that children ben begete: which grace if that i mihte gete, with al myn herte i wolde serve be nyhte, and thi vigile observe." lo, thus this lusti cephalus preide unto phebe and to phebus the nyht in lengthe forto drawe, so that he mihte do the lawe in thilke point of loves heste, which cleped is the nyhtes feste, withoute slep of sluggardie; which venus out of compaignie hath put awey, as thilke same, which lustles ferr from alle game in chambre doth fulofte wo abedde, whanne it falleth so that love scholde ben awaited. but slowthe, which is evele affaited, with slep hath mad his retenue, that what thing is to love due, of all his dette he paieth non: he wot noght how the nyht is gon ne hou the day is come aboute, bot onli forto slepe and route til hyh midday, that he arise. bot cephalus dede otherwise, as thou, my sone, hast herd above. mi fader, who that hath his love abedde naked be his syde, and wolde thanne hise yhen hyde with slep, i not what man is he: bot certes as touchende of me, that fell me nevere yit er this. bot otherwhile, whan so is that i mai cacche slep on honde liggende al one, thanne i fonde to dreme a merie swevene er day; and if so falle that i may mi thought with such a swevene plese, me thenkth i am somdiel in ese, for i non other confort have. so nedeth noght that i schal crave the sonnes carte forto tarie, ne yit the mone, that sche carie hire cours along upon the hevene, for i am noght the more in evene towardes love in no degree: bot in mi slep yit thanne i se somwhat in swevene of that me liketh, which afterward min herte entriketh, whan that i finde it otherwise. so wot i noght of what servise that slep to mannes ese doth. mi sone, certes thou seist soth, bot only that it helpeth kinde somtyme, in phisique as i finde, whan it is take be mesure: bot he which can no slep mesure upon the reule as it belongeth, fulofte of sodein chance he fongeth such infortune that him grieveth. bot who these olde bokes lieveth, of sompnolence hou it is write, ther may a man the sothe wite, if that he wolde ensample take, that otherwhile is good to wake: wherof a tale in poesie i thenke forto specefie. ovide telleth in his sawes, how jupiter be olde dawes lay be a mayde, which yo was cleped, wherof that juno his wif was wroth, and the goddesse of yo torneth the liknesse into a cow, to gon theroute the large fieldes al aboute and gete hire mete upon the griene. and therupon this hyhe queene betok hire argus forto kepe, for he was selden wont to slepe, and yit he hadde an hundred yhen, and alle alyche wel thei syhen. now herkne hou that he was beguiled. mercurie, which was al affiled this cow to stele, he cam desguised, and hadde a pipe wel devised upon the notes of musiqe, wherof he mihte hise eres like. and over that he hadde affaited hise lusti tales, and awaited his time; and thus into the field he cam, where argus he behield with yo, which beside him wente. with that his pype on honde he hente, and gan to pipe in his manere thing which was slepi forto hiere; and in his pipinge evere among he tolde him such a lusti song, that he the fol hath broght aslepe. ther was non yhe mihte kepe his hed, the which mercurie of smot, and forth withal anon fot hot he stal the cow which argus kepte, and al this fell for that he slepte. ensample it was to manye mo, that mochel slep doth ofte wo, whan it is time forto wake: for if a man this vice take, in sompnolence and him delite, men scholde upon his dore wryte his epitaphe, as on his grave; for he to spille and noght to save is schape, as thogh he were ded. forthi, mi sone, hold up thin hed, and let no slep thin yhe englue, bot whanne it is to resoun due. mi fader, as touchende of this, riht so as i you tolde it is, that ofte abedde, whanne i scholde, i mai noght slepe, thogh i wolde; for love is evere faste byme, which takth no hiede of due time. for whanne i schal myn yhen close, anon min herte he wole oppose and holde his scole in such a wise, til it be day that i arise, that selde it is whan that i slepe. and thus fro sompnolence i kepe min yhe: and forthi if ther be oght elles more in this degre, now axeth forth. mi sone, yis: for slowthe, which as moder is the forthdrawere and the norrice to man of many a dredful vice, hath yit an other laste of alle, which many a man hath mad to falle, wher that he mihte nevere arise; wherof for thou thee schalt avise, er thou so with thiself misfare, what vice it is i wol declare. whan slowthe hath don al that he may to dryve forth the longe day, til it be come to the nede, thanne ate laste upon the dede he loketh hou his time is lore, and is so wo begon therfore, that he withinne his thoght conceiveth tristesce, and so himself deceiveth, that he wanhope bringeth inne, wher is no confort to beginne, bot every joie him is deslaied: so that withinne his herte affraied a thousend time with o breth wepende he wissheth after deth, whan he fortune fint adverse. for thanne he wole his hap reherce, as thogh his world were al forlore, and seith, "helas, that i was bore] hou schal i live? hou schal i do? for nou fortune is thus mi fo, i wot wel god me wol noght helpe. what scholde i thanne of joies yelpe, whan ther no bote is of mi care? so overcast is my welfare, that i am schapen al to strif. helas, that i nere of this lif, er i be fulliche overtake]" and thus he wol his sorwe make, as god him mihte noght availe: bot yit ne wol he noght travaile to helpe himself at such a nede, bot slowtheth under such a drede, which is affermed in his herte, riht as he mihte noght asterte the worldes wo which he is inne. also whan he is falle in sinne, him thenkth he is so ferr coupable, that god wol noght be merciable so gret a sinne to foryive; and thus he leeveth to be schrive. and if a man in thilke throwe wolde him consaile, he wol noght knowe the sothe, thogh a man it finde: for tristesce is of such a kinde, that forto meintiene his folie, he hath with him obstinacie, which is withinne of such a slouthe, that he forsaketh alle trouthe, and wole unto no reson bowe; and yit ne can he noght avowe his oghne skile bot of hed: thus dwyneth he, til he be ded, in hindringe of his oghne astat. for where a man is obstinat, wanhope folweth ate laste, which mai noght after longe laste, till slouthe make of him an ende. bot god wot whider he schal wende. mi sone, and riht in such manere ther be lovers of hevy chiere, that sorwen mor than it is ned, whan thei be taried of here sped and conne noght hemselven rede, bot lesen hope forto spede and stinten love to poursewe; and thus thei faden hyde and hewe, and lustles in here hertes waxe. hierof it is that i wolde axe, if thou, mi sone, art on of tho. ha, goode fader, it is so, outake a point, i am beknowe; for elles i am overthrowe in al that evere ye have seid. mi sorwe is everemore unteid, and secheth overal my veines; bot forto conseile of mi peines, i can no bote do therto; and thus withouten hope i go, so that mi wittes ben empeired, and i, as who seith, am despeired to winne love of thilke swete, withoute whom, i you behiete, min herte, that is so bestad, riht inly nevere mai be glad. for be my trouthe i schal noght lie, of pure sorwe, which i drye for that sche seith sche wol me noght, with drecchinge of myn oghne thoght in such a wanhope i am falle, that i ne can unethes calle, as forto speke of eny grace, mi ladi merci to pourchace. bot yit i seie noght for this that al in mi defalte it is; for i cam nevere yit in stede, whan time was, that i my bede ne seide, and as i dorste tolde: bot nevere fond i that sche wolde, for oght sche knew of min entente, to speke a goodly word assente. and natheles this dar i seie, that if a sinful wolde preie to god of his foryivenesse with half so gret a besinesse as i have do to my ladi, in lacke of askinge of merci he scholde nevere come in helle. and thus i mai you sothli telle, save only that i crie and bidde, i am in tristesce al amidde and fulfild of desesperance: and therof yif me mi penance, min holi fader, as you liketh. mi sone, of that thin herte siketh with sorwe, miht thou noght amende, til love his grace wol thee sende, for thou thin oghne cause empeirest what time as thou thiself despeirest. i not what other thing availeth, of hope whan the herte faileth, for such a sor is incurable, and ek the goddes ben vengable: and that a man mai riht wel frede, these olde bokes who so rede, of thing which hath befalle er this: now hier of what ensample it is. whilom be olde daies fer of mese was the king theucer, which hadde a kniht to sone, iphis: of love and he so maistred is, that he hath set al his corage, as to reguard of his lignage, upon a maide of lou astat. bot thogh he were a potestat of worldes good, he was soubgit to love, and put in such a plit, that he excedeth the mesure of reson, that himself assure he can noght; for the more he preide, the lass love on him sche leide. he was with love unwys constreigned, and sche with resoun was restreigned: the lustes of his herte he suieth, and sche for dred schame eschuieth, and as sche scholde, tok good hiede to save and kepe hir wommanhiede. and thus the thing stod in debat betwen his lust and hire astat: he yaf, he sende, he spak be mouthe, bot yit for oght that evere he couthe unto his sped he fond no weie, so that he caste his hope aweie, withinne his herte and gan despeire fro dai to dai, and so empeire, that he hath lost al his delit of lust, of slep, of appetit, that he thurgh strengthe of love lasseth his wit, and resoun overpasseth. as he which of his lif ne rowhte, his deth upon himself he sowhte, so that be nyhte his weie he nam, ther wiste non wher he becam; the nyht was derk, ther schon no mone, tofore the gates he cam sone, wher that this yonge maiden was and with this wofull word, "helas!" hise dedli pleintes he began so stille that ther was noman it herde, and thanne he seide thus: "o thou cupide, o thou venus, fortuned be whos ordinaunce of love is every mannes chaunce, ye knowen al min hole herte, that i ne mai your hond asterte; on you is evere that i crie, and yit you deigneth noght to plie, ne toward me youre ere encline. thus for i se no medicine to make an ende of mi querele, my deth schal be in stede of hele. ha, thou mi wofull ladi diere, which duellest with thi fader hiere and slepest in thi bedd at ese, thou wost nothing of my desese. hou thou and i be now unmete. ha lord, what swevene schalt thou mete, what dremes hast thou nou on honde? thou slepest there, and i hier stonde. thogh i no deth to the deserve, hier schal i for thi love sterve, hier schal a kinges sone dye for love and for no felonie; wher thou therof have joie or sorwe, hier schalt thou se me ded tomorwe. o herte hard aboven alle, this deth, which schal to me befalle for that thou wolt noght do me grace, yit schal be told in many a place, hou i am ded for love and trouthe in thi defalte and in thi slouthe: thi daunger schal to manye mo ensample be for everemo, whan thei my wofull deth recorde." and with that word he tok a corde, with which upon the gate tre he hyng himself, that was pite. the morwe cam, the nyht is gon, men comen out and syhe anon wher that this yonge lord was ded: ther was an hous withoute red, for noman knew the cause why; ther was wepinge and ther was cry. this maiden, whan that sche it herde, and sih this thing hou it misferde, anon sche wiste what it mente, and al the cause hou it wente to al the world sche tolde it oute, and preith to hem that were aboute to take of hire the vengance, for sche was cause of thilke chaunce, why that this kinges sone is split. sche takth upon hirself the gilt, and is al redi to the peine which eny man hir wole ordeigne: and bot if eny other wolde, sche seith that sche hirselve scholde do wreche with hire oghne hond, thurghout the world in every lond that every lif therof schal speke, hou sche hirself i scholde wreke. sche wepth, sche crith, sche swouneth ofte, sche caste hire yhen up alofte and seide among ful pitously: "a godd, thou wost wel it am i, for whom iphis is thus besein: ordeine so, that men mai sein a thousend wynter after this, hou such a maiden dede amis, and as i dede, do to me: for i ne dede no pite to him, which for mi love is lore, do no pite to me therfore." and with this word sche fell to grounde aswoune, and ther sche lay a stounde. the goddes, whiche hir pleigntes herde and syhe hou wofully sche ferde, hire lif thei toke awey anon, and schopen hire into a ston after the forme of hire ymage of bodi bothe and of visage. and for the merveile of this thing unto the place cam the king and ek the queene and manye mo; and whan thei wisten it was so, as i have told it heir above, hou that iphis was ded for love, of that he hadde be refused, thei hielden alle men excused and wondren upon the vengance. and forto kepe in remembrance, this faire ymage mayden liche with compaignie noble and riche with torche and gret sollempnite. to salamyne the cite thei lede, and carie forth withal the dede corps, and sein it schal beside thilke ymage have his sepulture and be begrave: this corps and this ymage thus into the cite to venus, wher that goddesse hire temple hadde, togedre bothe tuo thei ladde. this ilke ymage as for miracle was set upon an hyh pinacle, that alle men it mihte knowe, and under tht thei maden lowe a tumbe riche for the nones of marbre and ek of jaspre stones, wherin this iphis was beloken, that evermor it schal be spoken. and for men schal the sothe wite, thei have here epitaphe write, as thing which scholde abide stable: the lettres graven in a table of marbre were and seiden this: "hier lith, which slowh himself, iphis, for love of araxarathen: and in ensample of tho wommen, that soffren men to deie so, hire forme a man mai sen also, hou it is torned fleissh and bon into the figure of a ston: he was to neysshe and sche to hard. be war forthi hierafterward; ye men and wommen bothe tuo, ensampleth you of that was tho: lo thus, mi sone, as i thee seie, it grieveth be diverse weie in desepeir a man to falle, which is the laste branche of alle of slouthe, as thou hast herd devise. wherof that thou thiself avise good is, er that thou be deceived, wher that the grace of hope is weyved. mi fader, hou so that it stonde, now have i pleinly understonde of slouthes court the proprete, wherof touchende in my degre for evere i thenke to be war. bot overthis, so as i dar, with al min herte i you beseche, that ye me wolde enforme and teche what ther is more of youre aprise in love als wel as otherwise, so that i mai me clene schryve. mi sone, whyl thou art alyve and hast also thi fulle mynde, among the vices whiche i finde ther is yit on such of the sevene, which al this world hath set unevene and causeth manye thinges wronge, where he the cause hath underfonge: wherof hierafter thou schalt hiere the forme bothe and the matiere. explicit liber quartus. incipit liber quintus obstat auaricia nature legibus, et que largus amor poscit, striccius illa vetat. omne quod est nimium viciosum dicitur aurum, vellera sicut oues, seruat auarus opes. non decet vt soli seruabitur es, set amori debet homo solam solus habere suam. ferst whan the hyhe god began this world, and that the kinde of man was falle into no gret encress, for worldes good tho was no press, bot al was set to the comune. thei spieken thanne of no fortune or forto lese or forto winne, til avarice broghte it inne; and that was whan the world was woxe of man, of hors, of schep, of oxe, and that men knewen the moneie. tho wente pes out of the weie and werre cam on every side, which alle love leide aside and of comun his propre made, so that in stede of schovele and spade the scharpe swerd was take on honde; and in this wise it cam to londe, wherof men maden dyches depe and hyhe walles forto kepe the gold which avarice encloseth. bot al to lytel him supposeth, thogh he mihte al the world pourchace; for what thing that he may embrace of gold, of catel or of lond, he let it nevere out of his hond, bot get him more and halt it faste, as thogh the world scholde evere laste. so is he lych unto the helle; for as these olde bokes telle, what comth therinne, lasse or more, it schal departe neveremore: thus whanne he hath his cofre loken, it schal noght after ben unstoken, bot whanne him list to have a syhte of gold, hou that it schyneth brihte, that he ther on mai loke and muse; for otherwise he dar noght use to take his part, or lasse or more. so is he povere, and everemore him lacketh that he hath ynowh: an oxe draweth in the plowh, of that himself hath no profit; a schep riht in the same plit his wolle berth, bot on a day an other takth the flees away: thus hath he, that he noght ne hath, for he therof his part ne tath. to seie hou such a man hath good, who so that reson understod, it is impropreliche seid, for good hath him and halt him teid, that he ne gladeth noght withal, bot is unto his good a thral, and as soubgit thus serveth he, wher that he scholde maister be: such is the kinde of thaverous. mi sone, as thou art amerous, tell if thou farst of love so. mi fader, as it semeth, no; that averous yit nevere i was, so as ye setten me the cas: for as ye tolden here above, in full possession of love yit was i nevere hier tofore, so that me thenketh wel therfore, i mai excuse wel my dede. bot of mi will withoute drede, if i that tresor mihte gete, it scholde nevere be foryete, that i ne wolde it faste holde, til god of love himselve wolde that deth ous scholde part atuo. for lieveth wel, i love hire so, that evene with min oghne lif, if i that swete lusti wif mihte ones welden at my wille, for evere i wolde hire holde stille: and in this wise, taketh kepe, if i hire hadde, i wolde hire kepe, and yit no friday wolde i faste, thogh i hire kepte and hielde faste. fy on the bagges in the kiste! i hadde ynogh, if i hire kiste. for certes, if sche were myn, i hadde hir levere than a myn of gold; for al this worldesriche ne mihte make me so riche as sche, that is so inly good. i sette noght of other good; for mihte i gete such a thing, i hadde a tresor for a king; and thogh i wolde it faste holde, i were thanne wel beholde. bot i mot pipe nou with lasse, and suffre that it overpasse, noght with mi will, for thus i wolde ben averous, if that i scholde. bot, fader, i you herde seie hou thaverous hath yit som weie, wherof he mai be glad; for he mai whanne him list his tresor se, and grope and fiele it al aboute, bot i fulofte am schet theroute, ther as my worthi tresor is. so is mi lif lich unto this, that ye me tolden hier tofore, hou that an oxe his yock hath bore for thing that scholde him noght availe: and in this wise i me travaile; for who that evere hath the welfare, i wot wel that i have the care, for i am hadd and noght ne have, and am, as who seith, loves knave. nou demeth in youre oghne thoght, if this be avarice or noght. mi sone, i have of thee no wonder, thogh thou to serve be put under with love, which to kinde acordeth: bot, so as every bok recordeth, it is to kinde no plesance that man above his sustienance unto the gold schal serve and bowe, for that mai no reson avowe. bot avarice natheles, if he mai geten his encress of gold, that wole he serve and kepe, for he takth of noght elles kepe, bot forto fille hise bagges large; and al is to him bot a charge, for he ne parteth noght withal, bot kepth it, as a servant schal: and thus, thogh that he multeplie his gold, withoute tresorie he is, for man is noght amended with gold, bot if it be despended to mannes us; wherof i rede a tale, and tak therof good hiede, of that befell be olde tyde, as telleth ous the clerk ovide. bachus, which is the god of wyn, acordant unto his divin a prest, the which cillenus hihte, he hadde, and fell so that be nyhte this prest was drunke and goth astraied, wherof the men were evele apaied in frigelond, where as he wente. bot ate laste a cherl him hente with strengthe of other felaschipe, so that upon his drunkeschipe thei bounden him with chenes faste, and forth thei ladde him als so faste unto the king, which hihte myde. bot he, that wolde his vice hyde, this courteis king, tok of him hiede, and bad that men him scholde lede into a chambre forto kepe, til he of leisir hadde slepe. and tho this prest was sone unbounde, and up a couche fro the grounde to slepe he was leid softe ynowh; and whanne he wok, the king him drowh to his presence and dede him chiere, so that this prest in such manere, whil that him liketh, there he duelleth: and al this he to bachus telleth, whan that he cam to him ayein. and whan that bachus herde sein how mide hath don his courtesie, him thenkth it were a vilenie, bot he rewarde him for his dede, so as he mihte of his godhiede. unto this king this god appiereth and clepeth, and that other hiereth: this god to mide thonketh faire of that he was so debonaire toward his prest, and bad him seie: what thing it were he wolde preie, he scholde it have, of worldes good. this king was glad, and stille stod, and was of his axinge in doute, and al the world he caste aboute, what thing was best for his astat, and with himself stod in debat upon thre pointz, the whiche i finde ben lievest unto mannes kinde. the ferste of hem it is delit, the tuo ben worschipe and profit. and thanne he thoghte, "if that i crave delit, thogh i delit mai have, delit schal passen in myn age: that is no siker avantage, for every joie bodily schal ende in wo: delit forthi wol i noght chese. and if worschipe i axe and of the world lordschipe, that is an occupacion of proud ymaginacion, which makth an herte vein withinne; ther is no certain forto winne, for lord and knave al is o weie, whan thei be bore and whan thei deie. and if i profit axe wolde, i not in what manere i scholde of worldes good have sikernesse; for every thief upon richesse awaiteth forto robbe and stele: such good is cause of harmes fele. and also, thogh a man at ones of al the world withinne his wones the tresor myhte have everydel, yit hadde he bot o mannes del toward himself, so as i thinke, of clothinge and of mete and drinke, for more, outake vanite, ther hath no lord in his degre." and thus upon the pointz diverse diverseliche he gan reherce what point him thoghte for the beste; bot pleinly forto gete him reste he can so siker weie caste. and natheles yit ate laste he fell upon the coveitise of gold; and thanne in sondri wise he thoghte, as i have seid tofore, hou tresor mai be sone lore, and hadde an inly gret desir touchende of such recoverir, hou that he mihte his cause availe to gete him gold withoute faile. withinne his herte and thus he preiseth the gold, and seith hou that it peiseth above al other metall most: "the gold," he seith, "may lede an host to make werre ayein a king; the gold put under alle thing, and set it whan him list above; the gold can make of hate love and werre of pes and ryht of wrong, and long to schort and schort to long; withoute gold mai be no feste, gold is the lord of man and beste, and mai hem bothe beie and selle; so that a man mai sothly telle that al the world to gold obeieth." forthi this king to bachus preieth to grante him gold, bot he excedeth mesure more than him nedeth. men tellen that the maladie which cleped is ydropesie resembled is unto this vice be weie of kinde of avarice: the more ydropesie drinketh, the more him thursteth, for him thinketh that he mai nevere drinke his fille; so that ther mai nothing fulfille the lustes of his appetit: and riht in such a maner plit stant avarice and evere stod; the more he hath of worldes good, the more he wolde it kepe streyte, and evere mor and mor coveite. and riht in such condicioun withoute good discrecioun this king with avarice is smite, that al the world it myhte wite: for he to bachus thanne preide, that wherupon his hond he leide, it scholde thurgh his touche anon become gold, and therupon this god him granteth as he bad. tho was this king of frige glad, and forto put it in assai with al the haste that he mai, he toucheth that, he toucheth this, and in his hond al gold it is, the ston, the tree, the lef, the gras, the flour, the fruit, al gold it was. thus toucheth he, whil he mai laste to go, bot hunger ate laste him tok, so that he moste nede be weie of kinde his hunger fede. the cloth was leid, the bord was set, and al was forth tofore him fet, his disch, his coppe, his drinke, his mete; bot whanne he wolde or drinke or ete, anon as it his mouth cam nyh, it was al gold, and thanne he syh of avarice the folie. and he with that began to crie, and preide bachus to foryive his gilt, and soffre him forto live and be such as he was tofore, so that he were not forlore. this god, which herde of his grevance, tok rowthe upon his repentance, and bad him go forth redily unto a flod was faste by, which paceole thanne hyhte, in which as clene as evere he myhte he scholde him waisshen overal, and seide him thanne that he schal recovere his ferste astat ayein. this king, riht as he herde sein, into the flod goth fro the lond, and wissh him bothe fot and hond, and so forth al the remenant, as him was set in covenant: and thanne he syh merveilles strange, the flod his colour gan to change, the gravel with the smale stones to gold thei torne bothe at ones, and he was quit of that he hadde, and thus fortune his chance ladde. and whan he sih his touche aweie, he goth him hom the rihte weie and liveth forth as he dede er, and putte al avarice afer, and the richesse of gold despiseth, and seith that mete and cloth sufficeth. thus hath this king experience hou foles don the reverence to gold, which of his oghne kinde is lasse worth than is the rinde to sustienance of mannes fode; and thanne he made lawes goode and al his thing sette upon skile: he bad his poeple forto tile here lond, and live under the lawe, and that thei scholde also forthdrawe bestaile, and seche non encress of gold, which is the breche of pes. for this a man mai finde write, tofor the time, er gold was smite in coign, that men the florin knewe, ther was welnyh noman untrewe; tho was ther nouther schield ne spere ne dedly wepne forto bere; tho was the toun withoute wal, which nou is closed overal; tho was ther no brocage in londe, which nou takth every cause on honde: so mai men knowe, hou the florin was moder ferst of malengin and bringere inne of alle werre, wherof this world stant out of herre thurgh the conseil of avarice, which of his oghne propre vice is as the helle wonderfull; for it mai neveremor be full, that what as evere comth therinne, awey ne may it nevere winne. bot sone myn, do thou noght so, let al such avarice go, and tak thi part of that thou hast: i bidde noght that thou do wast, bot hold largesce in his mesure; and if thou se a creature, which thurgh poverte is falle in nede, yif him som good, for this i rede to him that wol noght yiven here, what peine he schal have elleswhere. ther is a peine amonges alle benethe in helle, which men calle the wofull peine of tantaly, of which i schal thee redely devise hou men therinne stonde. in helle, thou schalt understonde, ther is a flod of thilke office, which serveth al for avarice: what man that stonde schal therinne, he stant up evene unto the chinne; above his hed also ther hongeth a fruyt, which to that peine longeth, and that fruit toucheth evere in on his overlippe: and therupon swich thurst and hunger him assaileth, that nevere his appetit ne faileth. bot whanne he wolde his hunger fede, the fruit withdrawth him ate nede, and thogh he heve his hed on hyh, the fruit is evere aliche nyh, so is the hunger wel the more: and also, thogh him thurste sore and to the water bowe a doun, the flod in such condicioun avaleth, that his drinke areche he mai noght. lo nou, which a wreche, that mete and drinke is him so couth, and yit ther comth non in his mouth! lich to the peines of this flod stant avarice in worldes good: he hath ynowh and yit him nedeth, for his skarsnesse it him forbiedeth, and evere his hunger after more travaileth him aliche sore, so is he peined overal. forthi thi goodes forth withal, mi sone, loke thou despende, wherof thou myht thiself amende bothe hier and ek in other place. and also if thou wolt pourchace to be beloved, thou most use largesce, for if thou refuse to yive for thi loves sake, it is no reson that thou take of love that thou woldest crave. forthi, if thou wolt grace have, be gracious and do largesse, of avarice and the seknesse eschuie above alle other thing, and tak ensample of mide king and of the flod of helle also, where is ynowh of alle wo. and thogh ther were no matiere bot only that we finden hiere, men oghten avarice eschuie; for what man thilke vice suie, he get himself bot litel reste. for hou so that the body reste, the herte upon the gold travaileth, whom many a nyhtes drede assaileth; for thogh he ligge abedde naked, his herte is everemore awaked, and dremeth, as he lith to slepe, how besi that he is to kepe his tresor, that no thief it stele. thus hath he bot a woful wele. and riht so in the same wise, if thou thiself wolt wel avise, ther be lovers of suche ynowe, that wole unto no reson bowe. if so be that thei come above, whan thei ben maistres of here love, and that thei scholden be most glad, with love thei ben most bestad, so fain thei wolde it holden al. here herte, here yhe is overal, and wenen every man be thief, to stele awey that hem is lief; thus thurgh here oghne fantasie thei fallen into jelousie. thanne hath the schip tobroke his cable, with every wynd and is muable. mi fader, for that ye nou telle, i have herd ofte time telle of jelousie, bot what it is yit understod i nevere er this: wherfore i wolde you beseche, that ye me wolde enforme and teche what maner thing it mihte be. mi sone, that is hard to me: bot natheles, as i have herd, now herkne and thou schalt ben ansuerd. among the men lacke of manhode in mariage upon wifhode makth that a man himself deceiveth, wherof it is that he conceiveth that ilke unsely maladie, the which is cleped jelousie: of which if i the proprete schal telle after the nycete, so as it worcheth on a man, a fievere it is cotidian, which every day wol come aboute, wher so a man be inne or oute. at hom if that a man wol wone, this fievere is thanne of comun wone most grevous in a mannes yhe: for thanne he makth him tote and pryhe, wher so as evere his love go; sche schal noght with hir litel too misteppe, bot he se it al. his yhe is walkende overal; wher that sche singe or that sche dance, he seth the leste contienance, if sche loke on a man aside or with him roune at eny tyde, or that sche lawghe, or that sche loure, his yhe is ther at every houre. and whanne it draweth to the nyht, if sche thanne is withoute lyht, anon is al the game schent; for thanne he set his parlement to speke it whan he comth to bedde, and seith, "if i were now to wedde, i wolde neveremore have wif." and so he torneth into strif the lust of loves duete, and al upon diversete. if sche be freissh and wel araied, he seith hir baner is displaied to clepe in gestes fro the weie: and if sche be noght wel beseie, and that hir list noght to be gladd, he berth an hond that sche is madd and loveth noght hire housebonde; he seith he mai wel understonde, that if sche wolde his compaignie, sche scholde thanne afore his ije schewe al the plesir that sche mihte. so that be daie ne be nyhte sche not what thing is for the beste, bot liveth out of alle reste; for what as evere him liste sein, sche dar noght speke a word ayein, bot wepth and holt hire lippes clos. sche mai wel wryte, "sanz repos," the wif which is to such on maried. of alle wommen be he waried, for with this fievere of jalousie his echedaies fantasie of sorghe is evere aliche grene, so that ther is no love sene, whil that him list at hom abyde. and whan so is he wol out ryde, thanne hath he redi his aspie abidinge in hir compaignie, a janglere, an evel mouthed oon, that sche ne mai nowhider gon, ne speke a word, ne ones loke, that he ne wol it wende and croke and torne after his oghne entente, thogh sche nothing bot honour mente. whan that the lord comth hom ayein, the janglere moste somwhat sein; so what withoute and what withinne, this fievere is evere to beginne, for where he comth he can noght ende, til deth of him have mad an ende. for thogh so be that he ne hiere ne se ne wite in no manere bot al honour and wommanhiede, therof the jelous takth non hiede, bot as a man to love unkinde, he cast his staf, as doth the blinde, and fint defaulte where is non; as who so dremeth on a ston hou he is leid, and groneth ofte, whan he lith on his pilwes softe. so is ther noght bot strif and cheste; whan love scholde make his feste, it is gret thing if he hir kisse: thus hath sche lost the nyhtes blisse, for at such time he gruccheth evere and berth on hond ther is a levere, and that sche wolde an other were in stede of him abedde there; and with tho wordes and with mo of jelousie, he torneth fro and lith upon his other side, and sche with that drawth hire aside, and ther sche wepeth al the nyht. ha, to what peine sche is dyht, that in hire youthe hath so beset the bond which mai noght ben unknet! i wot the time is ofte cursed, that evere was the gold unpursed, the which was leid upon the bok, whan that alle othre sche forsok for love of him; bot al to late sche pleigneth, for as thanne algate sche mot forbere and to him bowe, thogh he ne wole it noght allowe. for man is lord of thilke feire, so mai the womman bot empeire, if sche speke oght ayein his wille; and thus sche berth hir peine stille. bot if this fievere a womman take, sche schal be wel mor harde schake; for thogh sche bothe se and hiere, and finde that ther is matiere, sche dar bot to hirselve pleine, and thus sche suffreth double peine. lo thus, mi sone, as i have write, thou miht of jelousie wite his fievere and his condicion, which is full of suspecion. bot wherof that this fievere groweth, who so these olde bokes troweth, ther mai he finden hou it is: for thei ous teche and telle this, hou that this fievere of jelousie somdel it groweth of sotie of love, and somdiel of untrust. for as a sek man lest his lust, and whan he may no savour gete, he hateth thanne his oughne mete, riht so this fieverous maladie, which caused is of fantasie, makth the jelous in fieble plit to lese of love his appetit thurgh feigned enformacion of his ymaginacion. bot finali to taken hiede, men mai wel make a liklihiede betwen him which is averous of gold and him that is jelous of love, for in on degre thei stonde bothe, as semeth me. that oon wolde have his bagges stille, and noght departen with his wille, and dar noght for the thieves slepe, so fain he wolde his tresor kepe; that other mai noght wel be glad, for he is evere more adrad of these lovers that gon aboute, in aunter if thei putte him oute. so have thei bothe litel joye as wel of love as of monoie. now hast thou, sone, at my techinge of jelousie a knowlechinge, that thou myht understonde this, fro whenne he comth and what he is, and ek to whom that he is lik. be war forthi thou be noght sik of thilke fievere as i have spoke, for it wol in himself be wroke. for love hateth nothing more, as men mai finde be the lore of hem that whilom were wise, hou that thei spieke in many wise. mi fader, soth is that ye sein. bot forto loke therayein, befor this time hou it is falle, wherof ther mihte ensample falle to suche men as be jelous in what manere it is grevous, riht fain i wolde ensample hiere. my goode sone, at thi preiere of suche ensamples as i finde, so as thei comen nou to mynde upon this point, of time gon i thenke forto tellen on. ovide wrot of manye thinges, among the whiche in his wrytinges he tolde a tale in poesie, which toucheth unto jelousie, upon a certein cas of love. among the goddes alle above it fell at thilke time thus: the god of fyr, which vulcanus is hote, and hath a craft forthwith assigned, forto be the smith of jupiter, and his figure bothe of visage and of stature is lothly and malgracious, bot yit he hath withinne his hous as for the likynge of his lif the faire venus to his wif. bot mars, which of batailles is the god, an yhe hadde unto this: as he which was chivalerous, it fell him to ben amerous, and thoghte it was a gret pite to se so lusti on as sche be coupled with so lourde a wiht: so that his peine day and nyht he dede, if he hire winne myhte; and sche, which hadde a good insihte toward so noble a knyhtli lord, in love fell of his acord. ther lacketh noght bot time and place, that he nys siker of hire grace: bot whan tuo hertes falle in on, so wys await was nevere non, that at som time thei ne mete; and thus this faire lusti swete with mars hath ofte compaignie. bot thilke unkynde jelousie, which everemor the herte opposeth, makth vulcanus that he supposeth that it is noght wel overal, and to himself he seide, he schal aspie betre, if that he may; and so it fell upon a day, that he this thing so slyhli ledde, he fond hem bothe tuo abedde al warm, echon with other naked. and he with craft al redy maked of stronge chenes hath hem bounde, as he togedre hem hadde founde, and lefte hem bothe ligge so, and gan to clepe and crie tho unto the goddes al aboute; and thei assembled in a route come alle at ones forto se. bot none amendes hadde he, bot was rebuked hiere and there of hem that loves frendes were; and seiden that he was to blame, for if ther fell him eny schame, it was thurgh his misgovernance: and thus he loste contienance, this god, and let his cause falle; and thei to skorne him lowhen alle, and losen mars out of hise bondes. wherof these erthli housebondes for evere myhte ensample take, if such a chaunce hem overtake: for vulcanus his wif bewreide, the blame upon himself he leide, wherof his schame was the more; which oghte forto ben a lore for every man that liveth hiere, to reulen him in this matiere. thogh such an happ of love asterte, yit scholde he noght apointe his herte with jelousie of that is wroght, bot feigne, as thogh he wiste it noght: for if he lete it overpasse, the sclaundre schal be wel the lasse, and he the more in ese stonde. for this thou myht wel understonde, that where a man schal nedes lese, the leste harm is forto chese. bot jelousie of his untrist makth that full many an harm arist, which elles scholde noght arise; and if a man him wolde avise of that befell to vulcanus, him oghte of reson thenke thus, that sithe a god therof was schamed, wel scholde an erthli man be blamed to take upon him such a vice. forthi, my sone, in thin office be war that thou be noght jelous, which ofte time hath schent the hous. mi fader, this ensample is hard, hou such thing to the heveneward among the goddes myhte falle: for ther is bot o god of alle, which is the lord of hevene and helle. bot if it like you to telle hou suche goddes come aplace, ye mihten mochel thonk pourchace, for i schal be wel tawht withal. mi sone, it is thus overal with hem that stonden misbelieved, that suche goddes ben believed: in sondri place sondri wise amonges hem whiche are unwise ther is betaken of credence; wherof that i the difference in the manere as it is write schal do the pleinly forto wite. er crist was bore among ous hiere, of the believes that tho were in foure formes thus it was. thei of caldee as in this cas hadde a believe be hemselve, which stod upon the signes tuelve, forth ek with the planetes sevene, whiche as thei sihe upon the hevene. of sondri constellacion in here ymaginacion with sondri kerf and pourtreture thei made of goddes the figure. in thelementz and ek also thei hadden a believe tho; and al was that unresonable: for thelementz ben servicable to man, and ofte of accidence, as men mai se thexperience, thei ben corrupt be sondri weie; so mai no mannes reson seie that thei ben god in eny wise. and ek, if men hem wel avise, the sonne and mone eclipse bothe, that be hem lieve or be hem lothe, thei soffre; and what thing is passible to ben a god is impossible. these elementz ben creatures, so ben these hevenly figures, wherof mai wel be justefied that thei mai noght be deified: and who that takth awey thonour which due is to the creatour, and yifth it to the creature, he doth to gret a forsfaiture. bot of caldee natheles upon this feith, thogh it be les, thei holde affermed the creance; so that of helle the penance, as folk which stant out of believe, they schull receive, as we believe. of the caldeus lo in this wise stant the believe out of assisse: bot in egipte worst of alle the feith is fals, hou so it falle; for thei diverse bestes there honoure, as thogh thei goddes were: and natheles yit forth withal thre goddes most in special thei have, forth with a goddesse, in whom is al here sikernesse. tho goddes be yit cleped thus, orus, typhon and isirus: thei were brethren alle thre, and the goddesse in hir degre here soster was and ysis hyhte, whom isirus forlai be nyhte and hield hire after as his wif. so it befell that upon strif typhon hath isre his brother slain, which hadde a child to sone orayn, and he his fader deth to herte so tok, that it mai noght asterte that he typhon after ne slowh, whan he was ripe of age ynowh. bot yit thegipcienes trowe for al this errour, which thei knowe, that these brethren ben of myht to sette and kepe egipte upriht, and overthrowe, if that hem like. bot ysis, as seith the cronique, fro grece into egipte cam, and sche thanne upon honde nam to teche hem forto sowe and eere, which noman knew tofore there. and whan thegipcienes syhe the fieldes fulle afore here yhe, and that the lond began to greine, which whilom hadde be bareigne,- for therthe bar after the kinde his due charge,- this i finde, that sche of berthe the goddesse is cleped, so that in destresse the wommen there upon childinge to hire clepe, and here offringe thei beren, whan that thei ben lyhte. lo, hou egipte al out of syhte fro resoun stant in misbelieve for lacke of lore, as i believe. among the greks, out of the weie as thei that reson putte aweie, ther was, as the cronique seith, of misbelieve an other feith, that thei here goddes and goddesses, as who seith, token al to gesses of suche as weren full of vice, to whom thei made here sacrifice. the hihe god, so as thei seide, to whom thei most worschipe leide, saturnus hihte, and king of crete he hadde be; bot of his sete he was put doun, as he which stod in frenesie, and was so wod, that fro his wif, which rea hihte, hise oghne children he to plihte, and eet hem of his comun wone. bot jupiter, which was his sone and of full age, his fader bond and kutte of with his oghne hond hise genitals, whiche als so faste into the depe see he caste; wherof the greks afferme and seie, thus whan thei were caste aweie, cam venus forth be weie of kinde. and of saturne also i finde how afterward into an yle this jupiter him dede exile, wher that he stod in gret meschief. lo, which a god thei maden chief! and sithen that such on was he, which stod most hihe in his degre among the goddes, thou miht knowe, these othre, that ben more lowe, ben litel worth, as it is founde. for jupiter was the secounde, which juno hadde unto his wif; and yit a lechour al his lif he was, and in avouterie he wroghte many a tricherie; and for he was so full of vices, thei cleped him god of delices: of whom, if thou wolt more wite, ovide the poete hath write. bot yit here sterres bothe tuo, saturne and jupiter also, thei have, althogh thei be to blame, attitled to here oghne name. mars was an other in that lawe, the which in dace was forthdrawe, of whom the clerk vegecius wrot in his bok, and tolde thus, hou he into ytaile cam, and such fortune ther he nam that he a maiden hath oppressed, which in hire ordre was professed, as sche which was the prioresse in vestes temple the goddesse, so was sche wel the mor to blame. dame ylia this ladi name men clepe, and ek sche was also the kinges dowhter that was tho, which mynitor be name hihte. so that ayein the lawes ryhte mars thilke time upon hire that remus and romulus begat, whiche after, whan thei come in age, of knihthode and of vassellage ytaile al hol thei overcome and foundeden the grete rome; in armes and of such emprise thei weren, that in thilke wise here fader mars for the mervaile the god was cleped of bataille. thei were his children bothe tuo, thurgh hem he tok his name so, ther was non other cause why: and yit a sterre upon the sky he hath unto his name applied, in which that he is signified. an other god thei hadden eke, to whom for conseil thei beseke, the which was brother to venus, appollo men him clepe thus. he was an hunte upon the helles, ther was with him no vertu elles, wherof that enye bokes karpe, bot only that he couthe harpe; which whanne he walked over londe, fulofte time he tok on honde, to gete him with his sustienance, for lacke of other pourveance. and otherwhile of his falshede he feignede him to conne arede of thing which after scholde falle; wherof among hise sleyhtes alle he hath the lewed folk deceived, so that the betre he was received. lo now, thurgh what creacion he hath deificacion, and cleped is the god of wit to suche as be the foles yit. an other god, to whom thei soghte, mercurie hihte, and him ne roghte what thing he stal, ne whom he slowh. of sorcerie he couthe ynowh, that whanne he wolde himself transforme, fulofte time he tok the forme of womman and his oghne lefte; so dede he wel the more thefte. a gret spekere in alle thinges he was also, and of lesinges an auctour, that men wiste non an other such as he was on. and yit thei maden of this thief a god, which was unto hem lief, and clepede him in tho believes the god of marchantz and of thieves. bot yit a sterre upon the hevene he hath of the planetes sevene. but vulcanus, of whom i spak, he hadde a courbe upon the bak, and therto he was hepehalt: of whom thou understonde schalt, he was a schrewe in al his youthe, and he non other vertu couthe of craft to helpe himselve with, bot only that he was a smith with jupiter, which in his forge diverse thinges made him forge; so wot i noght for what desir thei clepen him the god of fyr. king of cizile ypolitus a sone hadde, and eolus he hihte, and of his fader grant he hield be weie of covenant the governance of every yle which was longende unto cizile, of hem that fro the lond forein leie open to the wynd al plein. and fro thilke iles to the londe fulofte cam the wynd to honde: after the name of him forthi the wyndes cleped eoli tho were, and he the god of wynd. lo nou, hou this believe is blynd! the king of crete jupiter, the same which i spak of er, unto his brother, which neptune was hote, it list him to comune part of his good, so that be schipe he mad him strong of the lordschipe of al the see in tho parties; wher that he wroghte his tyrannyes, and the strange yles al aboute he wan, that every man hath doute upon his marche forto saile; for he anon hem wolde assaile and robbe what thing that thei ladden, his sauf conduit bot if thei hadden. wherof the comun vois aros in every lond, that such a los he cawhte, al nere it worth a stre, that he was cleped of the see the god be name, and yit he is with hem that so believe amis. this neptune ek was thilke also, which was the ferste foundour tho of noble troie, and he forthi was wel the more lete by. the loresman of the schepherdes, and ek of hem that ben netherdes, was of archade and hihte pan: of whom hath spoke many a man; for in the wode of nonarcigne, enclosed with the tres of pigne, and on the mont of parasie he hadde of bestes the baillie, and ek benethe in the valleie, wher thilke rivere, as men seie, which ladon hihte, made his cours, he was the chief of governours of hem that kepten tame bestes, wherof thei maken yit the festes in the cite stinfalides. and forth withal yit natheles he tawhte men the forthdrawinge of bestaile, and ek the makinge of oxen, and of hors the same, hou men hem scholde ryde and tame: of foules ek, so as we finde, ful many a soubtiel craft of kinde he fond, which noman knew tofore. men dede him worschipe ek therfore, that he the ferste in thilke lond was which the melodie fond of riedes, whan thei weren ripe, with double pipes forto pipe; therof he yaf the ferste lore, til afterward men couthe more. to every craft for mannes helpe he hadde a redi wit to helpe thurgh naturel experience: and thus the nyce reverence of foles, whan that he was ded, the fot hath torned to the hed, and clepen him god of nature, for so thei maden his figure. an other god, so as thei fiele, which jupiter upon samele begat in his avouterie, whom, forto hide his lecherie, that non therof schal take kepe, in a montaigne forto kepe, which dyon hihte and was in ynde, he sende, in bokes as i finde: and he be name bachus hihte, which afterward, whan that he mihte, a wastour was, and al his rente in wyn and bordel he despente. bot yit, al were he wonder badde, among the greks a name he hadde; thei cleped him the god of wyn, and thus a glotoun was dyvyn. ther was yit esculapius a godd in thilke time as thus. his craft stod upon surgerie, bot for the lust of lecherie, that he to daires dowhter drowh, it felle that jupiter him slowh: and yit thei made him noght forthi a god, and was no cause why. in rome he was long time also a god among the romeins tho; for, as he seide, of his presence ther was destruid a pestilence, whan thei to thyle of delphos wente, and that appollo with hem sente this esculapius his sone, among the romeins forto wone. and there he duelte for a while, til afterward into that yle, fro whenne he cam, ayein he torneth, where al his lyf that he sojorneth among the greks, til that he deide. and thei upon him thanne leide his name, and god of medicine he hatte after that ilke line. an other god of hercules thei made, which was natheles a man, bot that he was so strong, in al this world that brod and long so myhti was noman as he. merveiles tuelve in his degre, as it was couth in sondri londes, he dede with hise oghne hondes ayein geantz and monstres bothe, the whiche horrible were and lothe, bot he with strengthe hem overcam: wherof so gret a pris he nam, that thei him clepe amonges alle the god of strengthe, and to him calle. and yit ther is no reson inne, for he a man was full of sinne, which proved was upon his ende, for in a rage himself he brende; and such a cruel mannes dede acordeth nothing with godhede. thei hadde of goddes yit an other, which pluto hihte, and was the brother of jupiter, and he fro youthe with every word which cam to mouthe, of eny thing whan he was wroth, he wolde swere his commun oth, be lethen and be flegeton, be cochitum and acheron, the whiche, after the bokes telle, ben the chief flodes of the helle: be segne and stige he swor also, that ben the depe pettes tuo of helle the most principal. pluto these othes overal swor of his commun custummance, til it befell upon a chance, that he for jupiteres sake unto the goddes let do make a sacrifice, and for that dede on of the pettes for his mede in helle, of which i spak of er, was granted him; and thus he ther upon the fortune of this thing the name tok of helle king. lo, these goddes and wel mo among the greks thei hadden tho, and of goddesses manyon, whos names thou schalt hiere anon, and in what wise thei deceiven the foles whiche here feith receiven. so as saturne is soverein of false goddes, as thei sein, so is sibeles of goddesses the moder, whom withoute gesses the folk payene honoure and serve, as thei the whiche hire lawe observe. bot forto knowen upon this fro when sche cam and what sche is, bethincia the contre hihte, wher sche cam ferst to mannes sihte; and after was saturnes wif, be whom thre children in hire lif sche bar, and thei were cleped tho juno, neptunus and pluto, the whiche of nyce fantasie the poeple wolde deifie. and for hire children were so, sibeles thanne was also mad a goddesse, and thei hire calle the moder of the goddes alle. so was that name bore forth, and yit the cause is litel worth. a vois unto saturne tolde hou that his oghne sone him scholde out of his regne putte aweie; and he be cause of thilke weie, that him was schape such a fate, sibele his wif began to hate and ek hire progenie bothe. and thus, whil that thei were wrothe, be philerem upon a dai in his avouterie he lai, on whom he jupiter begat; and thilke child was after that which wroghte al that was prophecied, as it tofore is specefied: so that whan jupiter of crete was king, a wif unto him mete the dowhter of sibele he tok, and that was juno, seith the bok. of his deificacion after the false oppinion, that have i told, so as thei meene; and for this juno was the queene of jupiter and soster eke, the foles unto hire sieke, and sein that sche is the goddesse of regnes bothe and of richesse: and ek sche, as thei understonde, the water nimphes hath in honde to leden at hire oghne heste; and whan hir list the sky tempeste, the reinbowe is hir messager. lo, which a misbelieve is hier! that sche goddesse is of the sky i wot non other cause why. an other goddesse is minerve, to whom the greks obeie and serve: and sche was nyh the grete lay of triton founde, wher sche lay a child forcast, bot what sche was ther knew noman the sothe cas. bot in aufrique sche was leid in the manere as i have seid, and caried fro that ilke place into an yle fer in trace, the which palene thanne hihte, wher a norrice hir kepte and dihte. and after, for sche was so wys that sche fond ferst in hire avis the cloth makinge of wolle and lyn, men seiden that sche was divin, and the goddesse of sapience thei clepen hire in that credence. of the goddesse which pallas is cleped sondri speche was. on seith hire fader was pallant, which in his time was geant, a cruel man, a bataillous: an other seith hou in his hous sche was the cause why he deide. and of this pallas some ek seide that sche was martes wif; and so among the men that weren tho of misbelieve in the riote the goddesse of batailles hote she was, and yit sche berth the name. now loke, hou they be forto blame. saturnus after his exil fro crete cam in gret peril into the londes of ytaile, and ther he dede gret mervaile, wherof his name duelleth yit. for he fond of his oghne wit the ferste craft of plowh tilinge, of eringe and of corn sowinge, and how men scholden sette vines and of the grapes make wynes; al this he tawhte, and it fell so, his wif, the which cam with him tho, was cleped cereres be name, and for sche tawhte also the same, and was his wif that ilke throwe, as it was to the poeple knowe, thei made of ceres a goddesse, in whom here tilthe yit thei blesse, and sein that tricolonius hire sone goth amonges ous and makth the corn good chep or dere, riht as hire list fro yer to yeere; so that this wif be cause of this goddesse of cornes cleped is. king jupiter, which his likinge whilom fulfelde in alle thinge, so priveliche aboute he ladde his lust, that he his wille hadde of latona, and on hire that diane his dowhter he begat unknowen of his wif juno. and afterward sche knew it so, that latona for drede fledde into an ile, wher sche hedde hire wombe, which of childe aros. thilke yle cleped was delos; in which diana was forthbroght, and kept so that hire lacketh noght. and after, whan sche was of age, sche tok non hiede of mariage, bot out of mannes compaignie sche tok hire al to venerie in forest and in wildernesse for ther was al hire besinesse be daie and ek be nyhtes tyde with arwes brode under the side and bowe in honde, of which sche slowh and tok al that hir liste ynowh of bestes whiche ben chacable: wherof the cronique of this fable seith that the gentils most of alle worschipen hire and to hire calle, and the goddesse of hihe helles, of grene trees, of freisshe welles, they clepen hire in that believe, which that no reson mai achieve. proserpina, which dowhter was of cereres, befell this cas: whil sche was duellinge in cizile, hire moder in that ilke while upon hire blessinge and hire heste bad that sche scholde ben honeste, and lerne forto weve and spinne, and duelle at hom and kepe hire inne. bot sche caste al that lore aweie, and as sche wente hir out to pleie, to gadre floures in a pleine, and that was under the monteine of ethna, fell the same tyde that pluto cam that weie ryde, and sodeinly, er sche was war, he tok hire up into his char. and as thei riden in the field, hire grete beaute he behield, which was so plesant in his ije, that forto holde in compainie he weddeth hire and hield hire so to ben his wif for everemo. and as thou hast tofore herd telle hou he was cleped god of helle, so is sche cleped the goddesse be cause of him, ne mor ne lesse. lo, thus, mi sone, as i thee tolde, the greks whilom be daies olde here goddes hadde in sondri wise, and thurgh the lore of here aprise the romeins hielden ek the same. and in the worschipe of here name to every godd in special thei made a temple forth withal, and ech of hem his yeeres dai attitled hadde; and of arai the temples weren thanne ordeigned, and ek the poeple was constreigned to come and don here sacrifice; the prestes ek in here office solempne maden thilke festes. and thus the greks lich to the bestes the men in stede of god honoure, whiche mihten noght hemself socoure, whil that thei were alyve hiere. and over this, as thou schalt hiere, the greks fulfild of fantasie sein ek that of the helles hihe the goddes ben in special, bot of here name in general thei hoten alle satiri. ther ben of nimphes proprely in the believe of hem also: oreades thei seiden tho attitled ben to the monteines; and for the wodes in demeynes to kepe, tho ben driades; of freisshe welles naiades; and of the nimphes of the see i finde a tale in proprete, hou dorus whilom king of grece, which hadde of infortune a piece,- his wif forth with hire dowhtres alle, so as the happes scholden falle, with many a gentil womman there dreint in the salte see thei were: wherof the greks that time seiden, and such a name upon hem leiden, nerei des that thei ben hote, the nimphes whiche that thei note to regne upon the stremes salte. lo now, if this believe halte! bot of the nimphes as thei telle, in every place wher thei duelle thei ben al redi obeissant as damoiselles entendant to the goddesses, whos servise thei mote obeie in alle wise; wherof the greks to hem beseke with tho that ben goddesses eke, and have in hem a gret credence. and yit withoute experience salve only of illusion, which was to hem dampnacion, for men also that were dede thei hadden goddes, as i rede, and tho be name manes hihten, to whom ful gret honour thei dihten, so as the grekes lawe seith, which was ayein the rihte feith. thus have i told a gret partie; bot al the hole progenie of goddes in that ilke time to long it were forto rime. bot yit of that which thou hast herd, of misbelieve hou it hath ferd, ther is a gret diversite. mi fader, riht so thenketh me. bot yit o thing i you beseche, which stant in alle mennes speche, the godd and the goddesse of love, of whom ye nothing hier above have told, ne spoken of her fare, that ye me wolden now declare hou thei ferst comen to that name. mi sone, i have it left for schame, be cause i am here oghne prest; bot for thei stonden nyh thi brest upon the schrifte of thi matiere, thou schalt of hem the sothe hiere: and understond nou wel the cas. venus saturnes dowhter was, which alle danger putte aweie of love, and fond to lust a weie; so that of hire in sondri place diverse men felle into grace, and such a lusti lif sche ladde, that sche diverse children hadde, nou on be this, nou on be that. of hire it was that mars beyat a child, which cleped was armene; of hire also cam andragene, to whom mercurie fader was: anchises begat eneas of hire also, and ericon biten begat, and therupon, whan that sche sih ther was non other, be jupiter hire oghne brother sche lay, and he begat cupide. and thilke sone upon a tyde, whan he was come unto his age, he hadde a wonder fair visage, and fond his moder amourous, and he was also lecherous: so whan thei weren bothe al one, as he which yhen hadde none to se reson, his moder kiste; and sche also, that nothing wiste bot that which unto lust belongeth, to ben hire love him underfongeth. thus was he blind, and sche unwys: bot natheles this cause it is, why cupide is the god of love, for he his moder dorste love. and sche, which thoghte hire lustes fonde, diverse loves tok in honde, wel mo thanne i the tolde hiere: and for sche wolde hirselve skiere, sche made comun that desport, and sette a lawe of such a port, that every womman mihte take what man hire liste, and noght forsake to ben als comun as sche wolde. sche was the ferste also which tolde that wommen scholde here bodi selle; semiramis, so as men telle, of venus kepte thilke aprise, and so dede in the same wise of rome faire neabole, which liste hire bodi to rigole; sche was to every man felawe, and hild the lust of thilke lawe, which venus of hirself began; wherof that sche the name wan, why men hire clepen the goddesse of love and ek of gentilesse, of worldes lust and of plesance. se nou the foule mescreance of greks in thilke time tho, whan venus tok hire name so. ther was no cause under the mone of which thei hadden tho to done, of wel or wo wher so it was, that thei ne token in that cas a god to helpe or a goddesse. wherof, to take mi witnesse, the king of bragmans dindimus wrot unto alisandre thus: in blaminge of the grekes feith and of the misbelieve, he seith how thei for every membre hadden a sondri god, to whom thei spradden here armes, and of help besoghten. minerve for the hed thei soghten, for sche was wys, and of a man the wit and reson which he can is in the celles of the brayn, wherof thei made hire soverain. mercurie, which was in his dawes a gret spekere of false lawes, on him the kepinge of the tunge thei leide, whan thei spieke or sunge. for bachus was a glotoun eke, him for the throte thei beseke, that he it wolde waisshen ofte with swote drinkes and with softe. the god of schuldres and of armes was hercules; for he in armes the myhtieste was to fihte, to him tho limes they behihte. the god whom that thei clepen mart the brest to kepe hath for his part, forth with the herte, in his ymage that he adresce the corage. and of the galle the goddesse, for sche was full of hastifesse of wraththe and liht to grieve also, thei made and seide it was juno. cupide, which the brond afyre bar in his hond, he was the sire of the stomak, which builleth evere, wherof the lustes ben the levere. to the goddesse cereres, which of the corn yaf hire encress upon the feith that tho was take, the wombes cure was betake; and venus thurgh the lecherie, for which that thei hire deifie, sche kept al doun the remenant to thilke office appourtenant. thus was dispers in sondri wise the misbelieve, as i devise, with many an ymage of entaile, of suche as myhte hem noght availe; for thei withoute lyves chiere unmyhti ben to se or hiere or speke or do or elles fiele; and yit the foles to hem knele, which is here oghne handes werk. ha lord, hou this believe is derk, and fer fro resonable wit! and natheles thei don it yit: that was to day a ragged tre, to morwe upon his majeste stant in the temple wel besein. how myhte a mannes resoun sein that such a stock mai helpe or grieve? bot thei that ben of such believe and unto suche goddes calle, it schal to hem riht so befalle, and failen ate moste nede. bot if thee list to taken hiede and of the ferste ymage wite, petornius therof hath write and ek nigargorus also; and thei afferme and write so, that promothe�s was tofore and fond the ferste craft therfore, and cirophanes, as thei telle, thurgh conseil which was take in helle, in remembrance of his lignage let setten up the ferste ymage. of cirophanes seith the bok, that he for sorwe, which he tok of that he sih his sone ded, of confort knew non other red, bot let do make in remembrance a faire ymage of his semblance and sette it in the market place, which openly tofore his face stod every dai to don him ese. and thei that thanne wolden plese the fader, scholden it obeie, whan that they comen thilke weie. and of ninus king of assire i rede hou that in his empire he was next after the secounde of hem that ferst ymages founde. for he riht in semblable cas of belus, which his fader was fro nembroth in the rihte line, let make of gold and stones fine a precious ymage riche after his fader evene liche; and therupon a lawe he sette, that every man of pure dette with sacrifice and with truage honoure scholde thilke ymage: so that withinne time it fell, of belus cam the name of bel, of bel cam belzebub, and so the misbelieve wente tho. the thridde ymage next to this was, whan the king of grece apis was ded, thei maden a figure in resemblance of his stature. of this king apis seith the bok that serapis his name tok, in whom thurgh long continuance of misbelieve a gret creance thei hadden, and the reverence of sacrifice and of encence to him thei made: and as thei telle, among the wondres that befelle, whan alisandre fro candace cam ridende, in a wilde place undur an hull a cave he fond; and candalus, which in that lond was bore, and was candaces sone, him tolde hou that of commun wone the goddes were in thilke cave. and he, that wolde assaie and have a knowlechinge if it be soth, liht of his hors and in he goth, and fond therinne that he soghte: for thurgh the fendes sleihte him thoghte, amonges othre goddes mo that serapis spak to him tho, whom he sih there in gret arrai. and thus the fend fro dai to dai the worschipe of ydolatrie drowh forth upon the fantasie of hem that weren thanne blinde and couthen noght the trouthe finde. thus hast thou herd in what degre of grece, egipte and of caldee the misbelieves whilom stode; and hou so that thei be noght goode ne trewe, yit thei sprungen oute, wherof the wyde world aboute his part of misbelieve tok. til so befell, as seith the bok, that god a poeple for himselve hath chose of the lignages tuelve, wherof the sothe redely, as it is write in genesi, i thenke telle in such a wise that it schal be to thin apprise. after the flod, fro which noe was sauf, the world in his degre was mad, as who seith, newe ayein, of flour, of fruit, of gras, of grein, of beste, of bridd and of mankinde, which evere hath be to god unkinde: for noght withstondende al the fare, of that this world was mad so bare and afterward it was restored, among the men was nothing mored towardes god of good lyvynge, bot al was torned to likinge after the fleissh, so that foryete was he which yaf hem lif and mete, of hevene and erthe creatour. and thus cam forth the grete errour, that thei the hihe god ne knewe, bot maden othre goddes newe, as thou hast herd me seid tofore: ther was noman that time bore, that he ne hadde after his chois a god, to whom he yaf his vois. wherof the misbelieve cam into the time of habraham: bot he fond out the rihte weie, hou only that men scholde obeie the hihe god, which weldeth al, and evere hath don and evere schal, in hevene, in erthe and ek in helle; ther is no tunge his miht mai telle. this patriarch to his lignage forbad, that thei to non ymage encline scholde in none wise, bot here offrende and sacrifise with al the hole hertes love unto the mihti god above thei scholden yive and to no mo: and thus in thilke time tho began the secte upon this erthe, which of believes was the ferthe. of rihtwisnesse it was conceived, so moste it nedes be received of him that alle riht is inne, the hihe god, which wolde winne a poeple unto his oghne feith. on habraham the ground he leith, and made him forto multeplie into so gret a progenie, that thei egipte al overspradde. bot pharao with wrong hem ladde in servitute ayein the pes, til god let sende moi ses to make the deliverance; and for his poeple gret vengance he tok, which is to hiere a wonder. the king was slain, the lond put under, god bad the rede see divide, which stod upriht on either side and yaf unto his poeple a weie, that thei on fote it passe dreie and gon so forth into desert: wher forto kepe hem in covert, the daies, whan the sonne brente, a large cloude hem overwente, and forto wissen hem be nyhte, a firy piler hem alyhte. and whan that thei for hunger pleigne, the myhti god began to reyne manna fro hevene doun to grounde, wherof that ech of hem hath founde his fode, such riht as him liste; and for thei scholde upon him triste, riht as who sette a tonne abroche, he percede the harde roche, and sprong out water al at wille, that man and beste hath drunke his fille: and afterward he yaf the lawe to moi ses, that hem withdrawe thei scholden noght fro that he bad. and in this wise thei be lad, til thei toke in possession the londes of promission, wher that caleph and josue the marches upon such degre departen, after the lignage that ech of hem as heritage his porpartie hath underfonge. and thus stod this believe longe, which of prophetes was governed; and thei hadde ek the poeple lerned of gret honour that scholde hem falle; bot ate moste nede of alle thei faileden, whan crist was bore. bot hou that thei here feith have bore, it nedeth noght to tellen al, the matiere is so general: whan lucifer was best in hevene and oghte moste have stonde in evene, towardes god he tok debat; and for that he was obstinat, and wolde noght to trouthe encline, he fell for evere into ruine: and adam ek in paradis, whan he stod most in al his pris after thastat of innocence, ayein the god brak his defence and fell out of his place aweie: and riht be such a maner weie the jwes in here beste plit, whan that thei scholden most parfit have stonde upon the prophecie, tho fellen thei to most folie, and him which was fro hevene come, and of a maide his fleissh hath nome, and was among hem bore and fedd, as men that wolden noght be spedd of goddes sone, with o vois thei hinge and slowhe upon the crois. wherof the parfit of here lawe fro thanne forth hem was withdrawe, so that thei stonde of no merit, bot in truage as folk soubgit withoute proprete of place thei liven out of goddes grace, dispers in alle londes oute. and thus the feith is come aboute, that whilom in the jewes stod, which is noght parfihtliche good. to speke as it is nou befalle, ther is a feith aboven alle, in which the trouthe is comprehended, wherof that we ben alle amended. the hihe almyhti majeste, of rihtwisnesse and of pite, the sinne which that adam wroghte, whan he sih time, ayein he boghte, and sende his sone fro the hevene to sette mannes soule in evene, which thanne was so sore falle upon the point which was befalle, that he ne mihte himself arise. gregoire seith in his aprise, it helpeth noght a man be bore, if goddes sone were unbore; for thanne thurgh the ferste sinne, which adam whilom broghte ous inne, ther scholden alle men be lost; bot crist restoreth thilke lost, and boghte it with his fleissh and blod. and if we thenken hou it stod of thilke rancoun which he payde, as seint gregoire it wrot and sayde, al was behovely to the man: for that wherof his wo began was after cause of al his welthe, whan he which is the welle of helthe, the hihe creatour of lif, upon the nede of such a strif so wolde for his creature take on himself the forsfaiture and soffre for the mannes sake. thus mai no reson wel forsake that thilke senne original ne was the cause in special of mannes worschipe ate laste, which schal withouten ende laste. for be that cause the godhede assembled was to the manhede in the virgine, where he nom oure fleissh and verai man becom of bodely fraternite; wherof the man in his degre stant more worth, as i have told, than he stod erst be manyfold, thurgh baptesme of the newe lawe, of which crist lord is and felawe. and thus the hihe goddes myht, which was in the virgine alyht, the mannes soule hath reconsiled, which hadde longe ben exiled. so stant the feith upon believe, withoute which mai non achieve to gete him paradis ayein: bot this believe is so certein, so full of grace and of vertu, that what man clepeth to jhesu in clene lif forthwith good dede, he mai noght faile of hevene mede, which taken hath the rihte feith; for elles, as the gospel seith, salvacion ther mai be non. and forto preche therupon crist bad to hise apostles alle, the whos pouer as nou is falle on ous that ben of holi cherche, if we the goode dedes werche; for feith only sufficeth noght, bot if good dede also be wroght. now were it good that thou forthi, which thurgh baptesme proprely art unto cristes feith professed, be war that thou be noght oppressed with anticristes lollardie. for as the jwes prophecie was set of god for avantage, riht so this newe tapinage of lollardie goth aboute to sette cristes feith in doute. the seintz that weren ous tofore, be whom the feith was ferst upbore, that holi cherche stod relieved, thei oghten betre be believed than these, whiche that men knowe noght holy, thogh thei feigne and blowe here lollardie in mennes ere. bot if thou wolt live out of fere, such newe lore, i rede, eschuie, and hold forth riht the weie and suie, as thine ancestres dede er this: so schalt thou noght believe amis. crist wroghte ferst and after tawhte, so that the dede his word arawhte; he yaf ensample in his persone, and we the wordes have al one, lich to the tree with leves grene, upon the which no fruit is sene. the priest thoas, which of minerve the temple hadde forto serve, and the palladion of troie kepte under keie, for monoie, of anthenor which he hath nome, hath soffred anthenor to come and the palladion to stele, wherof the worschipe and the wele of the troiens was overthrowe. bot thoas at the same throwe, whan anthenor this juel tok, wynkende caste awei his lok for a deceipte and for a wyle: as he that scholde himself beguile, he hidde his yhen fro the sihte, and wende wel that he so mihte excuse his false conscience. i wot noght if thilke evidence nou at this time in here estatz excuse mihte the prelatz, knowende hou that the feith discresceth and alle moral vertu cesseth, wherof that thei the keies bere, bot yit hem liketh noght to stere here gostliche yhe forto se the world in his adversite; thei wol no labour undertake to kepe that hem is betake. crist deide himselve for the feith, bot nou our feerfull prelat seith, "the lif is suete," and that he kepeth, so that the feith unholpe slepeth, and thei unto here ese entenden and in here lust her lif despenden, and every man do what him list. thus stant this world fulfild of mist, that noman seth the rihte weie: the wardes of the cherche keie thurgh mishandlinge ben myswreynt, the worldes wawe hath welnyh dreynt the schip which peter hath to stiere, the forme is kept, bot the matiere transformed is in other wise. bot if thei weren gostli wise, and that the prelatz weren goode, as thei be olde daies stode, it were thanne litel nede among the men to taken hiede of that thei hieren pseudo telle, which nou is come forto duelle, to sowe cokkel with the corn, so that the tilthe is nyh forlorn, which crist sew ferst his oghne hond. nou stant the cockel in the lond, wher stod whilom the goode grein, for the prelatz nou, as men sein, forslowthen that thei scholden tile. and that i trowe be the skile, whan ther is lacke in hem above, the poeple is stranged to the love of trouthe, in cause of ignorance; for wher ther is no pourveance of liht, men erren in the derke. bot if the prelatz wolden werke upon the feith which thei ous teche, men scholden noght here weie seche withoute liht, as now is used: men se the charge aldai refused, which holi cherche hath undertake. bot who that wolde ensample take, gregoire upon his omelie ayein the slouthe of prelacie compleigneth him, and thus he seith: "whan peter, fader of the feith, at domesdai schal with him bringe judeam, which thurgh his prechinge he wan, and andrew with achaie schal come his dette forto paie, and thomas ek with his beyete of ynde, and poul the routes grete of sondri londes schal presente, and we fulfild of lond and rente, which of this world we holden hiere, with voide handes schul appiere, touchende oure cure spirital, which is our charge in special, i not what thing it mai amonte upon thilke ende of oure accompte, wher crist himself is auditour, which takth non hiede of vein honour." thoffice of the chancellerie or of the kinges tresorie ne for the writ ne for the taille to warant mai noght thanne availe; the world, which nou so wel we trowe, schal make ous thanne bot a mowe: so passe we withoute mede, that we non otherwise spede, bot as we rede that he spedde, the which his lordes besant hedde and therupon gat non encress. bot at this time natheles, what other man his thonk deserve, the world so lusti is to serve, that we with him ben all acorded, and that is wist and wel recorded thurghout this erthe in alle londes let knyhtes winne with here hondes, for oure tunge schal be stille and stonde upon the fleisshes wille. it were a travail forto preche the feith of crist, as forto teche the folk paiene, it wol noght be; bot every prelat holde his see with al such ese as he mai gete of lusti drinke and lusti mete, wherof the bodi fat and full is unto gostli labour dull and slowh to handle thilke plowh. bot elles we ben swifte ynowh toward the worldes avarice; and that is as a sacrifice, which, after that thapostel seith, is openly ayein the feith unto thidoles yove and granted: bot natheles it is nou haunted, and vertu changed into vice, so that largesce is avarice, in whos chapitre now we trete. mi fader, this matiere is bete so fer, that evere whil i live i schal the betre hede yive unto miself be many weie: bot over this nou wolde i preie to wite what the branches are of avarice, and hou thei fare als wel in love as otherwise. mi sone, and i thee schal devise in such a manere as thei stonde, so that thou schalt hem understonde. dame avarice is noght soleine, which is of gold the capiteine; bot of hir court in sondri wise after the scole of hire aprise sche hath of servantz manyon, wherof that covoitise is on; which goth the large world aboute, to seche thavantages oute, wher that he mai the profit winne to avarice, and bringth it inne. that on hald and that other draweth, ther is no day which hem bedaweth, no mor the sonne than the mone, whan ther is eny thing to done, and namely with covoitise; for he stant out of al assisse of resonable mannes fare. wher he pourposeth him to fare upon his lucre and his beyete, the smale path, the large strete, the furlong and the longe mile, al is bot on for thilke while: and for that he is such on holde, dame avarice him hath withholde, as he which is the principal outward, for he is overal a pourveour and an aspie. for riht as of an hungri pie the storve bestes ben awaited, riht so is covoitise afaited to loke where he mai pourchace, for be his wille he wolde embrace al that this wyde world beclippeth; bot evere he somwhat overhippeth, that he ne mai noght al fulfille the lustes of his gredi wille. bot where it falleth in a lond, that covoitise in myhti hond is set, it is ful hard to fiede; for thanne he takth non other hiede, bot that he mai pourchace and gete, his conscience hath al foryete, and not what thing it mai amonte that he schal afterward acompte. bote as the luce in his degre of tho that lasse ben than he the fisshes griedeli devoureth, so that no water hem socoureth, riht so no lawe mai rescowe fro him that wol no riht allowe; for wher that such on is of myht, his will schal stonde in stede of riht. thus be the men destruid fulofte, til that the grete god alofte ayein so gret a covoitise redresce it in his oghne wise: and in ensample of alle tho i finde a tale write so, the which, for it is good to liere, hierafterward thou schalt it hiere. whan rome stod in noble plit, virgile, which was tho parfit, a mirour made of his clergie and sette it in the tounes ije of marbre on a piler withoute; that thei be thritty mile aboute be daie and ek also be nyhte in that mirour beholde myhte here enemys, if eny were, with al here ordinance there, which thei ayein the cite caste: so that, whil thilke mirour laste, ther was no lond which mihte achieve with werre rome forto grieve; wherof was gret envie tho. and fell that ilke time so, that rome hadde werres stronge ayein cartage, and stoden longe the tuo cites upon debat. cartage sih the stronge astat of rome in thilke mirour stonde, and thoghte al prively to fonde to overthrowe it be som wyle. and hanybal was thilke while the prince and ledere of cartage, which hadde set al his corage upon knihthod in such a wise, that he be worthi and be wise and be non othre was conseiled, wherof the world is yit merveiled of the maistries that he wroghte upon the marches whiche he soghte. and fell in thilke time also, the king of puile, which was tho, thoghte ayein rome to rebelle, and thus was take the querele, hou to destruie this mirour. of rome tho was emperour crassus, which was so coveitous, that he was evere desirous of gold to gete the pilage; wherof that puile and ek cartage with philosophres wise and grete begunne of this matiere trete, and ate laste in this degre ther weren philosophres thre, to do this thing whiche undertoke, and therupon thei with hem toke a gret tresor of gold in cophres, to rome and thus these philisophres togedre in compainie wente, bot noman wiste what thei mente. whan thei to rome come were, so prively thei duelte there, as thei that thoghten to deceive: was non that mihte of hem perceive, til thei in sondri stedes have here gold under the ground begrave in tuo tresors, that to beholde thei scholden seme as thei were olde. and so forth thanne upon a day al openly in good arai to themperour thei hem presente, and tolden it was here entente to duellen under his servise. and he hem axeth in what wise; and thei him tolde in such a plit, that ech of hem hadde a spirit, the which slepende a nyht appiereth and hem be sondri dremes lereth after the world that hath betid. under the ground if oght be hid of old tresor at eny throwe, they schull it in here swevenes knowe; and upon this condicioun, thei sein, what gold under the toun of rome is hid, thei wole it finde, ther scholde noght be left behinde, be so that he the halvendel hem grante, and he assenteth wel; and thus cam sleighte forto duelle with covoitise, as i thee telle. this emperour bad redily that thei be logged faste by where he his oghne body lay; and whan it was amorwe day, that on of hem seith that he mette wher he a goldhord scholde fette: wherof this emperour was glad, and therupon anon he bad his mynours forto go and myne, and he himself of that covine goth forth withal, and at his hond the tresor redi there he fond, where as thei seide it scholde be; and who was thanne glad bot he? upon that other dai secounde thei have an other goldhord founde, which the seconde maister tok upon his swevene and undertok. and thus the sothe experience to themperour yaf such credence, that al his trist and al his feith so sikerliche on hem he leith, of that he fond him so relieved, that thei ben parfitli believed, as thogh thei were goddes thre. nou herkne the soutilete. the thridde maister scholde mete, which, as thei seiden, was unmete above hem alle, and couthe most; and he withoute noise or bost al priveli, so as he wolde, upon the morwe his swevene tolde to themperour riht in his ere, and seide him that he wiste where a tresor was so plentivous of gold and ek so precious of jeueals and of riche stones, that unto alle hise hors at ones it were a charge sufficant. this lord upon this covenant was glad, and axeth where it was. the maister seide, under the glas, and tolde him eke, as for the myn he wolde ordeigne such engin, that thei the werk schull undersette with tymber, that withoute lette men mai the tresor saufli delve, so that the mirour be himselve withoute empeirement schal stonde: and this the maister upon honde hath undertake in alle weie. this lord, which hadde his wit aweie and was with covoitise blent, anon therto yaf his assent; and thus they myne forth withal, the timber set up overal, wherof the piler stod upriht; til it befell upon a nyht these clerkes, whan thei were war hou that the timber only bar the piler, wher the mirour stod,- here sleihte noman understod,- thei go be nyhte unto the myne with pich, with soulphre and with rosine, and whan the cite was a slepe, a wylde fyr into the depe they caste among the timberwerk, and so forth, whil the nyht was derk, desguised in a povere arai thei passeden the toun er dai. and whan thei come upon an hell, thei sihen how the mirour fell, wherof thei maden joie ynowh, and ech of hem with other lowh, and seiden, "lo, what coveitise mai do with hem that be noght wise!" and that was proved afterward, for every lond, to romeward which hadde be soubgit tofore, whan this mirour was so forlore and thei the wonder herde seie, anon begunne desobeie with werres upon every side; and thus hath rome lost his pride and was defouled overal. for this i finde of hanybal, that he of romeins in a dai, whan he hem fond out of arai, so gret a multitude slowh, that of goldringes, whiche he drowh of gentil handes that ben dede, buisshelles fulle thre, i rede, he felde, and made a bregge also, that he mihte over tibre go upon the corps that dede were of the romeins, whiche he slowh there. bot now to speke of the juise, the which after the covoitise was take upon this emperour, for he destruide the mirour; it is a wonder forto hiere. the romeins maden a chaiere and sette here emperour therinne, and seiden, for he wolde winne of gold the superfluite, of gold he scholde such plente receive, til he seide ho: and with gold, which thei hadden tho buillende hot withinne a panne, into his mouth thei poure thanne. and thus the thurst of gold was queynt, with gold which hadde ben atteignt. wherof, mi sone, thou miht hiere, whan covoitise hath lost the stiere of resonable governance, ther falleth ofte gret vengance. for ther mai be no worse thing than covoitise aboute a king: if it in his persone be, it doth the more adversite; and if it in his conseil stonde, it bringth alday meschief to honde of commun harm; and if it growe withinne his court, it wol be knowe, for thanne schal the king be piled. the man which hath hise londes tiled, awaiteth noght more redily the hervest, than thei gredily ne maken thanne warde and wacche, wher thei the profit mihten cacche: and yit fulofte it falleth so, as men mai sen among hem tho, that he which most coveiteth faste hath lest avantage ate laste. for whan fortune is therayein, thogh he coveite, it is in vein; the happes be noght alle liche, on is mad povere, an other riche, the court to some doth profit, and some ben evere in o plit; and yit thei bothe aliche sore coveite, bot fortune is more unto that o part favorable. and thogh it be noght resonable, this thing a man mai sen alday, wherof that i thee telle may a fair ensample in remembrance, hou every man mot take his chance or of richesse or of poverte. hou so it stonde of the decerte, hier is noght every thing aquit, for ofte a man mai se this yit, that who best doth, lest thonk schal have; it helpeth noght the world to crave, which out of reule and of mesure hath evere stonde in aventure als wel in court as elles where: and hou in olde daies there it stod, so as the thinges felle, i thenke a tale forto telle. in a cronique this i rede. aboute a king, as moste nede, ther was of knyhtes and squiers gret route, and ek of officers: some of long time him hadden served, and thoghten that thei have deserved avancement, and gon withoute; and some also ben of the route that comen bot a while agon, and thei avanced were anon. these olde men upon this thing, so as thei dorste, ayein the king among hemself compleignen ofte: bot ther is nothing seid so softe, that it ne comth out ate laste; the king it wiste, and als so faste, as he which was of hih prudence, he schop therfore an evidence of hem that pleignen in that cas, to knowe in whos defalte it was. and al withinne his oghne entente, that noman wiste what it mente, anon he let tuo cofres make of o semblance and of o make, so lich that no lif thilke throwe that on mai fro that other knowe: thei were into his chambre broght, bot noman wot why thei be wroght, and natheles the king hath bede that thei be set in prive stede. as he that was of wisdom slih, whan he therto his time sih, al prively, that non it wiste, hise oghne hondes that o kiste of fin gold and of fin perrie, the which out of his tresorie was take, anon he felde full; that other cofre of straw and mull with stones meind he felde also. thus be thei fulle bothe tuo, so that erliche upon a day he bad withinne, ther he lay, ther scholde be tofore his bed a bord upset and faire spred; and thanne he let the cofres fette, upon the bord and dede hem sette. he knew the names wel of tho, the whiche ayein him grucche so, bothe of his chambre and of his halle, anon and sende for hem alle, and seide to hem in this wise: "ther schal noman his happ despise; i wot wel ye have longe served, and god wot what ye have deserved: bot if it is along on me of that ye unavanced be, or elles it be long on you, the sothe schal be proved nou, to stoppe with youre evele word. lo hier tuo cofres on the bord: ches which you list of bothe tuo; and witeth wel that on of tho is with tresor so full begon, that if ye happe therupon, ye schull be riche men for evere. now ches and tak which you is levere: bot be wel war, er that ye take; for of that on i undertake ther is no maner good therinne, wherof ye mihten profit winne. now goth togedre of on assent and taketh youre avisement, for bot i you this dai avance, it stant upon youre oghne chance al only in defalte of grace: so schal be schewed in this place upon you alle wel afyn, that no defalte schal be myn." thei knelen alle and with o vois the king thei thonken of this chois: and after that thei up arise, and gon aside and hem avise, and ate laste thei acorde; wherof her tale to recorde, to what issue thei be falle, a kniht schal speke for hem alle. he kneleth doun unto the king, and seith that thei upon this thing, or forto winne or forto lese, ben alle avised forto chese. tho tok this kniht a yerde on honde, and goth there as the cofres stonde, and with assent of everichon he leith his yerde upon that on, and seith the king hou thilke same thei chese in reguerdoun be name, and preith him that thei mote it have. the king, which wolde his honour save, whan he hath herd the commun vois, hath granted hem here oghne chois and tok hem therupon the keie. bot for he wolde it were seie what good thei have, as thei suppose, he bad anon the cofre unclose, which was fulfild with straw and stones: thus be thei served al at ones. this king thanne in the same stede anon that other cofre undede, where as thei sihen gret richesse, wel more than thei couthen gesse. "lo," seith the king, "nou mai ye se that ther is no defalte in me; forthi miself i wole aquyte, and bereth ye youre oghne wyte of that fortune hath you refused." thus was this wise king excused, and thei lefte of here evele speche and mercy of here king beseche. somdiel to this matiere lik i finde a tale, hou frederik, of rome that time emperour, herde, as he wente, a gret clamour of tuo beggers upon the weie. that on of hem began to seie, "ha lord, wel mai the man be riche whom that a king list forto riche." that other saide nothing so, bot, "he is riche and wel bego, to whom that god wole sende wele." and thus thei maden wordes fele, wherof this lord hath hiede nome, and dede hem bothe forto come to the paleis, wher he schal ete, and bad ordeine for here mete tuo pastes, whiche he let do make. a capoun in that on was bake, and in that other forto winne of florins al that mai withinne he let do pute a gret richesse; and evene aliche, as man mai gesse, outward thei were bothe tuo. this begger was comanded tho, he that which hield him to the king, that he ferst chese upon this thing: he sih hem, bot he felte hem noght, so that upon his oghne thoght he ches the capoun and forsok that other, which his fela tok. bot whanne he wiste hou that it ferde, he seide alowd, that men it herde, "nou have i certeinly conceived that he mai lihtly be deceived, that tristeth unto mannes helpe; bot wel is him whom god wol helpe, for he stant on the siker side, which elles scholde go beside: i se my fela wel recovere, and i mot duelle stille povere." thus spak this begger his entente, and povere he cam and povere he wente; of that he hath richesse soght, his infortune it wolde noght. so mai it schewe in sondri wise, betwen fortune and covoitise the chance is cast upon a dee; bot yit fulofte a man mai se ynowe of suche natheles, whiche evere pute hemself in press to gete hem good, and yit thei faile. and forto speke of this entaile touchende of love in thi matiere, mi goode sone, as thou miht hiere, that riht as it with tho men stod of infortune of worldes good, as thou hast herd me telle above, riht so fulofte it stant be love: thogh thou coveite it everemore, thou schalt noght have o diel the more, bot only that which thee is schape, the remenant is bot a jape. and natheles ynowe of tho ther ben, that nou coveiten so, that where as thei a womman se, ye ten or tuelve thogh ther be, the love is nou so unavised, that wher the beaute stant assised, the mannes herte anon is there, and rouneth tales in hire ere, and seith hou that he loveth streite, and thus he set him to coveite, an hundred thogh he sihe aday. so wolde he more thanne he may; bot for the grete covoitise of sotie and of fol emprise in ech of hem he fint somwhat that pleseth him, or this or that; som on, for sche is whit of skin, som on, for sche is noble of kin, som on, for sche hath rodi chieke, som on, for that sche semeth mieke, som on, for sche hath yhen greie, som on, for sche can lawhe and pleie, som on, for sche is long and smal, som on, for sche is lyte and tall, som on, for sche is pale and bleche, som on, for sche is softe of speche, som on, for that sche is camused, som on, for sche hath noght ben used, som on, for sche can daunce and singe; so that som thing to his likinge he fint, and thogh nomore he fiele, bot that sche hath a litel hiele, it is ynow that he therfore hire love, and thus an hundred score, whil thei be newe, he wolde he hadde; whom he forsakth, sche schal be badde. the blinde man no colour demeth, but al is on, riht as him semeth; so hath his lust no juggement, whom covoitise of love blent. him thenkth that to his covoitise hou al the world ne mai suffise, for be his wille he wolde have alle, if that it mihte so befalle: thus is he commun as the strete, i sette noght of his beyete. mi sone, hast thou such covoitise? nai, fader, such love i despise, and whil i live schal don evere, for in good feith yit hadde i levere, than to coveite in such a weie, to ben for evere til i deie as povere as job, and loveles, outaken on, for haveles his thonkes is noman alyve. for that a man scholde al unthryve ther oghte no wisman coveite, the lawe was noght set so streite: forthi miself withal to save, such on ther is i wolde have, and non of al these othre mo. mi sone, of that thou woldest so, i am noght wroth, bot over this i wol thee tellen hou it is. for ther be men, whiche otherwise, riht only for the covoitise of that thei sen a womman riche, ther wol thei al here love affiche; noght for the beaute of hire face, ne yit for vertu ne for grace, which sche hath elles riht ynowh, bot for the park and for the plowh, and other thing which therto longeth: for in non other wise hem longeth to love, bot thei profit finde; and if the profit be behinde, here love is evere lesse and lesse, for after that sche hath richesse, her love is of proporcion. if thou hast such condicion, mi sone, tell riht as it is. min holi fader, nay ywiss, condicion such have i non. for trewli, fader, i love oon so wel with al myn hertes thoght, that certes, thogh sche hadde noght, and were as povere as medea, which was exiled for creusa, i wolde hir noght the lasse love; ne thogh sche were at hire above, as was the riche qwen candace, which to deserve love and grace to alisandre, that was king, yaf many a worthi riche thing, or elles as pantasilee, which was the quen of feminee, and gret richesse with hir nam, whan sche for love of hector cam to troie in rescousse of the toun,- i am of such condicion, that thogh mi ladi of hirselve were also riche as suche tuelve, i couthe noght, thogh it wer so, no betre love hir than i do. for i love in so plein a wise, that forto speke of coveitise, as for poverte or for richesse mi love is nouther mor ne lesse. for in good feith i trowe this, so coveitous noman ther is, forwhy and he mi ladi sihe, that he thurgh lokinge of his yhe ne scholde have such a strok withinne, that for no gold he mihte winne he scholde noght hire love asterte, bot if he lefte there his herte; be so it were such a man, that couthe skile of a womman. for ther be men so ruide some, whan thei among the wommen come, thei gon under proteccioun, that love and his affeccioun ne schal noght take hem be the slieve; for thei ben out of that believe, hem lusteth of no ladi chiere, bot evere thenken there and hiere wher that here gold is in the cofre, and wol non other love profre: bot who so wot what love amounteth and be resoun trewliche acompteth, than mai he knowe and taken hiede that al the lust of wommanhiede, which mai ben in a ladi face, mi ladi hath, and ek of grace if men schull yiven hire a pris, thei mai wel seie hou sche is wys and sobre and simple of contenance, and al that to good governance belongeth of a worthi wiht sche hath pleinli: for thilke nyht that sche was bore, as for the nones nature sette in hire at ones beaute with bounte so besein, that i mai wel afferme and sein, i sawh yit nevere creature of comlihied and of feture in eny kinges regioun be lich hire in comparisoun: and therto, as i have you told, yit hath sche more a thousendfold of bounte, and schortli to telle, sche is the pure hed and welle and mirour and ensample of goode. who so hir vertus understode, me thenkth it oughte ynow suffise withouten other covoitise to love such on and to serve, which with hire chiere can deserve to be beloved betre ywiss than sche per cas that richest is and hath of gold a milion. such hath be myn opinion and evere schal: bot natheles i seie noght sche is haveles, that sche nys riche and wel at ese, and hath ynow wherwith to plese of worldes good whom that hire liste; bot o thing wolde i wel ye wiste, that nevere for no worldes good min herte untoward hire stod, bot only riht for pure love; that wot the hihe god above. nou, fader, what seie ye therto? mi sone, i seie it is wel do. for tak of this riht good believe, what man that wole himself relieve to love in eny other wise, he schal wel finde his coveitise schal sore grieve him ate laste, for such a love mai noght laste. bot nou, men sein, in oure daies men maken bot a fewe assaies, bot if the cause be richesse; forthi the love is wel the lesse. and who that wolde ensamples telle, be olde daies as thei felle, than mihte a man wel understonde such love mai noght longe stonde. now herkne, sone, and thou schalt hiere a gret ensample of this matiere. to trete upon the cas of love, so as we tolden hiere above, i finde write a wonder thing. of puile whilom was a king, a man of hih complexioun and yong, bot his affeccioun after the nature of his age was yit noght falle in his corage the lust of wommen forto knowe. so it betidde upon a throwe this lord fell into gret seknesse: phisique hath don the besinesse of sondri cures manyon to make him hol; and therupon a worthi maister which ther was yaf him conseil upon this cas, that if he wolde have parfit hele, he scholde with a womman dele, a freissh, a yong, a lusti wiht, to don him compaignie a nyht: for thanne he seide him redily, that he schal be al hol therby, and otherwise he kneu no cure. this king, which stod in aventure of lif and deth, for medicine assented was, and of covine his steward, whom he tristeth wel, he tok, and tolde him everydel, hou that this maister hadde seid: and therupon he hath him preid and charged upon his ligance, that he do make porveance of such on as be covenable for his plesance and delitable; and bad him, hou that evere it stod, that he schal spare for no good, for his will is riht wel to paie. the steward seide he wolde assaie: bot nou hierafter thou schalt wite, as i finde in the bokes write, what coveitise in love doth. this steward, forto telle soth, amonges al the men alyve a lusti ladi hath to wyve, which natheles for gold he tok and noght for love, as seith the bok. a riche marchant of the lond hir fader was, and hire fond so worthily, and such richesse of worldes good and such largesse with hire he yaf in mariage, that only for thilke avantage of good this steward hath hire take, for lucre and noght for loves sake, and that was afterward wel seene; nou herkne what it wolde meene. this steward in his oghne herte sih that his lord mai noght asterte his maladie, bot he have a lusti womman him to save, and thoghte he wolde yive ynowh of his tresor; wherof he drowh gret coveitise into his mynde, and sette his honour fer behynde. thus he, whom gold hath overset, was trapped in his oghne net; the gold hath mad hise wittes lame, so that sechende his oghne schame he rouneth in the kinges ere, and seide him that he wiste where a gentile and a lusti on tho was, and thider wolde he gon: bot he mot yive yiftes grete; for bot it be thurgh grete beyete of gold, he seith, he schal noght spede. the king him bad upon the nede that take an hundred pound he scholde, and yive it where that he wolde, be so it were in worthi place: and thus to stonde in loves grace this king his gold hath abandouned. and whan this tale was full rouned, the steward tok the gold and wente, withinne his herte and many a wente of coveitise thanne he caste, wherof a pourpos ate laste ayein love and ayein his riht he tok, and seide hou thilke nyht his wif schal ligge be the king; and goth thenkende upon this thing toward his in, til he cam hom into the chambre, and thanne he nom his wif, and tolde hire al the cas. and sche, which red for schame was, with bothe hire handes hath him preid knelende and in this wise seid, that sche to reson and to skile in what thing that he bidde wile is redy forto don his heste, bot this thing were noght honeste, that he for gold hire scholde selle. and he tho with hise wordes felle forth with his gastly contienance seith that sche schal don obeissance and folwe his will in every place; and thus thurgh strengthe of his manace hir innocence is overlad, wherof sche was so sore adrad that sche his will mot nede obeie. and therupon was schape a weie, that he his oghne wif be nyhte hath out of alle mennes sihte so prively that non it wiste broght to the king, which as him liste mai do with hire what he wolde. for whan sche was ther as sche scholde, with him abedde under the cloth, the steward tok his leve and goth into a chambre faste by; bot hou he slep, that wot noght i, for he sih cause of jelousie. bot he, which hath the compainie of such a lusti on as sche, him thoghte that of his degre ther was noman so wel at ese: sche doth al that sche mai to plese, so that his herte al hol sche hadde; and thus this king his joie ladde, til it was nyh upon the day. the steward thanne wher sche lay cam to the bedd, and in his wise hath bede that sche scholde arise. the king seith, "nay, sche schal noght go." his steward seide ayein, "noght so; for sche mot gon er it be knowe, and so i swor at thilke throwe, whan i hire fette to you hiere." the king his tale wol noght hiere, and seith hou that he hath hire boght, forthi sche schal departe noght, til he the brighte dai beholde. and cawhte hire in hise armes folde, as he which liste forto pleie, and bad his steward gon his weie, and so he dede ayein his wille. and thus his wif abedde stille lay with the king the longe nyht, til that it was hih sonne lyht; bot who sche was he knew nothing. tho cam the steward to the king and preide him that withoute schame in savinge of hire goode name he myhte leden hom ayein this lady, and hath told him plein hou that it was his oghne wif. the king his ere unto this strif hath leid, and whan that he it herde, welnyh out of his wit he ferde, and seide, "ha, caitif most of alle, wher was it evere er this befalle, that eny cokard in this wise betok his wif for coveitise? thou hast bothe hire and me beguiled and ek thin oghne astat reviled, wherof that buxom unto thee hierafter schal sche nevere be. for this avou to god i make, after this day if i thee take, thou schalt ben honged and todrawe. nou loke anon thou be withdrawe, so that i se thee neveremore." this steward thanne dradde him sore, with al the haste that he mai and fledde awei that same dai, and was exiled out of londe. lo, there a nyce housebonde, which thus hath lost his wif for evere! bot natheles sche hadde a levere; the king hire weddeth and honoureth, wherof hire name sche socoureth, which erst was lost thurgh coveitise of him, that ladde hire other wise, and hath himself also forlore. mi sone, be thou war therfore, wher thou schalt love in eny place, that thou no covoitise embrace, the which is noght of loves kinde. bot for al that a man mai finde nou in this time of thilke rage ful gret desese in mariage, whan venym melleth with the sucre and mariage is mad for lucre, or for the lust or for the hele: what man that schal with outher dele, he mai noght faile to repente. mi fader, such is myn entente: bot natheles good is to have, for good mai ofte time save the love which scholde elles spille. bot god, which wot myn hertes wille, i dar wel take to witnesse, yit was i nevere for richesse beset with mariage non; for al myn herte is upon on so frely, that in the persone stant al my worldes joie al one: i axe nouther park ne plowh, if i hire hadde, it were ynowh, hir love scholde me suffise withouten other coveitise. lo now, mi fader, as of this, touchende of me riht as it is, mi schrifte i am beknowe plein; and if ye wole oght elles sein, of covoitise if ther be more in love, agropeth out the sore. mi sone, thou schalt understonde hou coveitise hath yit on honde in special tuo conseilours, that ben also hise procurours. the ferst of hem is falswitnesse, which evere is redi to witnesse what thing his maister wol him hote: perjurie is the secounde hote, which spareth noght to swere an oth, thogh it be fals and god be wroth. that on schal falswitnesse bere, that other schal the thing forswere, whan he is charged on the bok. so what with hepe and what with crok thei make here maister ofte winne and wol noght knowe what is sinne for coveitise, and thus, men sain, thei maken many a fals bargain. ther mai no trewe querele arise in thilke queste and thilke assise, where as thei tuo the poeple enforme; for thei kepe evere o maner forme, that upon gold here conscience thei founde, and take here evidence; and thus with falswitnesse and othes thei winne hem mete and drinke and clothes. riht so ther be, who that hem knewe, of thes lovers ful many untrewe: nou mai a womman finde ynowe, that ech of hem, whan he schal wowe, anon he wole his hand doun lein upon a bok, and swere and sein that he wole feith and trouthe bere; and thus he profreth him to swere to serven evere til he die, and al is verai tricherie. for whan the sothe himselven trieth, the more he swerth, the more he lieth; whan he his feith makth althermest, than mai a womman truste him lest; for til he mai his will achieve, he is no lengere forto lieve. thus is the trouthe of love exiled, and many a good womman beguiled. and ek to speke of falswitnesse, there be nou many suche, i gesse, that lich unto the provisours thei make here prive procurours, to telle hou ther is such a man, which is worthi to love and can al that a good man scholde kunne; so that with lesinge is begunne the cause in which thei wole procede, and also siker as the crede thei make of that thei knowen fals. and thus fulofte aboute the hals love is of false men embraced; bot love which is so pourchaced comth afterward to litel pris. forthi, mi sone, if thou be wis, nou thou hast herd this evidence, thou miht thin oghne conscience oppose, if thou hast ben such on. nai, god wot, fader i am non, ne nevere was; for as men seith, whan that a man schal make his feith, his herte and tunge moste acorde; for if so be that thei discorde, thanne is he fals and elles noght: and i dar seie, as of my thoght, in love it is noght descordable unto mi word, bot acordable. and in this wise, fader, i mai riht wel swere and salvely, that i mi ladi love wel, for that acordeth everydel. it nedeth noght to mi sothsawe that i witnesse scholde drawe, into this dai for nevere yit ne mihte it sinke into mi wit, that i my conseil scholde seie to eny wiht, or me bewreie to sechen help in such manere, bot only of mi ladi diere. and thogh a thousend men it wiste, that i hire love, and thanne hem liste with me to swere and to witnesse, yit were that no falswitnesse; for i dar on this trouthe duelle, i love hire mor than i can telle. thus am i, fader, gulteles, as ye have herd, and natheles in youre dom i put it al. mi sone, wite in special, it schal noght comunliche faile, al thogh it for a time availe that falswitnesse his cause spede, upon the point of his falshiede it schal wel afterward be kid; wherof, so as it is betid, ensample of suche thinges blinde in a cronique write i finde. the goddesse of the see thetis, sche hadde a sone, and his name is achilles, whom to kepe and warde, whil he was yong, as into warde sche thoghte him salfly to betake, as sche which dradde for his sake of that was seid in prophecie, that he at troie scholde die, whan that the cite was belein. forthi, so as the bokes sein, sche caste hire wit in sondri wise, hou sche him mihte so desguise that noman scholde his bodi knowe: and so befell that ilke throwe, whil that sche thoghte upon this dede, ther was a king, which lichomede was hote, and he was wel begon with faire dowhtres manyon, and duelte fer out in an yle. nou schalt thou hiere a wonder wyle: this queene, which the moder was of achilles, upon this cas hire sone, as he a maiden were, let clothen in the same gere which longeth unto wommanhiede: and he was yong and tok non hiede, bot soffreth al that sche him dede. wherof sche hath hire wommen bede and charged be here othes alle, hou so it afterward befalle, that thei discovere noght this thing, bot feigne and make a knowleching, upon the conseil which was nome, in every place wher thei come to telle and to witnesse this, hou he here ladi dowhter is. and riht in such a maner wise sche bad thei scholde hire don servise, so that achilles underfongeth as to a yong ladi belongeth honour, servise and reverence. for thetis with gret diligence him hath so tawht and so afaited, that, hou so that it were awaited, with sobre and goodli contenance he scholde his wommanhiede avance, that non the sothe knowe myhte, bot that in every mannes syhte he scholde seme a pure maide. and in such wise as sche him saide, achilles, which that ilke while was yong, upon himself to smyle began, whan he was so besein. and thus, after the bokes sein, with frette of perle upon his hed, al freissh betwen the whyt and red, as he which tho was tendre of age, stod the colour in his visage, that forto loke upon his cheke and sen his childly manere eke, he was a womman to beholde. and thanne his moder to him tolde, that sche him hadde so begon be cause that sche thoghte gon to lichomede at thilke tyde, wher that sche seide he scholde abyde among hise dowhtres forto duelle. achilles herde his moder telle, and wiste noght the cause why; and natheles ful buxomly he was redy to that sche bad, wherof his moder was riht glad, to lichomede and forth thei wente. and whan the king knew hire entente, and sih this yonge dowhter there, and that it cam unto his ere of such record, of such witnesse, he hadde riht a gret gladnesse of that he bothe syh and herde, as he that wot noght hou it ferde upon the conseil of the nede. bot for al that king lichomede hath toward him this dowhter take, and for thetis his moder sake he put hire into compainie to duelle with dei damie, his oghne dowhter, the eldeste, the faireste and the comelieste of alle hise doghtres whiche he hadde. lo, thus thetis the cause ladde, and lefte there achilles feigned, as he which hath himself restreigned in al that evere he mai and can out of the manere of a man, and tok his wommannysshe chiere, wherof unto his beddefere dei damie he hath be nyhte. wher kinde wole himselve rihte, after the philosophres sein, ther mai no wiht be therayein: and that was thilke time seene. the longe nyhtes hem betuene nature, which mai noght forbere, hath mad hem bothe forto stere: thei kessen ferst, and overmore the hihe weie of loves lore thei gon, and al was don in dede, wherof lost is the maydenhede; and that was afterward wel knowe. for it befell that ilke throwe at troie, wher the siege lay upon the cause of menelay and of his queene dame heleine, the gregois hadden mochel peine alday to fihte and to assaile. bot for thei mihten noght availe so noble a cite forto winne, a prive conseil thei beginne, in sondri wise wher thei trete; and ate laste among the grete thei fellen unto this acord, that prothe�s, of his record which was an astronomien and ek a gret magicien, scholde of his calculacion seche after constellacion, hou thei the cite mihten gete: and he, which hadde noght foryete of that belongeth to a clerk, his studie sette upon this werk. so longe his wit aboute he caste, til that he fond out ate laste, bot if they hadden achilles here werre schal ben endeles. and over that he tolde hem plein in what manere he was besein, and in what place he schal be founde; so that withinne a litel stounde ulixes forth with diomede upon this point to lichomede agamenon togedre sente. bot ulixes, er he forth wente, which was on of the moste wise, ordeigned hath in such a wise, that he the moste riche aray, wherof a womman mai be gay, with him hath take manyfold, and overmore, as it is told, an harneis for a lusti kniht, which burned was as selver bryht, of swerd, of plate and ek of maile, as thogh he scholde to bataille, he tok also with him be schipe. and thus togedre in felaschipe forth gon this diomede and he in hope til thei mihten se the place where achilles is. the wynd stod thanne noght amis, bot evene topseilcole it blew, til ulixes the marche knew, wher lichomede his regne hadde. the stieresman so wel hem ladde, that thei ben comen sauf to londe, wher thei gon out upon the stronde into the burgh, wher that thei founde the king, and he which hath facounde, ulixes, dede the message. bot the conseil of his corage, why that he cam, he tolde noght, bot undernethe he was bethoght in what manere he mihte aspie achilles fro dei damie and fro these othre that ther were, full many a lusti ladi there. thei pleide hem there a day or tuo, and as it was fortuned so, it fell that time in such a wise, to bachus that a sacrifise thes yonge ladys scholden make; and for the strange mennes sake, that comen fro the siege of troie, thei maden wel the more joie. ther was revel, ther was daunsinge, and every lif which coude singe of lusti wommen in the route a freissh carole hath sunge aboute; bot for al this yit natheles the greks unknowe of achilles so weren, that in no degre thei couden wite which was he, ne be his vois, ne be his pas. ulixes thanne upon this cas a thing of hih prudence hath wroght: for thilke aray, which he hath broght to yive among the wommen there, he let do fetten al the gere forth with a knihtes harneis eke,- in al a contre forto seke men scholden noght a fairer se,- and every thing in his degre endlong upon a bord he leide. to lichomede and thanne he preide that every ladi chese scholde what thing of alle that sche wolde, and take it as be weie of yifte; for thei hemself it scholde schifte, he seide, after here oghne wille. achilles thanne stod noght stille: whan he the bryhte helm behield, the swerd, the hauberk and the schield, his herte fell therto anon; of all that othre wolde he non, the knihtes gere he underfongeth, and thilke aray which that belongeth unto the wommen he forsok. and in this wise, as seith the bok, thei knowen thanne which he was: for he goth forth the grete pas into the chambre where he lay; anon, and made no delay, he armeth him in knyhtli wise, that bettre can noman devise, and as fortune scholde falle, he cam so forth tofore hem alle, as he which tho was glad ynowh. but lichomede nothing lowh, whan that he syh hou that it ferde, for thanne he wiste wel and herde, his dowhter hadde be forlein; bot that he was so oversein, the wonder overgoth his wit. for in cronique is write yit thing which schal nevere be foryete, hou that achilles hath begete pirrus upon dei damie, wherof cam out the tricherie of falswitnesse, whan thei saide hou that achilles was a maide. bot that was nothing sene tho, for he is to the siege go forth with ulixe and diomede. lo, thus was proved in the dede and fulli spoke at thilke while: if o womman an other guile, wher is ther eny sikernesse? whan thetis, which was the goddesse, dei damie hath so bejaped, i not hou it schal ben ascaped with tho wommen whos innocence is nou alday thurgh such credence deceived ofte, as it is seene, with men that such untrouthe meene. for thei ben slyhe in such a wise, that thei be sleihte and be queintise of falswitnesse bringen inne that doth hem ofte forto winne, wher thei ben noght worthi therto. forthi, my sone, do noght so. mi fader, as of falswitnesse the trouthe and the matiere expresse, touchende of love hou it hath ferd, as ye have told, i have wel herd. bot for ye seiden otherwise, hou thilke vice of covoitise hath yit perjurie of his acord, if that you list of som record to telle an other tale also in loves cause of time ago, what thing it is to be forswore, i wolde preie you therfore, wherof i mihte ensample take. mi goode sone, and for thi sake touchende of this i schall fulfille thin axinge at thin oghne wille, and the matiere i schal declare, hou the wommen deceived are, whan thei so tendre herte bere, of that thei hieren men so swere; bot whan it comth unto thassay, thei finde it fals an other day: as jason dede to medee, which stant yet of auctorite in tokne and in memorial; wherof the tale in special is in the bok of troie write, which i schal do thee forto wite. in grece whilom was a king, of whom the fame and knowleching beleveth yit, and pele�s he hihte; bot it fell him thus, that his fortune hir whiel so ladde that he no child his oghne hadde to regnen after his decess. he hadde a brother natheles, whos rihte name was eson, and he the worthi kniht jason begat, the which in every lond alle othre passede of his hond in armes, so that he the beste was named and the worthieste, he soghte worschipe overal. nou herkne, and i thee telle schal an aventure that he soghte, which afterward ful dere he boghte. ther was an yle, which colchos was cleped, and therof aros gret speche in every lond aboute, that such merveile was non oute in al the wyde world nawhere, as tho was in that yle there. ther was a schiep, as it was told, the which his flees bar al of gold, and so the goddes hadde it set, that it ne mihte awei be fet be pouer of no worldes wiht: and yit ful many a worthi kniht it hadde assaied, as thei dorste, and evere it fell hem to the worste. bot he, that wolde it noght forsake, bot of his knyhthod undertake to do what thing therto belongeth, this worthi jason, sore alongeth to se the strange regiouns and knowe the condiciouns of othre marches, where he wente; and for that cause his hole entente he sette colchos forto seche, and therupon he made a speche to pele�s his em the king. and he wel paid was of that thing; and schop anon for his passage, and suche as were of his lignage, with othre knihtes whiche he ches, with him he tok, and hercules, which full was of chivalerie, with jason wente in compaignie; and that was in the monthe of maii, whan colde stormes were away. the wynd was good, the schip was yare, thei tok here leve, and forth thei fare toward colchos: bot on the weie what hem befell is long to seie; hou lamedon the king of troie, which oghte wel have mad hem joie. whan thei to reste a while him preide, out of his lond he hem congeide; and so fell the dissencion, which after was destruccion of that cite, as men mai hiere: bot that is noght to mi matiere. bot thus this worthi folk gregeis fro that king, which was noght curteis, and fro his lond with sail updrawe thei wente hem forth, and many a sawe thei made and many a gret manace, til ate laste into that place which as thei soghte thei aryve, and striken sail, and forth as blyve thei sente unto the king and tolden who weren ther and what thei wolden. oe tes, which was thanne king, whan that he herde this tyding of jason, which was comen there, and of these othre, what thei were, he thoghte don hem gret worschipe: for thei anon come out of schipe, and strawht unto the king thei wente, and be the hond jason he hente, and that was ate paleis gate, so fer the king cam on his gate toward jason to don him chiere; and he, whom lacketh no manere, whan he the king sih in presence, yaf him ayein such reverence as to a kinges stat belongeth. and thus the king him underfongeth, and jason in his arm he cawhte, and forth into the halle he strawhte, and ther they siete and spieke of thinges, and jason tolde him tho tidinges, why he was come, and faire him preide to haste his time, and the kyng seide, "jason, thou art a worthi kniht, bot it lith in no mannes myht to don that thou art come fore: ther hath be many a kniht forlore of that thei wolden it assaie." bot jason wolde him noght esmaie, and seide, "of every worldes cure fortune stant in aventure, per aunter wel, per aunter wo: bot hou as evere that it go, it schal be with myn hond assaied." the king tho hield him noght wel paied, for he the grekes sore dredde, in aunter, if jason ne spedde, he mihte therof bere a blame; for tho was al the worldes fame in grece, as forto speke of armes. forthi he dredde him of his harmes, and gan to preche him and to preie; bot jason wolde noght obeie, bot seide he wolde his porpos holde for ought that eny man him tolde. the king, whan he thes wordes herde, and sih hou that this kniht ansuerde, yit for he wolde make him glad, after medea gon he bad, which was his dowhter, and sche cam. and jason, which good hiede nam, whan he hire sih, ayein hire goth; and sche, which was him nothing loth, welcomede him into that lond, and softe tok him be the hond, and doun thei seten bothe same. sche hadde herd spoke of his name and of his grete worthinesse; forthi sche gan hir yhe impresse upon his face and his stature, and thoghte hou nevere creature was so wel farende as was he. and jason riht in such degre ne mihte noght withholde his lok, bot so good hiede on hire he tok, that him ne thoghte under the hevene of beaute sawh he nevere hir evene, with al that fell to wommanhiede. thus ech of other token hiede, thogh ther no word was of record; here hertes bothe of on acord ben set to love, bot as tho ther mihten be no wordes mo. the king made him gret joie and feste, to alle his men he yaf an heste, so as thei wolde his thonk deserve, that thei scholde alle jason serve, whil that he wolde there duelle. and thus the dai, schortly to telle, with manye merthes thei despente, til nyht was come, and tho thei wente, echon of other tok his leve, whan thei no lengere myhten leve. i not hou jason that nyht slep, bot wel i wot that of the schep, for which he cam into that yle, he thoghte bot a litel whyle; al was medea that he thoghte, so that in many a wise he soghte his witt wakende er it was day, som time yee, som time nay, som time thus, som time so, as he was stered to and fro of love, and ek of his conqueste as he was holde of his beheste. and thus he ros up be the morwe and tok himself seint john to borwe, and seide he wolde ferst beginne at love, and after forto winne the flees of gold, for which he com, and thus to him good herte he nom. medea riht the same wise, til dai cam that sche moste arise, lay and bethoughte hire al the nyht, hou sche that noble worthi kniht be eny weie mihte wedde: and wel sche wiste, if he ne spedde of thing which he hadde undertake, sche mihte hirself no porpos take; for if he deide of his bataile, sche moste thanne algate faile to geten him, whan he were ded. thus sche began to sette red and torne aboute hir wittes alle, to loke hou that it mihte falle that sche with him hadde a leisir to speke and telle of hir desir. and so it fell that same day that jason with that suete may togedre sete and hadden space to speke, and he besoughte hir grace. and sche his tale goodli herde, and afterward sche him ansuerde and seide, "jason, as thou wilt, thou miht be sauf, thou miht be spilt; for wite wel that nevere man, bot if he couthe that i can, ne mihte that fortune achieve for which thou comst: bot as i lieve, if thou wolt holde covenant to love, of al the remenant i schal thi lif and honour save, that thou the flees of gold schalt have." he seide, "al at youre oghne wille, ma dame, i schal treuly fulfille youre heste, whil mi lif mai laste." thus longe he preide, and ate laste sche granteth, and behihte him this, that whan nyht comth and it time is, sche wolde him sende certeinly such on that scholde him prively al one into hire chambre bringe. he thonketh hire of that tidinge, for of that grace him is begonne him thenkth alle othre thinges wonne. the dai made ende and lost his lyht, and comen was the derke nyht, which al the daies yhe blente. jason tok leve and forth he wente, and whan he cam out of the pres, he tok to conseil hercules, and tolde him hou it was betid, and preide it scholde wel ben hid, and that he wolde loke aboute, therwhiles that he schal ben oute. thus as he stod and hiede nam, a mayden fro medea cam and to hir chambre jason ledde, wher that he fond redi to bedde the faireste and the wiseste eke; and sche with simple chiere and meke, whan sche him sih, wax al aschamed. tho was here tale newe entamed; for sikernesse of mariage sche fette forth a riche ymage, which was figure of jupiter, and jason swor and seide ther, that also wiss god scholde him helpe, that if medea dede him helpe, that he his pourpos myhte winne, thei scholde nevere parte atwinne, bot evere whil him lasteth lif, he wolde hire holde for his wif. and with that word thei kisten bothe; and for thei scholden hem unclothe, ther cam a maide, and in hir wise sche dede hem bothe full servise, til that thei were in bedde naked: i wot that nyht was wel bewaked, thei hadden bothe what thei wolde. and thanne of leisir sche him tolde, and gan fro point to point enforme of his bataile and al the forme, which as he scholde finde there, whan he to thyle come were. sche seide, at entre of the pas hou mars, which god of armes was, hath set tuo oxen sterne and stoute, that caste fyr and flamme aboute bothe at the mouth and ate nase, so that thei setten al on blase what thing that passeth hem betwene: and forthermore upon the grene ther goth the flees of gold to kepe a serpent, which mai nevere slepe. thus who that evere scholde it winne, the fyr to stoppe he mot beginne, which that the fierce bestes caste, and daunte he mot hem ate laste, so that he mai hem yoke and dryve; and therupon he mot as blyve the serpent with such strengthe assaile, that he mai slen him be bataile; of which he mot the teth outdrawe, as it belongeth to that lawe, and thanne he mot tho oxen yoke, til thei have with a plowh tobroke a furgh of lond, in which arowe the teth of thaddre he moste sowe, and therof schule arise knihtes wel armed up at alle rihtes. of hem is noght to taken hiede, for ech of hem in hastihiede schal other slen with dethes wounde: and thus whan thei ben leid to grounde, than mot he to the goddes preie, and go so forth and take his preie. bot if he faile in eny wise of that ye hiere me devise, ther mai be set non other weie, that he ne moste algates deie. "nou have i told the peril al: i woll you tellen forth withal," quod medea to jason tho, "that ye schul knowen er ye go, ayein the venym and the fyr what schal ben the recoverir. bot, sire, for it is nyh day, ariseth up, so that i may delivere you what thing i have, that mai youre lif and honour save." thei weren bothe loth to rise, bot for thei weren bothe wise, up thei arisen ate laste: jason his clothes on him caste and made him redi riht anon, and sche hir scherte dede upon and caste on hire a mantel clos, withoute more and thanne aros. tho tok sche forth a riche tye mad al of gold and of perrie, out of the which sche nam a ring, the ston was worth al other thing. sche seide, whil he wolde it were, ther myhte no peril him dere, in water mai it noght be dreynt, wher as it comth the fyr is queynt, it daunteth ek the cruel beste, ther may no qued that man areste, wher so he be on see or lond, which hath that ring upon his hond: and over that sche gan to sein, that if a man wol ben unsein, withinne his hond hold clos the ston, and he mai invisible gon. the ring to jason sche betauhte, and so forth after sche him tauhte what sacrifise he scholde make; and gan out of hire cofre take him thoughte an hevenely figure, which al be charme and be conjure was wroght, and ek it was thurgh write with names, which he scholde wite, as sche him tauhte tho to rede; and bad him, as he wolde spede, withoute reste of eny while, whan he were londed in that yle, he scholde make his sacrifise and rede his carecte in the wise as sche him tauhte, on knes doun bent, thre sithes toward orient; for so scholde he the goddes plese and winne himselven mochel ese. and whanne he hadde it thries rad, to opne a buiste sche him bad, which sche ther tok him in present, and was full of such oignement, that ther was fyr ne venym non that scholde fastnen him upon, whan that he were enoynt withal. forthi sche tauhte him hou he schal enoignte his armes al aboute, and for he scholde nothing doute, sche tok him thanne a maner glu, the which was of so gret vertu, that where a man it wolde caste, it scholde binde anon so faste that noman mihte it don aweie. and that sche bad be alle weie he scholde into the mouthes throwen of tho tweie oxen that fyr blowen, therof to stoppen the malice; the glu schal serve of that office. and over that hir oignement, hir ring and hir enchantement ayein the serpent scholde him were, til he him sle with swerd or spere: and thanne he may saufliche ynowh his oxen yoke into the plowh and the teth sowe in such a wise, til he the knyhtes se arise, and ech of other doun be leid in such manere as i have seid. lo, thus medea for jason ordeigneth, and preith therupon that he nothing foryete scholde, and ek sche preith him that he wolde, whan he hath alle his armes don, to grounde knele and thonke anon the goddes, and so forth be ese the flees of gold he scholde sese. and whanne he hadde it sesed so, that thanne he were sone ago withouten eny tariynge. whan this was seid, into wepinge sche fell, as sche that was thurgh nome with love, and so fer overcome, that al hir world on him sche sette. bot whan sche sih ther was no lette, that he mot nedes parte hire fro, sche tok him in hire armes tuo, an hundred time and gan him kisse, and seide, "o, al mi worldes blisse, mi trust, mi lust, mi lif, min hele, to be thin helpe in this querele i preie unto the goddes alle." and with that word sche gan doun falle on swoune, and he hire uppe nam, and forth with that the maiden cam, and thei to bedde anon hir broghte, and thanne jason hire besoghte, and to hire seide in this manere: "mi worthi lusti ladi dere, conforteth you, for be my trouthe it schal noght fallen in mi slouthe that i ne wol thurghout fulfille youre hestes at youre oghne wille. and yit i hope to you bringe withinne a while such tidinge, the which schal make ous bothe game." bot for he wolde kepe hir name, whan that he wiste it was nyh dai, he seide, "a dieu, mi swete mai." and forth with him he nam his gere, which as sche hadde take him there, and strauht unto his chambre he wente, and goth to bedde and slep him hente, and lay, that noman him awok, for hercules hiede of him tok, til it was undren hih and more. and thanne he gan to sighe sore and sodeinliche abreide of slep; and thei that token of him kep, his chamberleins, be sone there, and maden redi al his gere, and he aros and to the king he wente, and seide hou to that thing for which he cam he wolde go. the king therof was wonder wo, and for he wolde him fain withdrawe, he tolde him many a dredful sawe, bot jason wolde it noght recorde, and ate laste thei acorde. whan that he wolde noght abide, a bot was redy ate tyde, in which this worthi kniht of grece ful armed up at every piece, to his bataile which belongeth, tok ore on honde and sore him longeth, til he the water passed were. whan he cam to that yle there, he set him on his knes doun strauht, and his carecte, as he was tawht, he radde, and made his sacrifise, and siththe enoignte him in that wise, as medea him hadde bede; and thanne aros up fro that stede, and with the glu the fyr he queynte, and anon after he atteinte the grete serpent and him slowh. bot erst he hadde sorwe ynowh, for that serpent made him travaile so harde and sore of his bataile, that nou he stod and nou he fell: for longe time it so befell, that with his swerd ne with his spere he mihte noght that serpent dere. he was so scherded al aboute, it hield all eggetol withoute, he was so ruide and hard of skin, ther mihte nothing go therin; venym and fyr togedre he caste, that he jason so sore ablaste, that if ne were his oignement, his ring and his enchantement, which medea tok him tofore, he hadde with that worm be lore; bot of vertu which therof cam jason the dragon overcam. and he anon the teth outdrouh, and sette his oxen in a plouh, with which he brak a piece of lond and sieu hem with his oghne hond. tho mihte he gret merveile se: of every toth in his degre sprong up a kniht with spere and schield, of whiche anon riht in the field echon slow other; and with that jason medea noght foryat, on bothe his knes he gan doun falle, and yaf thonk to the goddes alle. the flees he tok and goth to bote, the sonne schyneth bryhte and hote, the flees of gold schon forth withal, the water glistreth overal. medea wepte and sigheth ofte, and stod upon a tour alofte: al prively withinne hirselve, ther herde it nouther ten ne tuelve, sche preide, and seide, "o, god him spede, the kniht which hath mi maidenhiede!" and ay sche loketh toward thyle. bot whan sche sih withinne a while the flees glistrende ayein the sonne, sche saide, "ha, lord, now al is wonne, mi kniht the field hath overcome: nou wolde god he were come; ha lord, that he ne were alonde!" bot i dar take this on honde, if that sche hadde wynges tuo, sche wolde have flowe unto him tho strawht ther he was into the bot. the dai was clier, the sonne hot, the gregeis weren in gret doute, the whyle that here lord was oute: thei wisten noght what scholde tyde, bot waiten evere upon the tyde, to se what ende scholde falle. ther stoden ek the nobles alle forth with the comun of the toun; and as thei loken up and doun, thei weren war withinne a throwe, wher cam the bot, which thei wel knowe, and sihe hou jason broghte his preie. and tho thei gonnen alle seie, and criden alle with o stevene, "ha, wher was evere under the hevene so noble a knyht as jason is?" and welnyh alle seiden this, that jason was a faie kniht, for it was nevere of mannes miht the flees of gold so forto winne; and thus to talen thei beginne. with that the king com forth anon, and sih the flees, hou that it schon; and whan jason cam to the lond, the king himselve tok his hond and kist him, and gret joie him made. the gregeis weren wonder glade, and of that thing riht merie hem thoghte, and forth with hem the flees thei broghte, and ech on other gan to leyhe; bot wel was him that mihte neyhe, to se therof the proprete. and thus thei passen the cite and gon unto the paleis straght. medea, which foryat him naght, was redy there, and seide anon, "welcome, o worthi kniht jason." sche wolde have kist him wonder fayn, bot schame tornede hire agayn; it was noght the manere as tho, forthi sche dorste noght do so. sche tok hire leve, and jason wente into his chambre, and sche him sente hire maide to sen hou he ferde; the which whan that sche sih and herde, hou that he hadde faren oute and that it stod wel al aboute, sche tolde hire ladi what sche wiste, and sche for joie hire maide kiste. the bathes weren thanne araied, with herbes tempred and assaied, and jason was unarmed sone and dede as it befell to done: into his bath he wente anon and wyssh him clene as eny bon; he tok a sopp, and oute he cam, and on his beste aray he nam, and kempde his hed, whan he was clad, and goth him forth al merie and glad riht strawht into the kinges halle. the king cam with his knihtes alle and maden him glad welcominge; and he hem tolde the tidinge of this and that, hou it befell, whan that he wan the schepes fell. medea, whan sche was asent, com sone to that parlement, and whan sche mihte jason se, was non so glad of alle as sche. ther was no joie forto seche, of him mad every man a speche, som man seide on, som man seide other; bot thogh he were goddes brother and mihte make fyr and thonder, ther mihte be nomore wonder than was of him in that cite. echon tauhte other, "this is he, which hath in his pouer withinne that al the world ne mihte winne: lo, hier the beste of alle goode." thus saiden thei that there stode, and ek that walkede up and doun, bothe of the court and of the toun. the time of souper cam anon, thei wisshen and therto thei gon, medea was with jason set: tho was ther many a deynte fet and set tofore hem on the bord, bot non so likinge as the word which was ther spoke among hem tuo, so as thei dorste speke tho. bot thogh thei hadden litel space, yit thei acorden in that place hou jason scholde come at nyht, whan every torche and every liht were oute, and thanne of other thinges thei spieke aloud for supposinges of hem that stoden there aboute: for love is everemore in doute, if that it be wisly governed of hem that ben of love lerned. whan al was don, that dissh and cuppe and cloth and bord and al was uppe, thei waken whil hem lest to wake, and after that thei leve take and gon to bedde forto reste. and whan him thoghte for the beste, that every man was faste aslepe, jason, that wolde his time kepe, goth forth stalkende al prively unto the chambre, and redely ther was a maide, which him kepte. medea wok and nothing slepte, bot natheles sche was abedde, and he with alle haste him spedde and made him naked and al warm. anon he tok hire in his arm: what nede is forto speke of ese? hem list ech other forto plese, so that thei hadden joie ynow: and tho thei setten whanne and how that sche with him awey schal stele. with wordes suche and othre fele whan al was treted to an ende, jason tok leve and gan forth wende unto his oughne chambre in pes; ther wiste it non bot hercules. he slepte and ros whan it was time, and whanne it fell towardes prime, he tok to him suche as he triste in secre, that non other wiste, and told hem of his conseil there, and seide that his wille were that thei to schipe hadde alle thinge so priveliche in thevenynge, that noman mihte here dede aspie bot tho that were of compaignie: for he woll go withoute leve, and lengere woll he noght beleve; bot he ne wolde at thilke throwe the king or queene scholde it knowe. thei saide, "al this schal wel be do:" and jason truste wel therto. medea in the mene while, which thoghte hir fader to beguile, the tresor which hir fader hadde with hire al priveli sche ladde, and with jason at time set awey sche stal and fond no let, and straght sche goth hire unto schipe of grece with that felaschipe, and thei anon drowe up the seil. and al that nyht this was conseil, bot erly, whan the sonne schon, men syhe hou that thei were agon, and come unto the king and tolde: and he the sothe knowe wolde, and axeth where his dowhter was. ther was no word bot out, allas! sche was ago. the moder wepte, the fader as a wod man lepte, and gan the time forto warie, and swor his oth he wol noght tarie, that with caliphe and with galeie the same cours, the same weie, which jason tok, he wolde take, if that he mihte him overtake. to this thei seiden alle yee: anon thei weren ate see, and alle, as who seith, at a word thei gon withinne schipes bord, the sail goth up, and forth thei strauhte. bot non espleit therof thei cauhte, and so thei tornen hom ayein, for al that labour was in vein. jason to grece with his preie goth thurgh the see the rihte weie: whan he ther com and men it tolde, thei maden joie yonge and olde. eson, whan that he wiste of this, hou that his sone comen is, and hath achieved that he soughte and hom with him medea broughte, in al the wyde world was non so glad a man as he was on. togedre ben these lovers tho, til that thei hadden sones tuo, wherof thei weren bothe glade, and olde eson gret joie made to sen thencress of his lignage; for he was of so gret an age, that men awaiten every day, whan that he scholde gon away. jason, which sih his fader old, upon medea made him bold, of art magique, which sche couthe, and preith hire that his fader youthe sche wolde make ayeinward newe: and sche, that was toward him trewe, behihte him that sche wolde it do, whan that sche time sawh therto. bot what sche dede in that matiere it is a wonder thing to hiere, bot yit for the novellerie i thenke tellen a partie. thus it befell upon a nyht, whan ther was noght bot sterreliht, sche was vanyssht riht as hir liste, that no wyht bot hirself it wiste, and that was ate mydnyht tyde. the world was stille on every side; with open hed and fot al bare, hir her tosprad sche gan to fare, upon hir clothes gert sche was, al specheles and on the gras sche glod forth as an addre doth: non otherwise sche ne goth, til sche cam to the freisshe flod, and there a while sche withstod. thries sche torned hire aboute, and thries ek sche gan doun loute and in the flod sche wette hir her, and thries on the water ther sche gaspeth with a drecchinge onde, and tho sche tok hir speche on honde. ferst sche began to clepe and calle upward unto the sterres alle, to wynd, to air, to see, to lond sche preide, and ek hield up hir hond to echates, and gan to crie, which is goddesse of sorcerie. sche seide, "helpeth at this nede, and as ye maden me to spede, whan jason cam the flees to seche, so help me nou, i you beseche." with that sche loketh and was war, doun fro the sky ther cam a char, the which dragouns aboute drowe: and tho sche gan hir hed doun bowe, and up sche styh, and faire and wel sche drof forth bothe char and whel above in thair among the skyes. the lond of crete and tho parties sche soughte, and faste gan hire hye, and there upon the hulles hyhe of othrin and olimpe also, and ek of othre hulles mo, sche fond and gadreth herbes suote, sche pulleth up som be the rote, and manye with a knyf sche scherth, and alle into hir char sche berth. thus whan sche hath the hulles sought, the flodes ther foryat sche nought, eridian and amphrisos, peneie and ek sperchei dos, to hem sche wente and ther sche nom bothe of the water and the fom, the sond and ek the smale stones, whiche as sche ches out for the nones, and of the rede see a part, that was behovelich to hire art, sche tok, and after that aboute sche soughte sondri sedes oute in feldes and in many greves, and ek a part sche tok of leves: bot thing which mihte hire most availe sche fond in crete and in thessaile. in daies and in nyhtes nyne, with gret travaile and with gret pyne, sche was pourveid of every piece, and torneth homward into grece. before the gates of eson hir char sche let awai to gon, and tok out ferst that was therinne; for tho sche thoghte to beginne such thing as semeth impossible, and made hirselven invisible, as sche that was with air enclosed and mihte of noman be desclosed. sche tok up turves of the lond withoute helpe of mannes hond, al heled with the grene gras, of which an alter mad ther was unto echates the goddesse of art magique and the maistresse, and eft an other to juvente, as sche which dede hir hole entente. tho tok sche fieldwode and verveyne, of herbes ben noght betre tueine, of which anon withoute let these alters ben aboute set: tuo sondri puttes faste by sche made, and with that hastely a wether which was blak sche slouh, and out therof the blod sche drouh and dede into the pettes tuo; warm melk sche putte also therto with hony meynd: and in such wise sche gan to make hir sacrifice, and cride and preide forth withal to pluto the god infernal, and to the queene proserpine. and so sche soghte out al the line of hem that longen to that craft, behinde was no name laft, and preide hem alle, as sche wel couthe, to grante eson his ferste youthe. this olde eson broght forth was tho, awei sche bad alle othre go upon peril that mihte falle; and with that word thei wenten alle, and leften there hem tuo al one. and tho sche gan to gaspe and gone, and made signes manyon, and seide hir wordes therupon; so that with spellinge of hir charmes sche tok eson in bothe hire armes, and made him forto slepe faste, and him upon hire herbes caste. the blake wether tho sche tok, and hiewh the fleissh, as doth a cok; on either alter part sche leide, and with the charmes that sche seide a fyr doun fro the sky alyhte and made it forto brenne lyhte. bot whan medea sawh it brenne, anon sche gan to sterte and renne the fyri aulters al aboute: ther was no beste which goth oute more wylde than sche semeth ther: aboute hir schuldres hyng hir her, as thogh sche were oute of hir mynde and torned in an other kynde. tho lay ther certein wode cleft, of which the pieces nou and eft sche made hem in the pettes wete, and put hem in the fyri hete, and tok the brond with al the blase, and thries sche began to rase aboute eson, ther as he slepte; and eft with water, which sche kepte, sche made a cercle aboute him thries, and eft with fyr of sulphre twyes: ful many an other thing sche dede, which is noght writen in this stede. bot tho sche ran so up and doun, sche made many a wonder soun, somtime lich unto the cock, somtime unto the laverock, somtime kacleth as a hen, somtime spekth as don the men: and riht so as hir jargoun strangeth, in sondri wise hir forme changeth, sche semeth faie and no womman; for with the craftes that sche can sche was, as who seith, a goddesse, and what hir liste, more or lesse, sche dede, in bokes as we finde, that passeth over manneskinde. bot who that wole of wondres hiere, what thing sche wroghte in this matiere, to make an ende of that sche gan, such merveile herde nevere man. apointed in the newe mone, whan it was time forto done, sche sette a caldron on the fyr, in which was al the hole atir, wheron the medicine stod, of jus, of water and of blod, and let it buile in such a plit, til that sche sawh the spume whyt; and tho sche caste in rynde and rote, and sed and flour that was for bote, with many an herbe and many a ston, wherof sche hath ther many on: and ek cimpheius the serpent to hire hath alle his scales lent, chelidre hire yaf his addres skin, and sche to builen caste hem in; a part ek of the horned oule, the which men hiere on nyhtes houle; and of a raven, which was told of nyne hundred wynter old, sche tok the hed with al the bile; and as the medicine it wile, sche tok therafter the bouele of the seewolf, and for the hele of eson, with a thousand mo of thinges that sche hadde tho, in that caldroun togedre as blyve sche putte, and tok thanne of olyve a drie branche hem with to stere, the which anon gan floure and bere and waxe al freissh and grene ayein. whan sche this vertu hadde sein, sche let the leste drope of alle upon the bare flor doun falle; anon ther sprong up flour and gras, where as the drope falle was, and wox anon al medwe grene, so that it mihte wel be sene. medea thanne knew and wiste hir medicine is forto triste, and goth to eson ther he lay, and tok a swerd was of assay, with which a wounde upon his side sche made, that therout mai slyde the blod withinne, which was old and sek and trouble and fieble and cold. and tho sche tok unto his us of herbes al the beste jus, and poured it into his wounde; that made his veynes fulle and sounde: and tho sche made his wounde clos, and tok his hond, and up he ros; and tho sche yaf him drinke a drauhte, of which his youthe ayein he cauhte, his hed, his herte and his visage lich unto twenty wynter age; hise hore heres were away, and lich unto the freisshe maii, whan passed ben the colde shoures, riht so recovereth he his floures. lo, what mihte eny man devise, a womman schewe in eny wise mor hertly love in every stede, than medea to jason dede? ferst sche made him the flees to winne, and after that fro kiththe and kinne with gret tresor with him sche stal, and to his fader forth withal his elde hath torned into youthe, which thing non other womman couthe: bot hou it was to hire aquit, the remembrance duelleth yit. king pele�s his em was ded, jason bar corone on his hed, medea hath fulfild his wille: bot whanne he scholde of riht fulfille the trouthe, which to hire afore he hadde in thyle of colchos swore, tho was medea most deceived. for he an other hath received, which dowhter was to king creon, creusa sche hihte, and thus jason, as he that was to love untrewe, medea lefte and tok a newe. bot that was after sone aboght: medea with hire art hath wroght of cloth of gold a mantel riche, which semeth worth a kingesriche, and that was unto creusa sent in name of yifte and of present, for sosterhode hem was betuene; and whan that yonge freisshe queene that mantel lappeth hire aboute, anon therof the fyr sprong oute and brente hir bothe fleissh and bon. tho cam medea to jason with bothe his sones on hire hond, and seide, "o thou of every lond the moste untrewe creature, lo, this schal be thi forfeture." with that sche bothe his sones slouh before his yhe, and he outdrouh his swerd and wold have slayn hir tho, bot farewel, sche was ago unto pallas the court above, wher as sche pleigneth upon love, as sche that was with that goddesse, and he was left in gret destresse. thus miht thou se what sorwe it doth to swere an oth which is noght soth, in loves cause namely. mi sone, be wel war forthi, and kep that thou be noght forswore: for this, which i have told tofore, ovide telleth everydel. mi fader, i may lieve it wel, for i have herde it ofte seie hou jason tok the flees aweie fro colchos, bot yit herde i noght be whom it was ferst thider broght. and for it were good to hiere, if that you liste at mi preiere to telle, i wolde you beseche. mi sone, who that wole it seche, in bokes he mai finde it write; and natheles, if thou wolt wite, in the manere as thou hast preid i schal the telle hou it is seid. the fame of thilke schepes fell, which in colchos, as it befell, was al of gold, schal nevere deie; wherof i thenke for to seie hou it cam ferst into that yle. ther was a king in thilke whyle towardes grece, and athemas the cronique of his name was; and hadde a wif, which philen hihte, be whom, so as fortune it dihte, he hadde of children yonge tuo. frixus the ferste was of tho, a knave child, riht fair withalle; a dowhter ek, the which men calle hellen, he hadde be this wif. bot for ther mai no mannes lif endure upon this erthe hiere, this worthi queene, as thou miht hiere, er that the children were of age, tok of hire ende the passage, with gret worschipe and was begrave. what thing it liketh god to have it is gret reson to ben his; forthi this king, so as it is, with gret suffrance it underfongeth: and afterward, as him belongeth, whan it was time forto wedde, a newe wif he tok to bedde, which yno hihte and was a mayde, and ek the dowhter, as men saide, of cadme, which a king also was holde in thilke daies tho. whan yno was the kinges make, sche caste hou that sche mihte make these children to here fader lothe, and schope a wyle ayein hem bothe, which to the king was al unknowe. a yeer or tuo sche let do sowe the lond with sode whete aboute, wherof no corn mai springen oute; and thus be sleyhte and be covine aros the derthe and the famine thurghout the lond in such a wise, so that the king a sacrifise upon the point of this destresse to ceres, which is the goddesse of corn, hath schape him forto yive, to loke if it mai be foryive, the meschief which was in his lond. bot sche, which knew tofor the hond the circumstance of al this thing, ayein the cominge of the king into the temple, hath schape so, of hire acord that alle tho whiche of the temple prestes were have seid and full declared there unto the king, bot if so be that he delivere the contre of frixus and of hellen bothe, with whom the goddes ben so wrothe, that whil tho children ben therinne, such tilthe schal noman beginne, wherof to gete him eny corn. thus was it seid, thus was it sworn of all the prestes that ther are; and sche which causeth al this fare seid ek therto what that sche wolde, and every man thanne after tolde so as the queene hem hadde preid. the king, which hath his ere leid, and lieveth al that evere he herde, unto here tale thus ansuerde, and seith that levere him is to chese hise children bothe forto lese, than him and al the remenant of hem whiche are aportenant unto the lond which he schal kepe: and bad his wif to take kepe in what manere is best to done, that thei delivered weren sone out of this world. and sche anon tuo men ordeigneth forto gon; bot ferst sche made hem forto swere that thei the children scholden bere unto the see, that non it knowe, and hem therinne bothe throwe. the children to the see ben lad, wher in the wise as yno bad these men be redy forto do. bot the goddesse which juno is hote, appiereth in the stede, and hath unto the men forbede that thei the children noght ne sle; bot bad hem loke into the see and taken hiede of that thei sihen. ther swam a schep tofore here yhen, whos flees of burned gold was al; and this goddesse forth withal comandeth that withoute lette thei scholde anon these children sette above upon this schepes bak; and al was do, riht as sche spak, wherof the men gon hom ayein. and fell so, as the bokes sein, hellen the yonge mayden tho, which of the see was wo bego, for pure drede hire herte hath lore, that fro the schep, which hath hire bore, as sche that was swounende feint, sche fell, and hath hirselve dreint; with frixus and this schep forth swam, til he to thyle of colchos cam, where juno the goddesse he fond, which tok the schep unto the lond, and sette it there in such a wise as thou tofore hast herd devise, wherof cam after al the wo, why jason was forswore so unto medee, as it is spoke. mi fader, who that hath tobroke his trouthe, as ye have told above, he is noght worthi forto love ne be beloved, as me semeth: bot every newe love quemeth to him which newefongel is. and natheles nou after this, if that you list to taken hiede upon mi schrifte to procede, in loves cause ayein the vice of covoitise and avarice what ther is more i wolde wite. mi sone, this i finde write, ther is yit on of thilke brood, which only for the worldes good, to make a tresor of moneie, put alle conscience aweie: wherof in thi confession the name and the condicion i schal hierafterward declare, which makth on riche, an other bare. upon the bench sittende on hih with avarice usure i sih, full clothed of his oghne suite, which after gold makth chace and suite with his brocours, that renne aboute lich unto racches in a route. such lucre is non above grounde, which is noght of tho racches founde; for wher thei se beyete sterte, that schal hem in no wise asterte, bot thei it dryve into the net of lucre, which usure hath set. usure with the riche duelleth, to al that evere he beith and selleth he hath ordeined of his sleyhte mesure double and double weyhte: outward he selleth be the lasse, and with the more he makth his tasse, wherof his hous is full withinne. he reccheth noght, be so he winne, though that ther lese ten or tuelve: his love is al toward himselve and to non other, bot he se that he mai winne suche thre; for wher he schal oght yive or lene, he wol ayeinward take a bene, ther he hath lent the smale pese. and riht so ther ben manye of these lovers, that thogh thei love a lyte, that scarsly wolde it weie a myte, yit wolde thei have a pound again, as doth usure in his bargain. bot certes such usure unliche, it falleth more unto the riche, als wel of love as of beyete, than unto hem that be noght grete, and, as who seith, ben simple and povere; for sielden is whan thei recovere, bot if it be thurgh gret decerte. and natheles men se poverte with porsuite and continuance fulofte make a gret chevance and take of love his avantage, forth with the help of his brocage, that maken seme wher is noght. and thus fulofte is love boght for litel what, and mochel take, with false weyhtes that thei make. nou, sone, of that i seide above thou wost what usure is of love: tell me forthi what so thou wilt, if thou therof hast eny gilt. mi fader, nay, for ought i hiere. for of tho pointz ye tolden hiere i wol you be mi trouthe assure, mi weyhte of love and mi mesure hath be mor large and mor certein than evere i tok of love ayein: for so yit couthe i nevere of sleyhte, to take ayein be double weyhte of love mor than i have yive. for als so wiss mot i be schrive and have remission of sinne, as so yit couthe i nevere winne, ne yit so mochel, soth to sein, that evere i mihte have half ayein of so full love as i have lent: and if myn happ were so wel went, that for the hole i mihte have half, me thenkth i were a goddeshalf. for where usure wole have double, mi conscience is noght so trouble, i biede nevere as to my del bot of the hole an halvendel; that is non excess, as me thenketh. bot natheles it me forthenketh; for wel i wot that wol noght be, for every day the betre i se that hou so evere i yive or lene mi love in place ther i mene, for oght that evere i axe or crave, i can nothing ayeinward have. bot yit for that i wol noght lete, what so befalle of mi beyete, that i ne schal hire yive and lene mi love and al mi thoght so clene, that toward me schal noght beleve. and if sche of hire goode leve rewarde wol me noght again, i wot the laste of my bargain schal stonde upon so gret a lost, that i mai neveremor the cost recovere in this world til i die. so that touchende of this partie i mai me wel excuse and schal; and forto speke forth withal, if eny brocour for me wente, that point cam nevere in myn entente: so that the more me merveilleth, what thing it is mi ladi eilleth, that al myn herte and al my time sche hath, and doth no betre bime. i have herd seid that thoght is fre, and natheles in privete to you, mi fader, that ben hiere min hole schrifte forto hiere, i dar min herte wel desclose. touchende usure, as i suppose, which as ye telle in love is used, mi ladi mai noght ben excused; that for o lokinge of hire ye min hole herte til i dye with al that evere i may and can sche hath me wonne to hire man: wherof, me thenkth, good reson wolde that sche somdel rewarde scholde, and yive a part, ther sche hath al. i not what falle hierafter schal, bot into nou yit dar i sein, hire liste nevere yive ayein a goodli word in such a wise, wherof min hope mihte arise, mi grete love to compense. i not hou sche hire conscience excuse wole of this usure; be large weyhte and gret mesure sche hath mi love, and i have noght of that which i have diere boght, and with myn herte i have it paid; bot al that is asyde laid, and i go loveles aboute. hire oghte stonde if ful gret doute, til sche redresce such a sinne, that sche wole al mi love winne and yifth me noght to live by: noght als so moche as "grant mercy" hir list to seie, of which i mihte som of mi grete peine allyhte. bot of this point, lo, thus i fare as he that paith for his chaffare, and beith it diere, and yit hath non, so mot he nedes povere gon: thus beie i diere and have no love, that i ne mai noght come above to winne of love non encress. bot i me wole natheles touchende usure of love aquite; and if mi ladi be to wyte, i preie to god such grace hir sende that sche be time it mot amende. mi sone, of that thou hast ansuerd touchende usure i have al herd, hou thou of love hast wonne smale: bot that thou tellest in thi tale and thi ladi therof accusest, me thenkth tho wordes thou misusest. for be thin oghne knowlechinge thou seist hou sche for o lokinge thin hole herte fro the tok: sche mai be such, that hire o lok is worth thin herte manyfold; so hast thou wel thin herte sold, whan thou hast that is more worth. and ek of that thou tellest forth, hou that hire weyhte of love unevene is unto thin, under the hevene stod nevere in evene that balance which stant in loves governance. such is the statut of his lawe, that thogh thi love more drawe and peise in the balance more, thou miht noght axe ayein therfore of duete, bot al of grace. for love is lord in every place, ther mai no lawe him justefie be reddour ne be compaignie, that he ne wole after his wille whom that him liketh spede or spille. to love a man mai wel beginne, bot whether he schal lese or winne, that wot noman til ate laste: forthi coveite noght to faste, mi sone, bot abyd thin ende, per cas al mai to goode wende. bot that thou hast me told and said, of o thing i am riht wel paid, that thou be sleyhte ne be guile of no brocour hast otherwhile engined love, for such dede is sore venged, as i rede. brocours of love that deceiven, no wonder is thogh thei receiven after the wrong that thei decerven; for whom as evere that thei serven and do plesance for a whyle, yit ate laste here oghne guile upon here oghne hed descendeth, which god of his vengance sendeth, as be ensample of time go a man mai finde it hath be so. it fell somtime, as it was sene, the hihe goddesse and the queene juno tho hadde in compainie a maiden full of tricherie; for sche was evere in on acord with jupiter, that was hire lord, to gete him othre loves newe, thurgh such brocage and was untrewe al otherwise than him nedeth. bot sche, which of no schame dredeth, with queinte wordes and with slyhe blente in such wise hir lady yhe, as sche to whom that juno triste, so that therof sche nothing wiste. bot so prive mai be nothing, that it ne comth to knowleching; thing don upon the derke nyht is after knowe on daies liht: so it befell, that ate laste al that this slyhe maiden caste was overcast and overthrowe. for as the sothe mot be knowe, to juno was don understonde in what manere hir housebonde with fals brocage hath take usure of love mor than his mesure, whan he tok othre than his wif, wherof this mayden was gultif, which hadde ben of his assent. and thus was al the game schent; she soffreth him, as sche mot nede, bot the brocour of his misdede, sche which hir conseil yaf therto, on hire is the vengance do: for juno with hire wordes hote, this maiden, which eccho was hote, reproveth and seith in this wise: "o traiteresse, of which servise hast thou thin oghne ladi served! thou hast gret peine wel deserved, that thou canst maken it so queinte, thi slyhe wordes forto peinte towardes me, that am thi queene, wherof thou madest me to wene that myn housbonde trewe were, whan that he loveth elleswhere, al be it so him nedeth noght. bot upon thee it schal be boght, which art prive to tho doinges, and me fulofte of thi lesinges deceived hast: nou is the day that i thi while aquite may; and for thou hast to me conceled that my lord hath with othre deled, i schal thee sette in such a kende, that evere unto the worldes ende al that thou hierest thou schalt telle, and clappe it out as doth a belle." and with that word sche was forschape, ther may no vois hire mouth ascape, what man that in the wodes crieth, withoute faile eccho replieth, and what word that him list to sein, the same word sche seith ayein. thus sche, which whilom hadde leve to duelle in chambre, mot beleve in wodes and on helles bothe, for such brocage as wyves lothe, which doth here lordes hertes change and love in other place strange. forthi, if evere it so befalle, that thou, mi sone, amonges alle be wedded man, hold that thou hast, for thanne al other love is wast. o wif schal wel to thee suffise, and thanne, if thou for covoitise of love woldest axe more, thou scholdest don ayein the lore of alle hem that trewe be. mi fader, as in this degre my conscience is noght accused; for i no such brocage have used, wherof that lust of love is wonne. forthi spek forth, as ye begonne, of avarice upon mi schrifte. mi sone, i schal the branches schifte be ordre so as thei ben set, on whom no good is wel beset. blinde avarice of his lignage for conseil and for cousinage, to be withholde ayein largesse, hath on, whos name is seid skarsnesse, the which is kepere of his hous, and is so thurghout averous, that he no good let out of honde; thogh god himself it wolde fonde, of yifte scholde he nothing have; and if a man it wolde crave, he moste thanne faile nede, wher god himselve mai noght spede. and thus skarsnesse in every place be reson mai no thonk porchace, and natheles in his degree above all othre most prive with avarice stant he this. for he governeth that ther is in ech astat of his office after the reule of thilke vice; he takth, he kepth, he halt, he bint, that lihtere is to fle the flint than gete of him in hard or neisshe only the value of a reysshe of good in helpinge of an other, noght thogh it were his oghne brother. for in the cas of yifte and lone stant every man for him al one, him thenkth of his unkindeschipe that him nedeth no felaschipe: be so the bagge and he acorden, him reccheth noght what men recorden of him, or it be evel or good. for al his trust is on his good, so that al one he falleth ofte, whan he best weneth stonde alofte, als wel in love as other wise; for love is evere of som reprise to him that wole his love holde. forthi, mi sone, as thou art holde, touchende of this tell me thi schrifte: hast thou be scars or large of yifte unto thi love, whom thou servest? for after that thou wel deservest of yifte, thou miht be the bet; for that good holde i wel beset, for why thou miht the betre fare; thanne is no wisdom forto spare. for thus men sein, in every nede he was wys that ferst made mede; for where as mede mai noght spede, i not what helpeth other dede: fulofte he faileth of his game that wol with ydel hand reclame his hauk, as many a nyce doth. forthi, mi sone, tell me soth and sei the trouthe, if thou hast be unto thy love or skars or fre. mi fader, it hath stonde thus, that if the tresor of cresus and al the gold octovien, forth with the richesse yndien of perles and of riche stones, were al togedre myn at ones, i sette it at nomore acompte than wolde a bare straw amonte, to yive it hire al in a day, be so that to that suete may i myhte like or more or lesse. and thus be cause of my scarsnesse ye mai wel understonde and lieve that i schal noght the worse achieve the pourpos which is in my thoght. bot yit i yaf hir nevere noght, ne therto dorste a profre make; for wel i wot sche wol noght take, and yive wol sche noght also, sche is eschu of bothe tuo. and this i trowe be the skile towardes me, for sche ne wile that i have eny cause of hope, noght also mochel as a drope. bot toward othre, as i mai se, sche takth and yifth in such degre, that as be weie of frendlihiede sche can so kepe hir wommanhiede, that every man spekth of hir wel. bot sche wole take of me no del, and yit sche wot wel that i wolde yive and do bothe what i scholde to plesen hire in al my myht: be reson this wot every wyht, for that mai be no weie asterte, ther sche is maister of the herte, sche mot be maister of the good. for god wot wel that al my mod and al min herte and al mi thoght and al mi good, whil i have oght, als freliche as god hath it yive, it schal ben hires, while i live, riht as hir list hirself commande. so that it nedeth no demande, to axe of me if i be scars to love, for as to tho pars i wole ansuere and seie no. mi sone, that is riht wel do. for often times of scarsnesse it hath be sen, that for the lesse is lost the more, as thou schalt hiere a tale lich to this matiere. skarsnesse and love acorden nevere, for every thing is wel the levere, whan that a man hath boght it diere: and forto speke in this matiere, for sparinge of a litel cost fulofte time a man hath lost the large cote for the hod. what man that scars is of his good and wol noght yive, he schal noght take: with yifte a man mai undertake the hihe god to plese and queme, with yifte a man the world mai deme; for every creature bore, if thou him yive, is glad therfore, and every gladschipe, as i finde, is confort unto loves kinde and causeth ofte a man to spede. so was he wys that ferst yaf mede, for mede kepeth love in house; bot wher the men ben coveitouse and sparen forto yive a part, thei knowe noght cupides art: for his fortune and his aprise desdeigneth alle coveitise and hateth alle nygardie. and forto loke of this partie, a soth ensample, hou it is so, i finde write of babio; which hadde a love at his menage, ther was non fairere of hire age, and hihte viola be name; which full of youthe and ful of game was of hirself, and large and fre, bot such an other chinche as he men wisten noght in al the lond, and hadde affaited to his hond his servant, the which spodius was hote. and in this wise thus the worldes good of sufficance was had, bot likinge and plesance, of that belongeth to richesse of love, stod in gret destresse; so that this yonge lusty wyht of thing which fell to loves riht was evele served overal, that sche was wo bego withal, til that cupide and venus eke a medicine for the seke ordeigne wolden in this cas. so as fortune thanne was, of love upon the destine it fell, riht as it scholde be, a freissh, a fre, a frendly man that noght of avarice can, which croceus be name hihte, toward this swete caste his sihte, and ther sche was cam in presence. sche sih him large of his despence, and amorous and glad of chiere, so that hir liketh wel to hiere the goodly wordes whiche he seide; and therupon of love he preide, of love was al that he mente, to love and for sche scholde assente, he yaf hire yiftes evere among. bot for men sein that mede is strong, it was wel seene at thilke tyde; for as it scholde of ryht betyde, this viola largesce hath take and the nygard sche hath forsake: of babio sche wol no more, for he was grucchende everemore, ther was with him non other fare bot forto prinche and forto spare, of worldes muk to gete encress. so goth the wrecche loveles, bejaped for his skarcete, and he that large was and fre and sette his herte to despende, this croceus, the bowe bende, which venus tok him forto holde, and schotte als ofte as evere he wolde. lo, thus departeth love his lawe, that what man wol noght be felawe to yive and spende, as i thee telle, he is noght worthi forto duelle in loves court to be relieved. forthi, my sone, if i be lieved, thou schalt be large of thi despence. mi fader, in mi conscience if ther be eny thing amis, i wol amende it after this, toward mi love namely. mi sone, wel and redely thou seist, so that wel paid withal i am, and forthere if i schal unto thi schrifte specefie of avarices progenie what vice suieth after this, thou schalt have wonder hou it is, among the folk in eny regne that such a vice myhte regne, which is comun at alle assaies, as men mai finde nou adaies. the vice lik unto the fend, which nevere yit was mannes frend, and cleped is unkindeschipe, of covine and of felaschipe with avarice he is withholde. him thenkth he scholde noght ben holde unto the moder which him bar; of him mai nevere man be war, he wol noght knowe the merite, for that he wolde it noght aquite; which in this world is mochel used, and fewe ben therof excused. to telle of him is endeles, bot this i seie natheles, wher as this vice comth to londe, ther takth noman his thonk on honde; thogh he with alle his myhtes serve, he schal of him no thonk deserve. he takth what eny man wol yive, bot whil he hath o day to live, he wol nothing rewarde ayein; he gruccheth forto yive o grein, wher he hath take a berne full. that makth a kinde herte dull, to sette his trust in such frendschipe, ther as he fint no kindeschipe; and forto speke wordes pleine, thus hiere i many a man compleigne, that nou on daies thou schalt finde at nede fewe frendes kinde; what thou hast don for hem tofore, it is foryete, as it were lore. the bokes speken of this vice, and telle hou god of his justice, be weie of kinde and ek nature and every lifissh creature, the lawe also, who that it kan, thei dampnen an unkinde man. it is al on to seie unkinde as thing which don is ayein kinde, for it with kinde nevere stod a man to yelden evel for good. for who that wolde taken hede, a beste is glad of a good dede, and loveth thilke creature after the lawe of his nature which doth him ese. and forto se of this matiere auctorite, fulofte time it hath befalle; wherof a tale amonges alle, which is of olde ensamplerie, i thenke forto specefie. to speke of an unkinde man, i finde hou whilom adrian, of rome which a gret lord was, upon a day as he per cas to wode in his huntinge wente, it hapneth at a soudein wente, after his chace as he poursuieth, thurgh happ, the which noman eschuieth, he fell unwar into a pet, wher that it mihte noght be let. the pet was dep and he fell lowe, that of his men non myhte knowe wher he becam, for non was nyh, which of his fall the meschief syh. and thus al one ther he lay clepende and criende al the day for socour and deliverance, til ayein eve it fell per chance, a while er it began to nyhte, a povere man, which bardus hihte, cam forth walkende with his asse, and hadde gadred him a tasse of grene stickes and of dreie to selle, who that wolde hem beie, as he which hadde no liflode, bot whanne he myhte such a lode to toune with his asse carie. and as it fell him forto tarie that ilke time nyh the pet, and hath the trusse faste knet, he herde a vois, which cride dimme, and he his ere to the brimme hath leid, and herde it was a man, which seide, "ha, help hier adrian, and i wol yiven half mi good." the povere man this understod, as he that wolde gladly winne, and to this lord which was withinne he spak and seide, "if i thee save, what sikernesse schal i have of covenant, that afterward thou wolt me yive such reward as thou behihtest nou tofore?" that other hath his othes swore be hevene and be the goddes alle, if that it myhte so befalle that he out of the pet him broghte, of all the goodes whiche he oghte he schal have evene halvendel. this bardus seide he wolde wel; and with this word his asse anon he let untrusse, and therupon doun goth the corde into the pet, to which he hath at ende knet a staf, wherby, he seide, he wolde that adrian him scholde holde. bot it was tho per chance falle, into that pet was also falle an ape, which at thilke throwe, whan that the corde cam doun lowe, al sodeinli therto he skipte and it in bothe hise armes clipte. and bardus with his asse anon him hath updrawe, and he is gon. but whan he sih it was an ape, he wende al hadde ben a jape of faierie, and sore him dradde: and adrian eftsone gradde for help, and cride and preide faste, and he eftsone his corde caste; bot whan it cam unto the grounde, a gret serpent it hath bewounde, the which bardus anon up drouh. and thanne him thoghte wel ynouh, it was fantosme, bot yit he herde the vois, and he therto ansuerde, "what wiht art thou in goddes name?" "i am," quod adrian, "the same, whos good thou schalt have evene half." quod bardus, "thanne a goddes half the thridde time assaie i schal": and caste his corde forth withal into the pet, and whan it cam to him, this lord of rome it nam, and therupon him hath adresced, and with his hand fulofte blessed, and thanne he bad to bardus hale. and he, which understod his tale, betwen him and his asse al softe hath drawe and set him up alofte withouten harm al esely. he seith noght ones "grant merci," bot strauhte him forth to the cite, and let this povere bardus be. and natheles this simple man his covenant, so as he can, hath axed; and that other seide, if so be that he him umbreide of oght that hath be speke or do, it schal ben venged on him so, that him were betre to be ded. and he can tho non other red, but on his asse ayein he caste his trusse, and hieth homward faste: and whan that he cam hom to bedde, he tolde his wif hou that he spedde. bot finaly to speke oght more unto this lord he dradde him sore, so that a word ne dorste he sein: and thus upon the morwe ayein, in the manere as i recorde, forth with his asse and with his corde to gadre wode, as he dede er, he goth; and whan that he cam ner unto the place where he wolde, he hath his ape anon beholde, which hadde gadred al aboute of stickes hiere and there a route, and leide hem redy to his hond, wherof he made his trosse and bond; fro dai to dai and in this wise this ape profreth his servise, so that he hadde of wode ynouh. upon a time and as he drouh toward the wode, he sih besyde the grete gastli serpent glyde, til that sche cam in his presence, and in hir kinde a reverence sche hath him do, and forth withal a ston mor briht than a cristall out of hir mouth tofore his weie sche let doun falle, and wente aweie, for that he schal noght ben adrad. tho was this povere bardus glad, thonkende god, and to the ston he goth an takth it up anon, and hath gret wonder in his wit hou that the beste him hath aquit, wher that the mannes sone hath failed, for whom he hadde most travailed. bot al he putte in goddes hond, and torneth hom, and what he fond unto his wif he hath it schewed; and thei, that weren bothe lewed, acorden that he scholde it selle. and he no lengere wolde duelle, bot forth anon upon the tale the ston he profreth to the sale; and riht as he himself it sette, the jueler anon forth fette the gold and made his paiement, therof was no delaiement. thus whan this ston was boght and sold, homward with joie manyfold this bardus goth; and whan he cam hom to his hous and that he nam his gold out of his purs, withinne he fond his ston also therinne, wherof for joie his herte pleide, unto his wif and thus he seide, "lo, hier my gold, lo, hier mi ston!" his wif hath wonder therupon, and axeth him hou that mai be. "nou be mi trouthe i not," quod he, "bot i dar swere upon a bok, that to my marchant i it tok, and he it hadde whan i wente: so knowe i noght to what entente it is nou hier, bot it be grace. forthi tomorwe in other place i wole it fonde forto selle, and if it wol noght with him duelle, bot crepe into mi purs ayein, than dar i saufly swere and sein, it is the vertu of the ston." the morwe cam, and he is gon to seche aboute in other stede his ston to selle, and he so dede, and lefte it with his chapman there. bot whan that he cam elleswhere, in presence of his wif at hom, out of his purs and that he nom his gold, he fond his ston withal: and thus it fell him overal, where he it solde in sondri place, such was the fortune and the grace. bot so wel may nothing ben hidd, that it nys ate laste kidd: this fame goth aboute rome so ferforth, that the wordes come to themperour justinian; and he let sende for the man, and axede him hou that it was. and bardus tolde him al the cas, hou that the worm and ek the beste, althogh thei maden no beheste, his travail hadden wel aquit; bot he which hadde a mannes wit, and made his covenant be mouthe and swor therto al that he couthe to parte and yiven half his good, hath nou foryete hou that it stod, as he which wol no trouthe holde. this emperour al that he tolde hath herd, and thilke unkindenesse he seide he wolde himself redresse. and thus in court of juggement this adrian was thanne assent, and the querele in audience declared was in the presence of themperour and many mo; wherof was mochel speche tho and gret wondringe among the press. bot ate laste natheles for the partie which hath pleigned the lawe hath diemed and ordeigned be hem that were avised wel, that he schal have the halvendel thurghout of adrianes good. and thus of thilke unkinde blod stant the memoire into this day, wherof that every wysman may ensamplen him, and take in mynde what schame it is to ben unkinde; ayein the which reson debateth, and every creature it hateth. forthi, mi sone, in thin office i rede fle that ilke vice. for riht as the cronique seith of adrian, hou he his feith foryat for worldes covoitise, fulofte in such a maner wise of lovers nou a man mai se full manye that unkinde be: for wel behote and evele laste that is here lif; for ate laste, whan that thei have here wille do, here love is after sone ago. what seist thou, sone, to this cas? mi fader, i wol seie helas, that evere such a man was bore, which whan he hath his trouthe suore and hath of love what he wolde, that he at eny time scholde evere after in his herte finde to falsen and to ben unkinde. bot, fader, as touchende of me, i mai noght stonde in that degre; for i tok nevere of love why, that i ne mai wel go therby and do my profit elles where, for eny sped i finde there. i dar wel thenken al aboute, bot i ne dar noght speke it oute; and if i dorste, i wolde pleigne, that sche for whom i soffre peine and love hir evere aliche hote, that nouther yive ne behote in rewardinge of mi servise it list hire in no maner wise. i wol noght say that sche is kinde, and forto sai sche is unkinde, that dar i noght; bot god above, which demeth every herte of love, he wot that on myn oghne side schal non unkindeschipe abide: if it schal with mi ladi duelle, therof dar i nomore telle. nou, goode fader, as it is, tell me what thenketh you of this. mi sone, of that unkindeschipe, the which toward thi ladischipe thou pleignest, for sche wol thee noght, thou art to blamen of that thoght. for it mai be that thi desir, thogh it brenne evere as doth the fyr, per cas to hire honour missit, or elles time com noght yit, which standt upon thi destine: forthi, mi sone, i rede thee, thenk wel, what evere the befalle; for noman hath his lustes alle. bot as thou toldest me before that thou to love art noght forswore, and hast don non unkindenesse, thou miht therof thi grace blesse: and lef noght that continuance; for ther mai be no such grevance to love, as is unkindeschipe. wherof to kepe thi worschipe, so as these olde bokes tale, i schal thee telle a redi tale: nou herkne and be wel war therby, for i wol telle it openly. mynos, as telleth the poete, the which whilom was king of crete, a sone hadde and androchee he hihte: and so befell that he unto athenes forto lere was send, and so he bar him there, for that he was of hih lignage, such pride he tok in his corage, that he foryeten hath the scoles, and in riote among the foles he dede manye thinges wronge; and useth thilke lif so longe, til ate laste of that he wroghte he fond the meschief which he soghte, wherof it fell that he was slain. his fader, which it herde sain, was wroth, and al that evere he mihte, of men of armes he him dighte a strong pouer, and forth he wente unto athenys, where he brente the pleine contre al aboute: the cites stode of him in doute, as thei that no defence hadde ayein the pouer which he ladde. ege�s, which was there king, his conseil tok upon this thing, for he was thanne in the cite: so that of pes into tretee betwen mynos and ege�s thei felle, and ben acorded thus; that king mynos fro yer to yeere receive schal, as thou schalt here, out of athenys for truage of men that were of myhti age persones nyne, of whiche he schal his wille don in special for vengance of his sones deth. non other grace ther ne geth, bot forto take the juise; and that was don in such a wise, which stod upon a wonder cas. for thilke time so it was, wherof that men yit rede and singe, king mynos hadde in his kepinge a cruel monstre, as seith the geste: for he was half man and half beste, and minotaurus he was hote, which was begete in a riote upon pasiphe, his oghne wif, whil he was oute upon the strif of thilke grete siege at troie. bot sche, which lost hath alle joie, whan that sche syh this monstre bore, bad men ordeigne anon therfore: and fell that ilke time thus, ther was a clerk, on dedalus, which hadde ben of hire assent of that hir world was so miswent; and he made of his oghne wit, wherof the remembrance is yit, for minotaure such an hous, which was so strange and merveilous, that what man that withinne wente, ther was so many a sondri wente, that he ne scholde noght come oute, but gon amased al aboute. and in this hous to loke and warde was minotaurus put in warde, that what lif that therinne cam, or man or beste, he overcam and slow, and fedde him therupon; and in this wise many on out of athenys for truage devoured weren in that rage. for every yeer thei schope hem so, thei of athenys, er thei go toward that ilke wofull chance, as it was set in ordinance, upon fortune here lot thei caste; til that these�s ate laste, which was the kinges sone there, amonges othre that ther were in thilke yeer, as it befell, the lot upon his chance fell. he was a worthi kniht withalle; and whan he sih this chance falle, he ferde as thogh he tok non hiede, bot al that evere he mihte spiede, with him and with his felaschipe forth into crete he goth be schipe; wher that the king mynos he soghte, and profreth all that he him oghte upon the point of here acord. this sterne king, this cruel lord tok every day on of the nyne, and put him to the discipline of minotaure, to be devoured; bot these�s was so favoured, that he was kept til ate laste. and in the meene while he caste what thing him were best to do: and fell that adriagne tho, which was the dowhter of mynos, and hadde herd the worthi los of these�s and of his myht, and syh he was a lusti kniht, hire hole herte on him sche leide, and he also of love hir preide, so ferforth that thei were al on. and sche ordeigneth thanne anon in what manere he scholde him save, and schop so that sche dede him have a clue of thred, of which withinne ferst ate dore he schal beginne with him to take that on ende, that whan he wolde ayeinward wende, he mihte go the same weie. and over this, so as i seie, of pich sche tok him a pelote, the which he scholde into the throte of minotaure caste rihte: such wepne also for him sche dighte, that he be reson mai noght faile to make an ende of his bataile; for sche him tawhte in sondri wise, til he was knowe of thilke emprise, hou he this beste schulde quelle. and thus, schort tale forto telle, so as this maide him hadde tawht, these�s with this monstre fawht, smot of his hed, the which he nam, and be the thred, so as he cam, he goth ayein, til he were oute. tho was gret wonder al aboute: mynos the tribut hath relessed, and so was al the werre cessed betwen athene and hem of crete. bot now to speke of thilke suete, whos beaute was withoute wane, this faire maiden adriane, whan that sche sih these�s sound, was nevere yit upon the ground a gladder wyht that sche was tho. these�s duelte a dai or tuo wher that mynos gret chiere him dede: these�s in a prive stede hath with this maiden spoke and rouned, that sche to him was abandouned in al that evere that sche couthe, so that of thilke lusty youthe al prively betwen hem tweie the ferste flour he tok aweie. for he so faire tho behihte that evere, whil he live mihte, he scholde hire take for his wif, and as his oghne hertes lif he scholde hire love and trouthe bere; and sche, which mihte noght forbere, so sore loveth him ayein, that what as evere he wolde sein with al hire herte sche believeth. and thus his pourpos he achieveth, so that assured of his trouthe with him sche wente, and that was routhe. fedra hire yonger soster eke, a lusti maide, a sobre, a meke, fulfild of alle curtesie, for sosterhode and compainie of love, which was hem betuene, to sen hire soster mad a queene, hire fader lefte and forth sche wente with him, which al his ferste entente foryat withinne a litel throwe, so that it was al overthrowe, whan sche best wende it scholde stonde. the schip was blowe fro the londe, wherin that thei seilende were; this adriagne hath mochel fere of that the wynd so loude bleu, as sche which of the see ne kneu, and preide forto reste a whyle. and so fell that upon an yle, which chyo hihte, thei ben drive, where he to hire his leve hath yive that sche schal londe and take hire reste. bot that was nothing for the beste: for whan sche was to londe broght, sche, which that time thoghte noght bot alle trouthe, and tok no kepe, hath leid hire softe forto slepe, as sche which longe hath ben forwacched; bot certes sche was evele macched and fer from alle loves kinde; for more than the beste unkinde these�s, which no trouthe kepte, whil that this yonge ladi slepte, fulfild of his unkindeschipe hath al foryete the goodschipe which adriane him hadde do, and bad unto the schipmen tho hale up the seil and noght abyde, and forth he goth the same tyde toward athene, and hire alonde he lefte, which lay nyh the stronde slepende, til that sche awok. bot whan that sche cast up hire lok toward the stronde and sih no wyht, hire herte was so sore aflyht, that sche ne wiste what to thinke, bot drouh hire to the water brinke, wher sche behield the see at large. sche sih no schip, sche sih no barge als ferforth as sche mihte kenne: "ha lord," sche seide, "which a senne, as al the world schal after hiere, upon this woful womman hiere this worthi kniht hath don and wroght! i wende i hadde his love boght, and so deserved ate nede, whan that he stod upon his drede, and ek the love he me behihte. it is gret wonder hou he mihte towardes me nou ben unkinde, and so to lete out of his mynde thing which he seide his oghne mouth. bot after this whan it is couth and drawe into the worldes fame, it schal ben hindringe of his name: for wel he wot and so wot i, he yaf his trouthe bodily, that he myn honour scholde kepe." and with that word sche gan to wepe, and sorweth more than ynouh: hire faire tresces sche todrouh, and with hirself tok such a strif, that sche betwen the deth and lif swounende lay fulofte among. and al was this on him along, which was to love unkinde so, wherof the wrong schal everemo stonde in cronique of remembrance. and ek it asketh a vengance to ben unkinde in loves cas, so as these�s thanne was, al thogh he were a noble kniht; for he the lawe of loves riht forfeted hath in alle weie, that adriagne he putte aweie, which was a gret unkinde dede: and after this, so as i rede, fedra, the which hir soster is, he tok in stede of hire, and this fel afterward to mochel teene. for thilke vice of which i meene, unkindeschipe, where it falleth, the trouthe of mannes herte it palleth, that he can no good dede aquite: so mai he stonde of no merite towardes god, and ek also men clepen him the worldes fo; for he nomore than the fend unto non other man is frend, bot al toward himself al one. forthi, mi sone, in thi persone this vice above all othre fle. mi fader, as ye techen me, i thenke don in this matiere. bot over this nou wolde i hiere, wherof i schal me schryve more. mi goode sone, and for thi lore, after the reule of coveitise i schal the proprete devise of every vice by and by. nou herkne and be wel war therby. in the lignage of avarice, mi sone, yit ther is a vice, his rihte name it is ravine, which hath a route of his covine. ravine among the maistres duelleth, and with his servantz, as men telleth, extorcion is nou withholde: ravine of othre mennes folde makth his larder and paieth noght; for wher as evere it mai be soght, in his hous ther schal nothing lacke, and that fulofte abyth the packe of povere men that duelle aboute. thus stant the comun poeple in doute, which can do non amendement; for whanne him faileth paiement, ravine makth non other skile, bot takth be strengthe what he wile. so ben ther in the same wise lovers, as i thee schal devise, that whan noght elles mai availe, anon with strengthe thei assaile and gete of love the sesine, whan thei se time, be ravine. forthi, mi sone, schrif thee hier, if thou hast ben a raviner of love. certes, fader, no: for i mi ladi love so, that thogh i were as was pompeie, that al the world me wolde obeie, or elles such as alisandre, i wolde noght do such a sklaundre; it is no good man, which so doth. in good feith, sone, thou seist soth: for he that wole of pourveance be such a weie his lust avance, he schal it after sore abie, bot if these olde ensamples lie. nou, goode fader, tell me on, so as ye cunne manyon, touchende of love in this matiere. nou list, mi sone, and thou schalt hiere, so as it hath befalle er this, in loves cause hou that it is a man to take be ravine the preie which is femeline. ther was a real noble king, and riche of alle worldes thing, which of his propre enheritance athenes hadde in governance, and who so thenke therupon, his name was king pandion. tuo douhtres hadde he be his wif, the whiche he lovede as his lif; the ferste douhter progne hihte, and the secounde, as sche wel mihte, was cleped faire philomene, to whom fell after mochel tene. the fader of his pourveance his doughter progne wolde avance, and yaf hire unto mariage a worthi king of hih lignage, a noble kniht eke of his hond, so was he kid in every lond, of trace he hihte tere�s; the clerk ovide telleth thus. this tere�s his wif hom ladde, a lusti lif with hire he hadde; til it befell upon a tyde, this progne, as sche lay him besyde, bethoughte hir hou it mihte be that sche hir soster myhte se, and to hir lord hir will sche seide, with goodly wordes and him preide that sche to hire mihte go: and if it liked him noght so, that thanne he wolde himselve wende, or elles be som other sende, which mihte hire diere soster griete, and schape hou that thei mihten miete. hir lord anon to that he herde yaf his acord, and thus ansuerde: "i wole," he seide, "for thi sake the weie after thi soster take miself, and bringe hire, if i may." and sche with that, there as he lay, began him in hire armes clippe, and kist him with hir softe lippe, and seide, "sire, grant mercy." and he sone after was redy, and tok his leve forto go; in sori time dede he so. this tere�s goth forth to schipe with him and with his felaschipe; be see the rihte cours he nam, into the contre til he cam, wher philomene was duellinge, and of hir soster the tidinge he tolde, and tho thei weren glade, and mochel joie of him thei made. the fader and the moder bothe to leve here douhter weren lothe, bot if thei weren in presence; and natheles at reverence of him, that wolde himself travaile, thei wolden noght he scholde faile of that he preide, and yive hire leve: and sche, that wolde noght beleve, in alle haste made hire yare toward hir soster forto fare, with tere�s and forth sche wente. and he with al his hole entente, whan sche was fro hir frendes go, assoteth of hire love so, his yhe myhte he noght withholde, that he ne moste on hir beholde; and with the sihte he gan desire, and sette his oghne herte on fyre; and fyr, whan it to tow aprocheth, to him anon the strengthe acrocheth, til with his hete it be devoured, the tow ne mai noght be socoured. and so that tirant raviner, whan that sche was in his pouer, and he therto sawh time and place, as he that lost hath alle grace, foryat he was a wedded man, and in a rage on hire he ran, riht as a wolf which takth his preie. and sche began to crie and preie, "o fader, o mi moder diere, nou help!" bot thei ne mihte it hiere, and sche was of to litel myht defense ayein so ruide a knyht to make, whanne he was so wod that he no reson understod, bot hield hire under in such wise, that sche ne myhte noght arise, bot lay oppressed and desesed, as if a goshauk hadde sesed a brid, which dorste noght for fere remue: and thus this tirant there beraft hire such thing as men sein mai neveremor be yolde ayein, and that was the virginite: of such ravine it was pite. bot whan sche to hirselven com, and of hir meschief hiede nom, and knew hou that sche was no maide, with wofull herte thus sche saide, "o thou of alle men the worste, wher was ther evere man that dorste do such a dede as thou hast do? that dai schal falle, i hope so, that i schal telle out al mi fille, and with mi speche i schal fulfille the wyde world in brede and lengthe. that thou hast do to me be strengthe, if i among the poeple duelle, unto the poeple i schal it telle; and if i be withinne wall of stones closed, thanne i schal unto the stones clepe and crie, and tellen hem thi felonie; and if i to the wodes wende, ther schal i tellen tale and ende, and crie it to the briddes oute, that thei schul hiere it al aboute. for i so loude it schal reherce, that my vois schal the hevene perce, that it schal soune in goddes ere. ha, false man, where is thi fere? o mor cruel than eny beste, hou hast thou holden thi beheste which thou unto my soster madest? o thou, which alle love ungladest, and art ensample of alle untrewe, nou wolde god mi soster knewe, of thin untrouthe, hou that it stod!" and he than as a lyon wod with hise unhappi handes stronge hire cauhte be the tresses longe, with whiche he bond ther bothe hire armes, that was a fieble dede of armes, and to the grounde anon hire caste, and out he clippeth also faste hire tunge with a peire scheres. so what with blod and what with teres out of hire yhe and of hir mouth, he made hire faire face uncouth: sche lay swounende unto the deth, ther was unethes eny breth; bot yit whan he hire tunge refte, a litel part therof belefte, bot sche with al no word mai soune, bot chitre and as a brid jargoune. and natheles that wode hound hir bodi hent up fro the ground, and sente hir there as be his wille sche scholde abyde in prison stille for everemo: bot nou tak hiede what after fell of this misdede. whanne al this meschief was befalle, this tere�s, that foule him falle, unto his contre hom he tyh; and whan he com his paleis nyh, his wif al redi there him kepte. whan he hir sih, anon he wepte, and that he dede for deceite, for sche began to axe him streite, "wher is mi soster?" and he seide that sche was ded; and progne abreide, as sche that was a wofull wif, and stod betuen hire deth and lif, of that sche herde such tidinge: bot for sche sih hire lord wepinge, she wende noght bot alle trouthe, and hadde wel the more routhe. the perles weren tho forsake to hire, and blake clothes take; as sche that was gentil and kinde, in worschipe of hir sostres mynde sche made a riche enterement, for sche fond non amendement to syghen or to sobbe more: so was ther guile under the gore. nou leve we this king and queene, and torne ayein to philomene, as i began to tellen erst. whan sche cam into prison ferst, it thoghte a kinges douhter strange to maken so soudein a change fro welthe unto so grete a wo; and sche began to thenke tho, thogh sche be mouthe nothing preide, withinne hir herte thus sche seide: "o thou, almyhty jupiter, that hihe sist and lokest fer, thou soffrest many a wrong doinge, and yit it is noght thi willinge. to thee ther mai nothing ben hid, thou wost hou it is me betid: i wolde i hadde noght be bore, for thanne i hadde noght forlore mi speche and mi virginite. bot, goode lord, al is in thee, whan thou therof wolt do vengance and schape mi deliverance." and evere among this ladi wepte, and thoghte that sche nevere kepte to ben a worldes womman more, and that sche wissheth everemore. bot ofte unto hir soster diere hire herte spekth in this manere, and seide, "ha, soster, if ye knewe of myn astat, ye wolde rewe, i trowe, and my deliverance ye wolde schape, and do vengance on him that is so fals a man: and natheles, so as i can, i wol you sende som tokninge, wherof ye schul have knowlechinge of thing i wot, that schal you lothe, the which you toucheth and me bothe." and tho withinne a whyle als tyt sche waf a cloth of selk al whyt with lettres and ymagerie, in which was al the felonie, which tere�s to hire hath do; and lappede it togedre tho and sette hir signet therupon and sende it unto progne anon. the messager which forth it bar, what it amonteth is noght war; and natheles to progne he goth and prively takth hire the cloth, and wente ayein riht as he cam, the court of him non hiede nam. whan progne of philomene herde, sche wolde knowe hou that it ferde, and opneth that the man hath broght, and wot therby what hath be wroght and what meschief ther is befalle. in swoune tho sche gan doun falle, and efte aros and gan to stonde, and eft sche takth the cloth on honde, behield the lettres and thymages; bot ate laste, "of suche oultrages," sche seith, "wepinge is noght the bote:" and swerth, if that sche live mote, it schal be venged otherwise. and with that sche gan hire avise hou ferst sche mihte unto hire winne hir soster, that noman withinne, bot only thei that were suore, it scholde knowe, and schop therfore that tere�s nothing it wiste; and yit riht as hirselven liste, hir soster was delivered sone out of prison, and be the mone to progne sche was broght be nyhte. whan ech of other hadde a sihte, in chambre, ther thei were al one, thei maden many a pitous mone; bot progne most of sorwe made, which sihe hir soster pale and fade and specheles and deshonoured, of that sche hadde be defloured; and ek upon hir lord sche thoghte, of that he so untreuly wroghte and hadde his espousaile broke. sche makth a vou it schal be wroke, and with that word sche kneleth doun wepinge in gret devocioun: unto cupide and to venus sche preide, and seide thanne thus: "o ye, to whom nothing asterte of love mai, for every herte ye knowe, as ye that ben above the god and the goddesse of love; ye witen wel that evere yit with al mi will and al my wit, sith ferst ye schopen me to wedde, that i lay with mi lord abedde, i have be trewe in mi degre, and evere thoghte forto be, and nevere love in other place, bot al only the king of trace, which is mi lord and i his wif. bot nou allas this wofull strif! that i him thus ayeinward finde the most untrewe and most unkinde that evere in ladi armes lay. and wel i wot that he ne may amende his wrong, it is so gret; for he to lytel of me let, whan he myn oughne soster tok, and me that am his wif forsok." lo, thus to venus and cupide sche preide, and furthermor sche cride unto appollo the hiheste, and seide, "o myghti god of reste, thou do vengance of this debat. mi soster and al hire astat thou wost, and hou sche hath forlore hir maidenhod, and i therfore in al the world schal bere a blame of that mi soster hath a schame, that tere�s to hire i sente: and wel thou wost that myn entente was al for worschipe and for goode. o lord, that yifst the lives fode to every wyht, i prei thee hiere thes wofull sostres that ben hiere, and let ous noght to the ben lothe; we ben thin oghne wommen bothe." thus pleigneth progne and axeth wreche, and thogh hire soster lacke speche, to him that alle thinges wot hire sorwe is noght the lasse hot: bot he that thanne had herd hem tuo, him oughte have sorwed everemo for sorwe which was hem betuene. with signes pleigneth philomene, and progne seith, "it schal be wreke, that al the world therof schal speke." and progne tho seknesse feigneth, wherof unto hir lord sche pleigneth, and preith sche moste hire chambres kepe, and as hir liketh wake and slepe. and he hire granteth to be so; and thus togedre ben thei tuo, that wolde him bot a litel good. nou herk hierafter hou it stod of wofull auntres that befelle: thes sostres, that ben bothe felle,- and that was noght on hem along, bot onliche on the grete wrong which tere�s hem hadde do,- thei schopen forto venge hem tho. this tere�s be progne his wif a sone hath, which as his lif he loveth, and ithis he hihte: his moder wiste wel sche mihte do tere�s no more grief than sle this child, which was so lief. thus sche, that was, as who seith, mad of wo, which hath hir overlad, withoute insihte of moderhede foryat pite and loste drede, and in hir chambre prively this child withouten noise or cry sche slou, and hieu him al to pieces: and after with diverse spieces the fleissh, whan it was so toheewe, sche takth, and makth therof a sewe, with which the fader at his mete was served, til he hadde him ete; that he ne wiste hou that it stod, bot thus his oughne fleissh and blod himself devoureth ayein kinde, as he that was tofore unkinde. and thanne, er that he were arise, for that he scholde ben agrise, to schewen him the child was ded, this philomene tok the hed betwen tuo disshes, and al wrothe tho comen forth the sostres bothe, and setten it upon the bord. and progne tho began the word, and seide, "o werste of alle wicke, of conscience whom no pricke mai stere, lo, what thou hast do! lo, hier ben nou we sostres tuo; o raviner, lo hier thi preie, with whom so falsliche on the weie thou hast thi tirannye wroght. lo, nou it is somdel aboght, and bet it schal, for of thi dede the world schal evere singe and rede in remembrance of thi defame: for thou to love hast do such schame, that it schal nevere be foryete." with that he sterte up fro the mete, and schof the bord unto the flor, and cauhte a swerd anon and suor that thei scholde of his handes dye. and thei unto the goddes crie begunne with so loude a stevene, that thei were herd unto the hevene; and in a twinclinge of an yhe the goddes, that the meschief syhe, here formes changen alle thre. echon of hem in his degre was torned into briddes kinde; diverseliche, as men mai finde, after thastat that thei were inne, here formes were set atwinne. and as it telleth in the tale, the ferst into a nyhtingale was schape, and that was philomene, which in the wynter is noght sene, for thanne ben the leves falle and naked ben the buisshes alle. for after that sche was a brid, hir will was evere to ben hid, and forto duelle in prive place, that noman scholde sen hir face for schame, which mai noght be lassed, of thing that was tofore passed, whan that sche loste hir maidenhiede: for evere upon hir wommanhiede, thogh that the goddes wolde hire change, sche thenkth, and is the more strange, and halt hir clos the wyntres day. bot whan the wynter goth away, and that nature the goddesse wole of hir oughne fre largesse with herbes and with floures bothe the feldes and the medwes clothe, and ek the wodes and the greves ben heled al with grene leves, so that a brid hire hyde mai, betwen averil and march and maii, sche that the wynter hield hir clos, for pure schame and noght aros, whan that sche seth the bowes thikke, and that ther is no bare sticke, bot al is hid with leves grene, to wode comth this philomene and makth hir ferste yeres flyht; wher as sche singeth day and nyht, and in hir song al openly sche makth hir pleignte and seith, "o why, o why ne were i yit a maide?" for so these olde wise saide, which understoden what sche mente, hire notes ben of such entente. and ek thei seide hou in hir song sche makth gret joie and merthe among, and seith, "ha, nou i am a brid, ha, nou mi face mai ben hid: thogh i have lost mi maidenhede, schal noman se my chekes rede." thus medleth sche with joie wo and with hir sorwe merthe also, so that of loves maladie sche makth diverse melodie, and seith love is a wofull blisse, a wisdom which can noman wisse, a lusti fievere, a wounde softe: this note sche reherceth ofte to hem whiche understonde hir tale. nou have i of this nyhtingale, which erst was cleped philomene, told al that evere i wolde mene, bothe of hir forme and of hir note, wherof men mai the storie note. and of hir soster progne i finde, hou sche was torned out of kinde into a swalwe swift of winge, which ek in wynter lith swounynge, ther as sche mai nothing be sene: bot whan the world is woxe grene and comen is the somertide, than fleth sche forth and ginth to chide, and chitreth out in hir langage what falshod is in mariage, and telleth in a maner speche of tere�s the spousebreche. sche wol noght in the wodes duelle, for sche wolde openliche telle; and ek for that sche was a spouse, among the folk sche comth to house, to do thes wyves understonde the falshod of hire housebonde, that thei of hem be war also, for ther ben manye untrewe of tho. thus ben the sostres briddes bothe, and ben toward the men so lothe, that thei ne wole of pure schame unto no mannes hand be tame; for evere it duelleth in here mynde of that thei founde a man unkinde, and that was false tere�s. if such on be amonges ous i not, bot his condicion men sein in every region withinne toune and ek withoute nou regneth comunliche aboute. and natheles in remembrance i wol declare what vengance the goddes hadden him ordeined, of that the sostres hadden pleigned: for anon after he was changed and from his oghne kinde stranged, a lappewincke mad he was, and thus he hoppeth on the gras, and on his hed ther stant upriht a creste in tokne he was a kniht; and yit unto this dai men seith, a lappewincke hath lore his feith and is the brid falseste of alle. bewar, mi sone, er thee so falle; for if thou be of such covine, to gete of love be ravine thi lust, it mai thee falle thus, as it befell of tere�s. mi fader, goddes forebode! me were levere be fortrode with wilde hors and be todrawe, er i ayein love and his lawe dede eny thing or loude or stille, which were noght mi ladi wille. men sein that every love hath drede; so folweth it that i hire drede, for i hire love, and who so dredeth, to plese his love and serve him nedeth. thus mai ye knowen be this skile that no ravine don i wile ayein hir will be such a weie; bot while i live, i wol obeie abidinge on hire courtesie, if eny merci wolde hir plie. forthi, mi fader, as of this i wot noght i have don amis: bot furthermore i you beseche, som other point that ye me teche, and axeth forth, if ther be auht, that i mai be the betre tauht. whan covoitise in povere astat stant with himself upon debat thurgh lacke of his misgovernance, that he unto his sustienance ne can non other weie finde to gete him good, thanne as the blinde, which seth noght what schal after falle, that ilke vice which men calle of robberie, he takth on honde; wherof be water and be londe of thing which othre men beswinke he get him cloth and mete and drinke. him reccheth noght what he beginne, thurgh thefte so that he mai winne: forthi to maken his pourchas he lith awaitende on the pas, and what thing that he seth ther passe, he takth his part, or more or lasse, if it be worthi to be take. he can the packes wel ransake, so prively berth non aboute his gold, that he ne fint it oute, or other juel, what it be; he takth it as his proprete. in wodes and in feldes eke thus robberie goth to seke, wher as he mai his pourpos finde. and riht so in the same kinde, my goode sone, as thou miht hiere, to speke of love in the matiere and make a verrai resemblance, riht as a thief makth his chevance and robbeth mennes good aboute in wode and field, wher he goth oute, so be ther of these lovers some, in wylde stedes wher thei come and finden there a womman able, and therto place covenable, withoute leve, er that thei fare, thei take a part of that chaffare: yee, though sche were a scheperdesse, yit wol the lord of wantounesse assaie, althogh sche be unmete, for other mennes good is swete. bot therof wot nothing the wif at hom, which loveth as hir lif hir lord, and sitt alday wisshinge after hir lordes hom comynge: bot whan that he comth hom at eve, anon he makth his wif beleve, for sche noght elles scholde knowe: he telth hire hou his hunte hath blowe, and hou his houndes have wel runne, and hou ther schon a merye sunne, and hou his haukes flowen wel; bot he wol telle her nevere a diel hou he to love untrewe was, of that he robbede in the pas, and tok his lust under the schawe ayein love and ayein his lawe. which thing, mi sone, i thee forbede, for it is an ungoodly dede. for who that takth be robberie his love, he mai noght justefie his cause, and so fulofte sithe for ones that he hath be blithe he schal ben after sory thries. ensample of suche robberies i finde write, as thou schalt hiere, acordende unto this matiere. i rede hou whilom was a maide, the faireste, as ovide saide, which was in hire time tho; and sche was of the chambre also of pallas, which is the goddesse and wif to marte, of whom prouesse is yove to these worthi knihtes. for he is of so grete mihtes, that he governeth the bataille; withouten him may noght availe the stronge hond, bot he it helpe; ther mai no knyht of armes yelpe, bot he feihte under his banere. bot nou to speke of mi matiere, this faire, freisshe, lusti mai, al one as sche wente on a dai upon the stronde forto pleie, ther cam neptunus in the weie, which hath the see in governance; and in his herte such plesance he tok, whan he this maide sih, that al his herte aros on hih, for he so sodeinliche unwar behield the beaute that sche bar. and caste anon withinne his herte that sche him schal no weie asterte, bot if he take in avantage fro thilke maide som pilage, noght of the broches ne the ringes, bot of some othre smale thinges he thoghte parte, er that sche wente; and hire in bothe hise armes hente, and putte his hond toward the cofre, wher forto robbe he made a profre, that lusti tresor forto stele, which passeth othre goodes fele and cleped is the maidenhede, which is the flour of wommanhede. this maiden, which cornix be name was hote, dredende alle schame, sih that sche mihte noght debate, and wel sche wiste he wolde algate fulfille his lust of robberie, anon began to wepe and crie, and seide, "o pallas, noble queene, scheu nou thi myht and let be sene, to kepe and save myn honour: help, that i lese noght mi flour, which nou under thi keie is loke." that word was noght so sone spoke, whan pallas schop recoverir after the will and the desir of hire, which a maiden was, and sodeinliche upon this cas out of hire wommanisshe kinde into a briddes like i finde sche was transformed forth withal, so that neptunus nothing stal of such thing as he wolde have stole. with fetheres blake as eny cole out of hise armes in a throwe sche flih before his yhe a crowe; which was to hire a more delit, to kepe hire maidenhede whit under the wede of fethers blake, in perles whyte than forsake that no lif mai restore ayein. bot thus neptune his herte in vein hath upon robberie sett; the bridd is flowe and he was let, the faire maide him hath ascaped, wherof for evere he was bejaped and scorned of that he hath lore. mi sone, be thou war therfore that thou no maidenhode stele, wherof men sen deseses fele aldai befalle in sondri wise; so as i schal thee yit devise an other tale therupon, which fell be olde daies gon. king lichaon upon his wif a dowhter hadde, a goodly lif, a clene maide of worthi fame, calistona whos rihte name was cleped, and of many a lord sche was besoght, bot hire acord to love myhte noman winne, as sche which hath no lust therinne; bot swor withinne hir herte and saide that sche wolde evere ben a maide. wherof to kepe hireself in pes, with suche as amadriades were cleped, wodemaydes, tho, and with the nimphes ek also upon the spring of freisshe welles sche schop to duelle and nagher elles. and thus cam this calistona into the wode of tegea, wher sche virginite behihte unto diane, and therto plihte her trouthe upon the bowes grene, to kepe hir maidenhode clene. which afterward upon a day was priveliche stole away; for jupiter thurgh his queintise from hire it tok in such a wise, that sodeinliche forth withal hire wombe aros and sche toswal, so that it mihte noght ben hidd. and therupon it is betidd, diane, which it herde telle, in prive place unto a welle with nimphes al a compainie was come, and in a ragerie sche seide that sche bathe wolde, and bad that every maide scholde with hire al naked bathe also. and tho began the prive wo, calistona wax red for schame; bot thei that knewe noght the game, to whom no such thing was befalle, anon thei made hem naked alle, as thei that nothing wolden hyde: bot sche withdrouh hire evere asyde, and natheles into the flod, wher that diane hirselve stod, sche thoghte come unaperceived. bot therof sche was al deceived; for whan sche cam a litel nyh, and that diane hire wombe syh, sche seide, "awey, thou foule beste, for thin astat is noght honeste this chaste water forto touche; for thou hast take such a touche, which nevere mai ben hol ayein." and thus goth sche which was forlein with schame, and fro the nimphes fledde, til whanne that nature hire spedde, that of a sone, which archas was named, sche delivered was. and tho juno, which was the wif of jupiter, wroth and hastif, in pourpos forto do vengance cam forth upon this ilke chance, and to calistona sche spak, and sette upon hir many a lak, and seide, "ha, nou thou art atake, that thou thi werk myht noght forsake. ha, thou ungoodlich ypocrite, hou thou art gretly forto wyte! bot nou thou schalt ful sore abie that ilke stelthe and micherie, which thou hast bothe take and do; wherof thi fader lichao schal noght be glad, whan he it wot, of that his dowhter was so hot, that sche hath broke hire chaste avou. bot i thee schal chastise nou; thi grete beaute schal be torned, thurgh which that thou hast be mistorned, thi large frount, thin yhen greie, i schal hem change in other weie, and al the feture of thi face in such a wise i schal deface, that every man thee schal forbere." with that the liknesse of a bere sche tok and was forschape anon. withinne a time and therupon befell that with a bowe on honde, to hunte and gamen forto fonde, into that wode goth to pleie hir sone archas, and in his weie it hapneth that this bere cam. and whan that sche good hiede nam, wher that he stod under the bowh, sche kneu him wel and to him drouh; for thogh sche hadde hire forme lore, the love was noght lost therfore which kinde hath set under his lawe. whan sche under the wodesschawe hire child behield, sche was so glad, that sche with bothe hire armes sprad, as thogh sche were in wommanhiede, toward him cam, and tok non hiede of that he bar a bowe bent. and he with that an arwe hath hent and gan to teise it in his bowe, as he that can non other knowe, bot that it was a beste wylde. bot jupiter, which wolde schylde the moder and the sone also, ordeineth for hem bothe so, that thei for evere were save. bot thus, mi sone, thou myht have ensample, hou that it is to fle to robbe the virginite of a yong innocent aweie: and overthis be other weie, in olde bokes as i rede, such robberie is forto drede, and nameliche of thilke good which every womman that is good desireth forto kepe and holde, as whilom was be daies olde. for if thou se mi tale wel of that was tho, thou miht somdiel of old ensample taken hiede, hou that the flour of maidenhiede was thilke time holde in pris. and so it was, and so it is, and so it schal for evere stonde: and for thou schalt it understonde, nou herkne a tale next suiende, hou maidenhod is to commende. of rome among the gestes olde i finde hou that valerie tolde that what man tho was emperour of rome, he scholde don honour to the virgine, and in the weie, wher he hire mette, he scholde obeie in worschipe of virginite, which tho was of gret dignite. noght onliche of the wommen tho, bot of the chaste men also it was commended overal: and forto speke in special touchende of men, ensample i finde, phyryns, which was of mannes kinde above alle othre the faireste of rome and ek the comelieste, that wel was hire which him mihte beholde and have of him a sihte. thus was he tempted ofte sore; bot for he wolde be nomore among the wommen so coveited, the beaute of his face streited he hath, and threste out bothe hise yhen, that alle wommen whiche him syhen thanne afterward, of him ne roghte: and thus his maidehiede he boghte. so mai i prove wel forthi, above alle othre under the sky, who that the vertus wolde peise, virginite is forto preise, which, as thapocalips recordeth, to crist in hevene best acordeth. so mai it schewe wel therfore, as i have told it hier tofore, in hevene and ek in erthe also it is accept to bothe tuo. and if i schal more over this declare what this vertu is, i finde write upon this thing of valentinian the king and emperour be thilke daies, a worthi knyht at alle assaies, hou he withoute mariage was of an hundred wynter age, and hadde ben a worthi kniht bothe of his lawe and of his myht. bot whan men wolde his dedes peise and his knyhthode of armes preise, of that he dede with his hondes, whan he the kinges and the londes to his subjeccion put under, of al that pris hath he no wonder, for he it sette of non acompte, and seide al that may noght amonte ayeins o point which he hath nome, that he his fleissh hath overcome: he was a virgine, as he seide; on that bataille his pris he leide. lo nou, my sone, avise thee. yee, fader, al this wel mai be, bot if alle othre dede so, the world of men were sone go: and in the lawe a man mai finde, hou god to man be weie of kinde hath set the world to multeplie; and who that wol him justefie, it is ynouh to do the lawe. and natheles youre goode sawe is good to kepe, who so may, i wol noght therayein seie nay. mi sone, take it as i seie; if maidenhod be take aweie withoute lawes ordinance, it mai noght failen of vengance. and if thou wolt the sothe wite, behold a tale which is write, hou that the king agamenon, whan he the cite of lesbon hath wonne, a maiden ther he fond, which was the faireste of the lond in thilke time that men wiste. he tok of hire what him liste of thing which was most precious, wherof that sche was dangerous. this faire maiden cleped is criseide, douhter of crisis, which was that time in special of thilke temple principal, wher phebus hadde his sacrifice, so was it wel the more vice. agamenon was thanne in weie to troieward, and tok aweie this maiden, which he with him ladde, so grete a lust in hire he hadde. bot phebus, which hath gret desdeign of that his maiden was forlein, anon as he to troie cam, vengance upon this dede he nam and sende a comun pestilence. thei soghten thanne here evidence and maden calculacion, to knowe in what condicion this deth cam in so sodeinly; and ate laste redyly the cause and ek the man thei founde: and forth withal the same stounde agamenon opposed was, which hath beknowen al the cas of the folie which he wroghte. and therupon mercy thei soghte toward the god in sondri wise with preiere and with sacrifise, the maide and hom ayein thei sende, and yive hire good ynouh to spende for evere whil sche scholde live: and thus the senne was foryive and al the pestilence cessed. lo, what it is to ben encressed of love which is evele wonne. it were betre noght begonne than take a thing withoute leve, which thou most after nedes leve, and yit have malgre forth withal. forthi to robben overal in loves cause if thou beginne, i not what ese thou schalt winne. mi sone, be wel war of this, for thus of robberie it is. mi fader, youre ensamplerie in loves cause of robberie i have it riht wel understonde. bot overthis, hou so it stonde, yit wolde i wite of youre aprise what thing is more of covoitise. with covoitise yit i finde a servant of the same kinde, which stelthe is hote, and mecherie with him is evere in compainie. of whom if i schal telle soth, he stalketh as a pocok doth, and takth his preie so covert, that noman wot it in apert. for whan he wot the lord from home, than wol he stalke aboute and rome; and what thing he fint in his weie, whan that he seth the men aweie, he stelth it and goth forth withal, that therof noman knowe schal. and ek fulofte he goth a nyht withoute mone or sterreliht, and with his craft the dore unpiketh, and takth therinne what him liketh: and if the dore be so schet, that he be of his entre let, he wole in ate wyndou crepe, and whil the lord is faste aslepe, he stelth what thing as him best list, and goth his weie er it be wist. fulofte also be lyhte of day yit wole he stele and make assay; under the cote his hond he put, til he the mannes purs have cut, and rifleth that he fint therinne. and thus he auntreth him to winne, and berth an horn and noght ne bloweth, for noman of his conseil knoweth; what he mai gete of his michinge, it is al bile under the winge. and as an hound that goth to folde and hath ther taken what he wolde, his mouth upon the gras he wypeth, and so with feigned chiere him slypeth, that what as evere of schep he strangle, ther is noman therof schal jangle, as forto knowen who it dede; riht so doth stelthe in every stede, where as him list his preie take. he can so wel his cause make and so wel feigne and so wel glose, that ther ne schal noman suppose, bot that he were an innocent, and thus a mannes yhe he blent: so that this craft i mai remene withouten help of eny mene. ther be lovers of that degre, which al here lust in privete, as who seith, geten al be stelthe, and ofte atteignen to gret welthe as for the time that it lasteth. for love awaiteth evere and casteth hou he mai stele and cacche his preie, whan he therto mai finde a weie: for be it nyht or be it day, he takth his part, whan that he may, and if he mai nomore do, yit wol he stele a cuss or tuo. mi sone, what seist thou therto? tell if thou dedest evere so. mi fader, hou? mi sone, thus,- if thou hast stolen eny cuss or other thing which therto longeth, for noman suche thieves hongeth: tell on forthi and sei the trouthe. mi fader, nay, and that is routhe, for be mi will i am a thief; bot sche that is to me most lief, yit dorste i nevere in privete noght ones take hire be the kne, to stele of hire or this or that, and if i dorste, i wot wel what: and natheles, bot if i lie, be stelthe ne be robberie of love, which fell in mi thoght, to hire dede i nevere noght. bot as men sein, wher herte is failed, ther schal no castell ben assailed; bot thogh i hadde hertes ten, and were als strong as alle men, if i be noght myn oghne man and dar noght usen that i can, i mai miselve noght recovere. thogh i be nevere man so povere, i bere an herte and hire it is, so that me faileth wit in this, hou that i scholde of myn acord the servant lede ayein the lord: for if mi fot wolde awher go, or that min hand wolde elles do, whan that myn herte is therayein, the remenant is al in vein. and thus me lacketh alle wele, and yit ne dar i nothing stele of thing which longeth unto love: and ek it is so hyh above, i mai noght wel therto areche, bot if so be at time of speche, ful selde if thanne i stele may a word or tuo and go my way. betwen hire hih astat and me comparison ther mai non be, so that i fiele and wel i wot, al is to hevy and to hot to sette on hond withoute leve: and thus i mot algate leve to stele that i mai noght take, and in this wise i mot forsake to ben a thief ayein mi wille of thing which i mai noght fulfille. for that serpent which nevere slepte the flees of gold so wel ne kepte in colchos, as the tale is told, that mi ladi a thousendfold nys betre yemed and bewaked, wher sche be clothed or be naked. to kepe hir bodi nyht and day, sche hath a wardein redi ay, which is so wonderful a wyht, that him ne mai no mannes myht with swerd ne with no wepne daunte, ne with no sleihte of charme enchaunte, wherof he mihte be mad tame, and danger is his rihte name; which under lock and under keie, that noman mai it stele aweie, hath al the tresor underfonge that unto love mai belonge. the leste lokinge of hire yhe mai noght be stole, if he it syhe; and who so gruccheth for so lyte, he wolde sone sette a wyte on him that wolde stele more. and that me grieveth wonder sore, for this proverbe is evere newe, that stronge lokes maken trewe of hem that wolden stele and pyke: for so wel can ther noman slyke be him ne be non other mene, to whom danger wol yive or lene of that tresor he hath to kepe. so thogh i wolde stalke and crepe, and wayte on eve and ek on morwe, of danger schal i nothing borwe, and stele i wot wel may i noght: and thus i am riht wel bethoght, whil danger stant in his office, of stelthe, which ye clepe a vice, i schal be gultif neveremo. therfore i wolde he were ago so fer that i nevere of him herde, hou so that afterward it ferde: for thanne i mihte yit per cas of love make som pourchas be stelthe or be som other weie, that nou fro me stant fer aweie. bot, fader, as ye tolde above, hou stelthe goth a nyht for love, i mai noght wel that point forsake, that ofte times i ne wake on nyhtes, whan that othre slepe; bot hou, i prei you taketh kepe. whan i am loged in such wise that i be nyhte mai arise, at som wyndowe and loken oute and se the housinge al aboute, so that i mai the chambre knowe in which mi ladi, as i trowe, lyth in hir bed and slepeth softe, thanne is myn herte a thief fulofte: for there i stonde to beholde the longe nyhtes that ben colde, and thenke on hire that lyth there. and thanne i wisshe that i were als wys as was nectanabus or elles as was prothe�s, that couthen bothe of nigromaunce in what liknesse, in what semblaunce, riht as hem liste, hemself transforme: for if i were of such a forme, i seie thanne i wolde fle into the chambre forto se if eny grace wolde falle, so that i mihte under the palle som thing of love pyke and stele. and thus i thenke thoghtes fele, and thogh therof nothing be soth, yit ese as for a time it doth: bot ate laste whanne i finde that i am falle into my mynde, and se that i have stonde longe and have no profit underfonge, than stalke i to mi bedd withinne. and this is al that evere i winne of love, whanne i walke on nyht: mi will is good, bot of mi myht me lacketh bothe and of mi grace; for what so that mi thoght embrace, yit have i noght the betre ferd. mi fader, lo, nou have ye herd what i be stelthe of love have do, and hou mi will hath be therto: if i be worthi to penance i put it on your ordinance. mi sone, of stelthe i the behiete, thogh it be for a time swete, at ende it doth bot litel good, as be ensample hou that it stod whilom, i mai thee telle nou. i preie you, fader, sei me hou. mi sone, of him which goth be daie be weie of stelthe to assaie, in loves cause and takth his preie, ovide seide as i schal seie, and in his methamor he tolde a tale, which is good to holde. the poete upon this matiere of stelthe wrot in this manere. venus, which hath this lawe in honde of thing which mai noght be withstonde, as sche which the tresor to warde of love hath withinne hir warde, phebum to love hath so constreigned, that he withoute reste is peined with al his herte to coveite a maiden, which was warded streyte withinne chambre and kept so clos, that selden was whan sche desclos goth with hir moder forto pleie. leuchotoe, so as men seie, this maiden hihte, and orchamus hir fader was; and befell thus. this doughter, that was kept so deere, and hadde be fro yer to yeere under hir moder discipline a clene maide and a virgine, upon the whos nativite of comelihiede and of beaute nature hath set al that sche may, that lich unto the fresshe maii, which othre monthes of the yeer surmonteth, so withoute pier was of this maiden the feture. wherof phebus out of mesure hire loveth, and on every syde awaiteth, if so mai betyde, that he thurgh eny sleihte myhte hire lusti maidenhod unrihte, the which were al his worldes welthe. and thus lurkende upon his stelthe in his await so longe he lai, til it befell upon a dai, that he thurghout hir chambre wall cam in al sodeinliche, and stall that thing which was to him so lief. bot wo the while, he was a thief! for venus, which was enemie of thilke loves micherie, discovereth al the pleine cas to clymene, which thanne was toward phebus his concubine. and sche to lette the covine of thilke love, dedli wroth to pleigne upon this maide goth, and tolde hire fader hou it stod; wherof for sorwe welnyh wod unto hire moder thus he saide: "lo, what it is to kepe a maide! to phebus dar i nothing speke, bot upon hire i schal be wreke, so that these maidens after this mow take ensample, what it is to soffre her maidenhed be stole, wherof that sche the deth schal thole." and bad with that do make a pet, wherinne he hath his douhter set, as he that wol no pite have, so that sche was al quik begrave and deide anon in his presence. bot phebus, for the reverence of that sche hadde be his love, hath wroght thurgh his pouer above, that sche sprong up out of the molde into a flour was named golde, which stant governed of the sonne. and thus whan love is evele wonne, fulofte it comth to repentaile. mi fader, that is no mervaile, whan that the conseil is bewreid. bot ofte time love hath pleid and stole many a prive game, which nevere yit cam into blame, whan that the thinges weren hidde. bot in youre tale, as it betidde, venus discoverede al the cas, and ek also brod dai it was, whan phebus such a stelthe wroghte, wherof the maide in blame he broghte, that afterward sche was so lore. bot for ye seiden nou tofore hou stelthe of love goth be nyhte, and doth hise thinges out of syhte, therof me liste also to hiere a tale lich to the matiere, wherof i myhte ensample take. mi goode sone, and for thi sake, so as it fell be daies olde, and so as the poete it tolde, upon the nyhtes micherie nou herkne a tale of poesie. the myhtieste of alle men whan hercules with eolen, which was the love of his corage, togedre upon a pelrinage towardes rome scholden go, it fell hem be the weie so, that thei upon a dai a cave withinne a roche founden have, which was real and glorious and of entaile curious, be name and thophis it was hote. the sonne schon tho wonder hote, as it was in the somer tyde; this hercules, which be his syde hath eolen his love there, whan thei at thilke cave were, he seide it thoghte him for the beste that sche hire for the hete reste al thilke day and thilke nyht; and sche, that was a lusti wyht, it liketh hire al that he seide: and thus thei duelle there and pleide the longe dai. and so befell, this cave was under the hell of tymolus, which was begrowe with vines, and at thilke throwe faunus with saba the goddesse, be whom the large wildernesse in thilke time stod governed, weere in a place, as i am lerned, nyh by, which bachus wode hihte. this faunus tok a gret insihte of eolen, that was so nyh; for whan that he hire beaute syh, out of his wit he was assoted, and in his herte it hath so noted, that he forsok the nimphes alle, and seide he wolde, hou so it falle, assaie an other forto winne; so that his hertes thoght withinne he sette and caste hou that he myhte of love pyke awey be nyhte that he be daie in other wise to stele mihte noght suffise: and therupon his time he waiteth. nou tak good hiede hou love afaiteth him which withal is overcome. faire eolen, whan sche was come with hercules into the cave, sche seide him that sche wolde have hise clothes of and hires bothe, that ech of hem scholde other clothe. and al was do riht as sche bad, he hath hire in hise clothes clad and caste on hire his gulion, which of the skyn of a leoun was mad, as he upon the weie it slouh, and overthis to pleie sche tok his grete mace also and knet it at hir gerdil tho. so was sche lich the man arraied, and hercules thanne hath assaied to clothen him in hire array: and thus thei jape forth the dai, til that her souper redy were. and whan thei hadden souped there, thei schopen hem to gon to reste; and as it thoghte hem for the beste, thei bede, as for that ilke nyht, tuo sondri beddes to be dyht, for thei togedre ligge nolde, be cause that thei offre wolde upon the morwe here sacrifice. the servantz deden here office and sondri beddes made anon, wherin that thei to reste gon ech be himself in sondri place. faire eole hath set the mace beside hire beddes hed above, and with the clothes of hire love sche helede al hire bed aboute; and he, which hadde of nothing doute, hire wympel wond aboute his cheke, hire kertell and hire mantel eke abrod upon his bed he spredde. and thus thei slepen bothe abedde; and what of travail, what of wyn, the servantz lich to drunke swyn begunne forto route faste. this faunus, which his stelthe caste, was thanne come to the cave, and fond thei weren alle save withoute noise, and in he wente. the derke nyht his sihte blente, and yit it happeth him to go where eolen abedde tho was leid al one for to slepe; bot for he wolde take kepe whos bed it was, he made assai, and of the leoun, where it lay, the cote he fond, and ek he fieleth the mace, and thanne his herte kieleth, that there dorste he noght abyde, bot stalketh upon every side and soghte aboute with his hond, that other bedd til that he fond, wher lai bewympled a visage. tho was he glad in his corage, for he hir kertell fond also and ek hir mantell bothe tuo bespred upon the bed alofte. he made him naked thanne, and softe into the bedd unwar he crepte, wher hercules that time slepte, and wende wel it were sche; and thus in stede of eole anon he profreth him to love. but he, which felte a man above, this hercules, him threw to grounde so sore, that thei have him founde liggende there upon the morwe; and tho was noght a litel sorwe, that faunus of himselve made, bot elles thei were alle glade and lowhen him to scorne aboute: saba with nimphis al a route cam doun to loke hou that he ferde, and whan that thei the sothe herde, he was bejaped overal. mi sone, be thou war withal to seche suche mecheries, bot if thou have the betre aspies, in aunter if the so betyde as faunus dede thilke tyde, wherof thou miht be schamed so. min holi fader, certes no. bot if i hadde riht good leve, such mecherie i thenke leve: mi feinte herte wol noght serve; for malgre wolde i noght deserve in thilke place wher i love. bot for ye tolden hier above of covoitise and his pilage, if ther be more of that lignage, which toucheth to mi schrifte, i preie that ye therof me wolde seie, so that i mai the vice eschuie. mi sone, if i be order suie the vices, as thei stonde arowe, of covoitise thou schalt knowe ther is yit on, which is the laste; in whom ther mai no vertu laste, for he with god himself debateth, wherof that al the hevene him hateth. the hihe god, which alle goode pourveied hath for mannes fode of clothes and of mete and drinke, bad adam that he scholde swinke to geten him his sustienance: and ek he sette an ordinance upon the lawe of moi ses, that though a man be haveles, yit schal he noght be thefte stele. bot nou adaies ther ben fele, that wol no labour undertake, bot what thei mai be stelthe take thei holde it sikerliche wonne. and thus the lawe is overronne, which god hath set, and namely with hem that so untrewely the goodes robbe of holi cherche. the thefte which thei thanne werche be name is cleped sacrilegge, ayein the whom i thenke alegge. of his condicion to telle, which rifleth bothe bok and belle, so forth with al the remenant to goddes hous appourtenant, wher that he scholde bidde his bede, he doth his thefte in holi stede, and takth what thing he fint therinne: for whan he seth that he mai winne, he wondeth for no cursednesse, that he ne brekth the holinesse and doth to god no reverence; for he hath lost his conscience, that though the prest therfore curse, he seith he fareth noght the wurse. and forto speke it otherwise, what man that lasseth the franchise and takth of holi cherche his preie, i not what bedes he schal preie. whan he fro god, which hath yive al, the pourpartie in special, which unto crist himself is due, benymth, he mai noght wel eschue the peine comende afterward; for he hath mad his foreward with sacrilegge forto duelle, which hath his heritage in helle. and if we rede of tholde lawe, i finde write, in thilke dawe of princes hou ther weren thre coupable sore in this degre. that on of hem was cleped thus, the proude king antiochus; that other nabuzardan hihte, which of his crualte behyhte the temple to destruie and waste, and so he dede in alle haste; the thridde, which was after schamed, was nabugodonosor named, and he jerusalem putte under, of sacrilegge and many a wonder there in the holi temple he wroghte, which baltazar his heir aboghte, whan mane, techel, phares write was on the wal, as thou miht wite, so as the bible it hath declared. bot for al that it is noght spared yit nou aday, that men ne pile, and maken argument and skile to sacrilegge as it belongeth, for what man that ther after longeth, he takth non hiede what he doth. and riht so, forto telle soth, in loves cause if i schal trete, ther ben of suche smale and grete: if thei no leisir fynden elles, thei wol noght wonden for the belles, ne thogh thei sen the prest at masse; that wol thei leten overpasse. if that thei finde here love there, thei stonde and tellen in hire ere, and axe of god non other grace, whyl thei ben in that holi place; bot er thei gon som avantage ther wol thei have, and som pilage of goodli word or of beheste, or elles thei take ate leste out of hir hand or ring or glove, so nyh the weder thei wol love, as who seith sche schal noght foryete, nou i this tokne of hire have gete: thus halwe thei the hihe feste. such thefte mai no cherche areste, for al is leveful that hem liketh, to whom that elles it misliketh. and ek riht in the selve kinde in grete cites men mai finde this lusti folk, that make it gay, and waite upon the haliday: in cherches and in menstres eke thei gon the wommen forto seke, and wher that such on goth aboute, tofore the faireste of the route, wher as thei sitten alle arewe, ther wol he most his bodi schewe, his croket kembd and theron set a nouche with a chapelet, or elles on of grene leves, which late com out of the greves, al for he scholde seme freissh. and thus he loketh on the fleissh, riht as an hauk which hath a sihte upon the foul, ther he schal lihte; and as he were of faierie, he scheweth him tofore here yhe in holi place wher thei sitte, al forto make here hertes flitte. his yhe nawher wole abyde, bot loke and prie on every syde on hire and hire, as him best lyketh: and otherwhile among he syketh; thenkth on of hem, "that was for me," and so ther thenken tuo or thre, and yit he loveth non of alle, bot wher as evere his chance falle. and natheles to seie a soth, the cause why that he so doth is forto stele an herte or tuo, out of the cherche er that he go: and as i seide it hier above, al is that sacrilege of love; for wel mai be he stelth away that he nevere after yelde may. tell me forthi, my sone, anon, hast thou do sacrilege, or non, as i have said in this manere? mi fader, as of this matiere i wole you tellen redely what i have do; bot trewely i mai excuse min entente, that nevere i yit to cherche wente in such manere as ye me schryve, for no womman that is on lyve. the cause why i have it laft mai be for i unto that craft am nothing able so to stele, thogh ther be wommen noght so fele. bot yit wol i noght seie this, whan i am ther mi ladi is, in whom lith holly mi querele, and sche to cherche or to chapele wol go to matins or to messe,- that time i waite wel and gesse, to cherche i come and there i stonde, and thogh i take a bok on honde, mi contienance is on the bok, bot toward hire is al my lok; and if so falle that i preie unto mi god, and somwhat seie of paternoster or of crede, al is for that i wolde spede, so that mi bede in holi cherche ther mihte som miracle werche mi ladi herte forto chaunge, which evere hath be to me so strange. so that al mi devocion and al mi contemplacion with al min herte and mi corage is only set on hire ymage; and evere i waite upon the tyde. if sche loke eny thing asyde, that i me mai of hire avise, anon i am with covoitise so smite, that me were lief to ben in holi cherche a thief; bot noght to stele a vestement, for that is nothing mi talent, bot i wold stele, if that i mihte, a glad word or a goodly syhte; and evere mi service i profre, and namly whan sche wol gon offre, for thanne i lede hire, if i may, for somwhat wolde i stele away. whan i beclippe hire on the wast, yit ate leste i stele a tast, and otherwhile "grant mercy" sche seith, and so winne i therby a lusti touch, a good word eke, bot al the remenant to seke is fro mi pourpos wonder ferr. so mai i seie, as i seide er, in holy cherche if that i wowe, my conscience it wolde allowe, be so that up amendement i mihte gete assignement wher forto spede in other place: such sacrilege i holde a grace. and thus, mi fader, soth to seie, in cherche riht as in the weie, if i mihte oght of love take, such hansell have i noght forsake. bot finali i me confesse, ther is in me non holinesse, whil i hire se in eny stede; and yit, for oght that evere i dede, no sacrilege of hire i tok, bot if it were of word or lok, or elles if that i hir fredde, whan i toward offringe hir ledde, take therof what i take may, for elles bere i noght away: for thogh i wolde oght elles have, alle othre thinges ben so save and kept with such a privilege, that i mai do no sacrilege. god wot mi wille natheles, thogh i mot nedes kepe pes and malgre myn so let it passe, mi will therto is noght the lasse, if i mihte other wise aweie. forthi, mi fader, i you preie, tell what you thenketh therupon, if i therof have gult or non. thi will, mi sone, is forto blame, the remenant is bot a game, that i have herd the telle as yit. bot tak this lore into thi wit, that alle thing hath time and stede, the cherche serveth for the bede, the chambre is of an other speche. bot if thou wistest of the wreche, hou sacrilege it hath aboght, thou woldest betre ben bethoght; and for thou schalt the more amende, a tale i wole on the despende. to alle men, as who seith, knowe it is, and in the world thurgh blowe, hou that of troie lamedon to hercules and to jasoun, whan toward colchos out of grece be see sailende upon a piece of lond of troie reste preide,- bot he hem wrathfulli congeide: and for thei founde him so vilein, whan thei come into grece ayein, with pouer that thei gete myhte towardes troie thei hem dyhte, and ther thei token such vengance, wherof stant yit the remembrance; for thei destruide king and al, and leften bot the brente wal. the grecs of troiens many slowe and prisoners thei toke ynowe, among the whiche ther was on, the kinges doughter lamedon, esiona, that faire thing, which unto thelamon the king be hercules and be thassent of al the hole parlement was at his wille yove and granted. and thus hath grece troie danted, and hom thei torne in such manere: bot after this nou schalt thou hiere the cause why this tale i telle, upon the chances that befelle. king lamedon, which deide thus, he hadde a sone, on priamus, which was noght thilke time at hom: bot whan he herde of this, he com, and fond hou the cite was falle, which he began anon to walle and made ther a cite newe, that thei whiche othre londes knewe tho seiden, that of lym and ston in al the world so fair was non. and on that o side of the toun the king let maken ylioun, that hihe tour, that stronge place, which was adrad of no manace of quarel nor of non engin; and thogh men wolde make a myn, no mannes craft it mihte aproche, for it was sett upon a roche. the walles of the toun aboute, hem stod of al the world no doute, and after the proporcion sex gates weren of the toun of such a forme, of such entaile, that hem to se was gret mervaile: the diches weren brode and depe, a fewe men it mihte kepe from al the world, as semeth tho, bot if the goddes weren fo. gret presse unto that cite drouh, so that ther was of poeple ynouh, of burgeis that therinne duellen; ther mai no mannes tunge tellen hou that cite was riche of good. whan al was mad and al wel stod, king priamus tho him bethoghte what thei of grece whilom wroghte, and what was of her swerd devoured, and hou his soster deshonoured with thelamon awey was lad: and so thenkende he wax unglad, and sette anon a parlement, to which the lordes were assent. in many a wise ther was spoke, hou that thei mihten ben awroke, bot ate laste natheles thei seiden alle, "acord and pes." to setten either part in reste it thoghte hem thanne for the beste with resonable amendement; and thus was anthenor forth sent to axe esionam ayein and witen what thei wolden sein. so passeth he the see be barge to grece forto seie his charge, the which he seide redely unto the lordes by and by: bot where he spak in grece aboute, he herde noght bot wordes stoute, and nameliche of thelamon; the maiden wolde he noght forgon, he seide, for no maner thing, and bad him gon hom to his king, for there gat he non amende for oght he couthe do or sende. this anthenor ayein goth hom unto his king, and whan he com, he tolde in grece of that he herde, and hou that thelamon ansuerde, and hou thei were at here above, that thei wol nouther pes ne love, bot every man schal don his beste. bot for men sein that nyht hath reste, the king bethoghte him al that nyht, and erli, whan the dai was lyht, he tok conseil of this matiere; and thei acorde in this manere, that he withouten eny lette a certein time scholde sette of parlement to ben avised: and in the wise it was devised, of parlement he sette a day, and that was in the monthe of maii. this priamus hadde in his yhte a wif, and hecuba sche hyhte, be whom that time ek hadde he of sones fyve, and douhtres thre besiden hem, and thritty mo, and weren knyhtes alle tho, bot noght upon his wif begete, bot elles where he myhte hem gete of wommen whiche he hadde knowe; such was the world at thilke throwe: so that he was of children riche, as therof was noman his liche. of parlement the dai was come, ther ben the lordes alle and some; tho was pronounced and pourposed, and al the cause hem was desclosed, hou anthenor in grece ferde. thei seten alle stille and herde, and tho spak every man aboute: ther was alegged many a doute, and many a proud word spoke also; bot for the moste part as tho thei wisten noght what was the beste, or forto werre or forto reste. bot he that was withoute fere, hector, among the lordes there his tale tolde in such a wise, and seide, "lordes, ye ben wise, ye knowen this als wel as i, above all othre most worthi stant nou in grece the manhode of worthinesse and of knihthode; for who so wole it wel agrope, to hem belongeth al europe, which is the thridde parti evene of al the world under the hevene; and we be bot of folk a fewe. so were it reson forto schewe the peril, er we falle thrinne: betre is to leve, than beginne thing which as mai noght ben achieved; he is noght wys that fint him grieved, and doth so that his grief be more; for who that loketh al tofore and wol noght se what is behinde, he mai fulofte hise harmes finde: wicke is to stryve and have the worse. we have encheson forto corse, this wot i wel, and forto hate the greks; bot er that we debate with hem that ben of such a myht, it is ful good that every wiht be of himself riht wel bethoght. bot as for me this seie i noght; for while that mi lif wol stonde, if that ye taken werre on honde, falle it to beste or to the werste, i schal miselven be the ferste to grieven hem, what evere i may. i wol noght ones seie nay to thing which that youre conseil demeth, for unto me wel more it quemeth the werre certes than the pes; bot this i seie natheles, as me belongeth forto seie. nou schape ye the beste weie." whan hector hath seid his avis, next after him tho spak paris, which was his brother, and alleide what him best thoghte, and thus he seide: "strong thing it is to soffre wrong, and suffre schame is more strong, bot we have suffred bothe tuo; and for al that yit have we do what so we mihte to reforme the pes, whan we in such a forme sente anthenor, as ye wel knowe. and thei here grete wordes blowe upon her wrongful dedes eke; and who that wole himself noght meke to pes, and list no reson take, men sein reson him wol forsake: for in the multitude of men is noght the strengthe, for with ten it hath be sen in trew querele ayein an hundred false dele, and had the betre of goddes grace. this hath befalle in many place; and if it like unto you alle, i wolde assaie, hou so it falle, oure enemis if i mai grieve; for i have cawht a gret believe upon a point i wol declare. this ender day, as i gan fare to hunte unto the grete hert, which was tofore myn houndes stert, and every man went on his syde him to poursuie, and i to ryde began the chace, and soth to seie, withinne a while out of mi weie i rod, and nyste where i was. and slep me cauhte, and on the gras beside a welle i lay me doun to slepe, and in a visioun to me the god mercurie cam; goddesses thre with him he nam, minerve, venus and juno, and in his hond an appel tho he hield of gold with lettres write: and this he dede me to wite, hou that thei putt hem upon me, that to the faireste of hem thre of gold that appel scholde i yive. with ech of hem tho was i schrive, and echon faire me behihte; bot venus seide, if that sche mihte that appel of mi yifte gete, sche wolde it neveremor foryete, and seide hou that in grece lond sche wolde bringe unto myn hond of al this erthe the faireste; so that me thoghte it for the beste, to hire and yaf that appel tho. thus hope i wel, if that i go, that sche for me wol so ordeine, that thei matiere forto pleigne schul have, er that i come ayein. nou have ye herd that i wol sein: sey ye what stant in youre avis." and every man tho seide his, and sundri causes thei recorde, bot ate laste thei acorde that paris schal to grece wende, and thus the parlement tok ende. cassandra, whan sche herde of this, the which to paris soster is, anon sche gan to wepe and weile, and seide, "allas, what mai ous eile? fortune with hire blinde whiel ne wol noght lete ous stonde wel: for this i dar wel undertake, that if paris his weie take, as it is seid that he schal do, we ben for evere thanne undo." this, which cassandre thanne hihte, in al the world as it berth sihte, in bokes as men finde write, is that sibille of whom ye wite, that alle men yit clepen sage. whan that sche wiste of this viage, hou paris schal to grece fare, no womman mihte worse fare ne sorwe more than sche dede; and riht so in the same stede ferde helenus, which was hir brother, of prophecie and such an other: and al was holde bot a jape, so that the pourpos which was schape, or were hem lief or were hem loth, was holde, and into grece goth this paris with his retenance. and as it fell upon his chance, of grece he londeth in an yle, and him was told the same whyle of folk which he began to freyne, tho was in thyle queene heleyne, and ek of contres there aboute of ladis many a lusti route, with mochel worthi poeple also. and why thei comen theder tho, the cause stod in such a wise,- for worschipe and for sacrifise that thei to venus wolden make, as thei tofore hadde undertake, some of good will, some of beheste, for thanne was hire hihe feste withinne a temple which was there. whan paris wiste what thei were, anon he schop his ordinance to gon and don his obeissance to venus on hire holi day, and dede upon his beste aray. with gret richesse he him behongeth, as it to such a lord belongeth, he was noght armed natheles, bot as it were in lond of pes, and thus he goth forth out of schipe and takth with him his felaschipe: in such manere as i you seie unto the temple he hield his weie. tydinge, which goth overal to grete and smale, forth withal com to the queenes ere and tolde hou paris com, and that he wolde do sacrifise to venus: and whan sche herde telle thus, sche thoghte, hou that it evere be, that sche wole him abyde and se. forth comth paris with glad visage into the temple on pelrinage, wher unto venus the goddesse he yifth and offreth gret richesse, and preith hir that he preie wolde. and thanne aside he gan beholde, and sih wher that this ladi stod; and he forth in his freisshe mod goth ther sche was and made her chiere, as he wel couthe in his manere, that of his wordes such plesance sche tok, that al hire aqueintance, als ferforth as the herte lay, he stal er that he wente away. so goth he forth and tok his leve, and thoghte, anon as it was eve, he wolde don his sacrilegge, that many a man it scholde abegge. whan he to schipe ayein was come, to him he hath his conseil nome, and al devised the matiere in such a wise as thou schalt hiere. withinne nyht al prively his men he warneth by and by, that thei be redy armed sone for certein thing which was to done: and thei anon ben redi alle, and ech on other gan to calle, and went hem out upon the stronde and tok a pourpos ther alonde of what thing that thei wolden do, toward the temple and forth thei go. so fell it, of devocion heleine in contemplacion with many an other worthi wiht was in the temple and wok al nyht, to bidde and preie unto thymage of venus, as was thanne usage; so that paris riht as him liste into the temple, er thei it wiste, com with his men al sodeinly, and alle at ones sette ascry in hem whiche in the temple were, for tho was mochel poeple there; bot of defense was no bote, so soffren thei that soffre mote. paris unto the queene wente, and hire in bothe hise armes hente with him and with his felaschipe, and forth thei bere hire unto schipe. up goth the seil and forth thei wente, and such a wynd fortune hem sente, til thei the havene of troie cauhte; where out of schipe anon thei strauhte and gon hem forth toward the toun, the which cam with processioun ayein paris to sen his preie. and every man began to seie to paris and his felaschipe al that thei couthen of worschipe; was non so litel man in troie, that he ne made merthe and joie of that paris hath wonne heleine. bot al that merthe is sorwe and peine to helenus and to cassaundre; for thei it token schame and sklaundre and lost of al the comun grace, that paris out of holi place be stelthe hath take a mannes wif, wherof that he schal lese his lif and many a worthi man therto, and al the cite be fordo, which nevere schal be mad ayein. and so it fell, riht as thei sein, the sacrilege which he wroghte was cause why the gregois soughte unto the toun and it beleie, and wolden nevere parte aweie, til what be sleihte and what be strengthe thei hadde it wonne in brede and lengthe, and brent and slayn that was withinne. now se, mi sone, which a sinne is sacrilege in holy stede: be war therfore and bidd thi bede, and do nothing in holy cherche, bot that thou miht be reson werche. and ek tak hiede of achilles, whan he unto his love ches polixena, that was also in holi temple of appollo, which was the cause why he dyde and al his lust was leyd asyde. and troilus upon criseide also his ferste love leide in holi place, and hou it ferde, as who seith, al the world it herde; forsake he was for diomede, such was of love his laste mede. forthi, mi sone, i wolde rede, be this ensample as thou myht rede, sech elles, wher thou wolt, thi grace, and war the wel in holi place what thou to love do or speke, in aunter if it so be wreke as thou hast herd me told before. and tak good hiede also therfore upon what forme, of avarice mor than of eny other vice, i have divided in parties the branches, whiche of compainies thurghout the world in general ben nou the leders overal, of covoitise and of perjure, of fals brocage and of usure, of skarsnesse and unkindeschipe, which nevere drouh to felaschipe, of robberie and privi stelthe, which don is for the worldes welthe, of ravine and of sacrilegge, which makth the conscience agregge; althogh it mai richesse atteigne, it floureth, bot it schal noght greine unto the fruit of rihtwisnesse. bot who that wolde do largesse upon the reule as it is yive, so myhte a man in trouthe live toward his god, and ek also toward the world, for bothe tuo largesse awaiteth as belongeth, to neither part that he ne wrongeth; he kepth himself, he kepth his frendes, so stant he sauf to bothe hise endes, that he excedeth no mesure, so wel he can himself mesure: wherof, mi sone, thou schalt wite, so as the philosophre hath write. betwen the tuo extremites of vice stant the propretes of vertu, and to prove it so tak avarice and tak also the vice of prodegalite; betwen hem liberalite, which is the vertu of largesse, stant and governeth his noblesse. for tho tuo vices in discord stonde evere, as i finde of record; so that betwen here tuo debat largesse reuleth his astat. for in such wise as avarice, as i tofore have told the vice, thurgh streit holdinge and thurgh skarsnesse stant in contraire to largesse, riht so stant prodegalite revers, bot noght in such degre. for so as avarice spareth, and forto kepe his tresor careth, that other al his oghne and more ayein the wise mannes lore yifth and despendeth hiere and there, so that him reccheth nevere where. while he mai borwe, he wol despende, til ate laste he seith, "i wende"; bot that is spoken al to late, for thanne is poverte ate gate and takth him evene be the slieve, for erst wol he no wisdom lieve. and riht as avarice is sinne, that wolde his tresor kepe and winne, riht so is prodegalite: bot of largesse in his degre, which evene stant betwen the tuo, the hihe god and man also the vertu ech of hem commendeth. for he himselven ferst amendeth, that overal his name spredeth, and to alle othre, where it nedeth, he yifth his good in such a wise, that he makth many a man arise, which elles scholde falle lowe. largesce mai noght ben unknowe; for what lond that he regneth inne, it mai noght faile forto winne thurgh his decerte love and grace, wher it schal faile in other place. and thus betwen tomoche and lyte largesce, which is noght to wyte, halt evere forth the middel weie: bot who that torne wole aweie fro that to prodegalite, anon he lest the proprete of vertu and goth to the vice; for in such wise as avarice lest for scarsnesse his goode name, riht so that other is to blame, which thurgh his wast mesure excedeth, for noman wot what harm that bredeth. bot mochel joie ther betydeth, wher that largesse an herte guydeth: for his mesure is so governed, that he to bothe partz is lerned, to god and to the world also, he doth reson to bothe tuo. the povere folk of his almesse relieved ben in the destresse of thurst, of hunger and of cold; the yifte of him was nevere sold, bot frely yive, and natheles the myhti god of his encress rewardeth him of double grace; the hevene he doth him to pourchace and yifth him ek the worldes good: and thus the cote for the hod largesse takth, and yit no sinne he doth, hou so that evere he winne. what man hath hors men yive him hors, and who non hath of him no fors, for he mai thanne on fote go; the world hath evere stonde so. bot forto loken of the tweie, a man to go the siker weie, betre is to yive than to take: with yifte a man mai frendes make, bot who that takth or gret or smal, he takth a charge forth withal, and stant noght fre til it be quit. so forto deme in mannes wit, it helpeth more a man to have his oghne good, than forto crave of othre men and make him bounde, wher elles he mai stonde unbounde. senec conseileth in this wise, and seith, "bot, if thi good suffise unto the liking of thi wille, withdrawh thi lust and hold the stille, and be to thi good sufficant." for that thing is appourtenant to trouthe and causeth to be fre after the reule of charite, which ferst beginneth of himselve. for if thou richest othre tuelve, wherof thou schalt thiself be povere, i not what thonk thou miht recovere. whil that a man hath good to yive, with grete routes he mai live and hath his frendes overal, and everich of him telle schal. therwhile he hath his fulle packe, thei seie, "a good felawe is jacke"; bot whanne it faileth ate laste, anon his pris thei overcaste, for thanne is ther non other lawe bot, "jacke was a good felawe." whan thei him povere and nedy se, thei lete him passe and farwel he; al that he wende of compainie is thanne torned to folie. bot nou to speke in other kinde of love, a man mai suche finde, that wher thei come in every route thei caste and waste her love aboute, til al here time is overgon, and thanne have thei love non: for who that loveth overal, it is no reson that he schal of love have eny proprete. forthi, mi sone, avise thee if thou of love hast be to large, for such a man is noght to charge: and if it so be that thou hast despended al thi time in wast and set thi love in sondri place, though thou the substance of thi grace lese ate laste, it is no wonder; for he that put himselven under, as who seith, comun overal, he lest the love special of eny on, if sche be wys; for love schal noght bere his pris be reson, whanne it passeth on. so have i sen ful many on, that were of love wel at ese, whiche after felle in gret desese thurgh wast of love, that thei spente in sondri places wher thei wente. riht so, mi sone, i axe of thee if thou with prodegalite hast hier and ther thi love wasted. mi fader, nay; bot i have tasted in many a place as i have go, and yit love i nevere on of tho, bot forto drive forth the dai. for lieveth wel, myn herte is ay withoute mo for everemore al upon on, for i nomore desire bot hire love al one: so make i many a prive mone, for wel i fiele i have despended mi longe love and noght amended mi sped, for oght i finde yit. if this be wast to youre wit of love, and prodegalite, nou, goode fader, demeth ye: bot of o thing i wol me schryve, that i schal for no love thryve, bot if hirself me wol relieve. mi sone, that i mai wel lieve: and natheles me semeth so, for oght that thou hast yit misdo of time which thou hast despended, it mai with grace ben amended. for thing which mai be worth the cost per chaunce is nouther wast ne lost; for what thing stant on aventure, that can no worldes creature telle in certein hou it schal wende, til he therof mai sen an ende. so that i not as yit therfore if thou, mi sone, hast wonne or lore: for ofte time, as it is sene, whan somer hath lost al his grene and is with wynter wast and bare, that him is left nothing to spare, al is recovered in a throwe; the colde wyndes overblowe, and still be the scharpe schoures, and soudeinliche ayein his floures the somer hapneth and is riche: and so per cas thi graces liche, mi sone, thogh thou be nou povere of love, yit thou miht recovere. mi fader, certes grant merci: ye have me tawht so redeli, that evere whil i live schal the betre i mai be war withal of thing which ye have seid er this. bot overmore hou that it is, toward mi schrifte as it belongeth, to wite of othre pointz me longeth; wherof that ye me wolden teche with al myn herte i you beseche. explicit liber quintus. incipit liber sextus est gula, que nostrum maculavit prima parentem ex vetito pomo, quo dolet omnis homo hec agit, ut corpus anime contraria spirat, quo caro fit crassa, spiritus atque macer. intus et exterius si que virtutis habentur, potibus ebrietas conviciata ruit. mersa sopore labis, que bachus inebriat hospes, indignata venus oscula raro premit. the grete senne original, which every man in general upon his berthe hath envenymed, in paradis it was mystymed: whan adam of thilke appel bot, his swete morscel was to hot, which dedly made the mankinde. and in the bokes as i finde, this vice, which so out of rule hath sette ous alle, is cleped gule; of which the branches ben so grete, that of hem alle i wol noght trete, bot only as touchende of tuo i thenke speke and of no mo; wherof the ferste is dronkeschipe, which berth the cuppe felaschipe. ful many a wonder doth this vice, he can make of a wisman nyce, and of a fool, that him schal seme that he can al the lawe deme, and yiven every juggement which longeth to the firmament bothe of the sterre and of the mone; and thus he makth a gret clerk sone of him that is a lewed man. ther is nothing which he ne can, whil he hath dronkeschipe on honde, he knowth the see, he knowth the stronde, he is a noble man of armes, and yit no strengthe is in his armes: ther he was strong ynouh tofore, with dronkeschipe it is forlore, and al is changed his astat, and wext anon so fieble and mat, that he mai nouther go ne come, bot al togedre him is benome the pouer bothe of hond and fot, so that algate abide he mot. and alle hise wittes he foryet, the which is to him such a let, that he wot nevere what he doth, ne which is fals, ne which is soth, ne which is dai, ne which is nyht, and for the time he knowth no wyht, that he ne wot so moche as this, what maner thing himselven is, or he be man, or he be beste. that holde i riht a sori feste, whan he that reson understod so soudeinliche is woxe wod, or elles lich the dede man, which nouther go ne speke can. thus ofte he is to bedde broght, bot where he lith yit wot he noght, til he arise upon the morwe; and thanne he seith, "o, which a sorwe it is a man be drinkeles!" so that halfdrunke in such a res with dreie mouth he sterte him uppe, and seith, "nou baillez �a the cuppe." that made him lese his wit at eve is thanne a morwe al his beleve; the cuppe is al that evere him pleseth, and also that him most deseseth; it is the cuppe whom he serveth, which alle cares fro him kerveth and alle bales to him bringeth: in joie he wepth, in sorwe he singeth, for dronkeschipe is so divers, it may no whyle stonde in vers. he drinkth the wyn, bot ate laste the wyn drynkth him and bint him faste, and leith him drunke be the wal, as him which is his bonde thral and al in his subjeccion. and lich to such condicion, as forto speke it other wise, it falleth that the moste wise ben otherwhile of love adoted, and so bewhaped and assoted, of drunke men that nevere yit was non, which half so loste his wit of drinke, as thei of such thing do which cleped is the jolif wo; and waxen of here oghne thoght so drunke, that thei knowe noght what reson is, or more or lesse. such is the kinde of that sieknesse, and that is noght for lacke of brain, bot love is of so gret a main, that where he takth an herte on honde, ther mai nothing his miht withstonde: the wise salomon was nome, and stronge sampson overcome, the knihtli david him ne mihte rescoue, that he with the sihte of bersabee ne was bestad, virgile also was overlad, and aristotle was put under. forthi, mi sone, it is no wonder if thou be drunke of love among, which is above alle othre strong: and if so is that thou so be, tell me thi schrifte in privite; it is no schame of such a thew a yong man to be dronkelew. of such phisique i can a part, and as me semeth be that art, thou scholdest be phisonomie be schapen to that maladie of lovedrunke, and that is routhe. ha, holi fader, al is trouthe that ye me telle: i am beknowe that i with love am so bethrowe, and al myn herte is so thurgh sunke, that i am verrailiche drunke, and yit i mai bothe speke and go. bot i am overcome so, and torned fro miself so clene, that ofte i wot noght what i mene; so that excusen i ne mai min herte, fro the ferste day that i cam to mi ladi kiththe, i was yit sobre nevere siththe. wher i hire se or se hire noght, with musinge of min oghne thoght, of love, which min herte assaileth, so drunke i am, that mi wit faileth and al mi brain is overtorned, and mi manere so mistorned, that i foryete al that i can and stonde lich a mased man; that ofte, whanne i scholde pleie, it makth me drawe out of the weie in soulein place be miselve, as doth a labourer to delve, which can no gentil mannes chere; or elles as a lewed frere, whan he is put to his penance, riht so lese i mi contienance. and if it nedes to betyde, that i in compainie abyde, wher as i moste daunce and singe the hovedance and carolinge, or forto go the newefot, i mai noght wel heve up mi fot, if that sche be noght in the weie; for thanne is al mi merthe aweie, and waxe anon of thoght so full, wherof mi limes ben so dull, i mai unethes gon the pas. for thus it is and evere was, whanne i on suche thoghtes muse, the lust and merthe that men use, whan i se noght mi ladi byme, al is foryete for the time so ferforth that mi wittes changen and alle lustes fro me strangen, that thei seie alle trewely, and swere, that it am noght i. for as the man which ofte drinketh, with win that in his stomac sinketh wext drunke and witles for a throwe, riht so mi lust is overthrowe, and of myn oghne thoght so mat i wexe, that to myn astat ther is no lime wol me serve, bot as a drunke man i swerve, and suffre such a passion, that men have gret compassion, and everich be himself merveilleth what thing it is that me so eilleth. such is the manere of mi wo which time that i am hire fro, til eft ayein that i hire se. bot thanne it were a nycete to telle you hou that i fare: for whanne i mai upon hire stare, hire wommanhede, hire gentilesse, myn herte is full of such gladnesse, that overpasseth so mi wit, that i wot nevere where it sit, bot am so drunken of that sihte, me thenkth that for the time i mihte riht sterte thurgh the hole wall; and thanne i mai wel, if i schal, bothe singe and daunce and lepe aboute, and holde forth the lusti route. bot natheles it falleth so fulofte, that i fro hire go ne mai, bot as it were a stake, i stonde avisement to take and loke upon hire faire face; that for the while out of the place for al the world ne myhte i wende. such lust comth thanne unto mi mende, so that withoute mete or drinke, of lusti thoughtes whiche i thinke me thenkth i mihte stonden evere; and so it were to me levere than such a sihte forto leve, if that sche wolde yif me leve to have so mochel of mi wille. and thus thenkende i stonde stille withoute blenchinge of myn yhe, riht as me thoghte that i syhe of paradis the moste joie: and so therwhile i me rejoie, into myn herte a gret desir, the which is hotere than the fyr, al soudeinliche upon me renneth, that al mi thoght withinne brenneth, and am so ferforth overcome, that i not where i am become; so that among the hetes stronge in stede of drinke i underfonge a thoght so swete in mi corage, that nevere pyment ne vernage was half so swete forto drinke. for as i wolde, thanne i thinke as thogh i were at myn above, for so thurgh drunke i am of love, that al that mi sotye demeth is soth, as thanne it to me semeth. and whyle i mai tho thoghtes kepe, me thenkth as thogh i were aslepe and that i were in goddes barm; bot whanne i se myn oghne harm, and that i soudeinliche awake out of my thought, and hiede take hou that the sothe stant in dede, thanne is mi sekernesse in drede and joie torned into wo, so that the hete is al ago of such sotie as i was inne. and thanne ayeinward i beginne to take of love a newe thorst, the which me grieveth altherworst, for thanne comth the blanche fievere, with chele and makth me so to chievere, and so it coldeth at myn herte, that wonder is hou i asterte, in such a point that i ne deie: for certes ther was nevere keie ne frosen ys upon the wal more inly cold that i am al. and thus soffre i the hote chele, which passeth othre peines fele; in cold i brenne and frese in hete: and thanne i drinke a biter swete with dreie lippe and yhen wete. lo, thus i tempre mi diete, and take a drauhte of such reles, that al mi wit is herteles, and al myn herte, ther it sit, is, as who seith, withoute wit; so that to prove it be reson in makinge of comparison ther mai no difference be betwen a drunke man and me. bot al the worste of everychon is evere that i thurste in on; the more that myn herte drinketh, the more i may; so that me thinketh, my thurst schal nevere ben aqueint. god schilde that i be noght dreint of such a superfluite: for wel i fiele in mi degre that al mi wit is overcast, wherof i am the more agast, that in defaulte of ladischipe per chance in such a drunkeschipe i mai be ded er i be war. for certes, fader, this i dar beknowe and in mi schrifte telle: bot i a drauhte have of that welle, in which mi deth is and mi lif, mi joie is torned into strif, that sobre schal i nevere worthe, bot as a drunke man forworthe; so that in londe where i fare the lust is lore of mi welfare, as he that mai no bote finde. bot this me thenkth a wonder kinde, as i am drunke of that i drinke, so am i ek for falte of drinke; of which i finde no reles: bot if i myhte natheles of such a drinke as i coveite, so as me liste, have o receite, i scholde assobre and fare wel. bot so fortune upon hire whiel on hih me deigneth noght to sette, for everemore i finde a lette: the boteler is noght mi frend, which hath the keie be the bend; i mai wel wisshe and that is wast, for wel i wot, so freissh a tast, bot if mi grace be the more, i schal assaie neveremore. thus am i drunke of that i se, for tastinge is defended me, and i can noght miselven stanche: so that, mi fader, of this branche i am gultif, to telle trouthe. mi sone, that me thenketh routhe; for lovedrunke is the meschief above alle othre the most chief, if he no lusti thoght assaie, which mai his sori thurst allaie: as for the time yit it lisseth to him which other joie misseth. forthi, mi sone, aboven alle thenk wel, hou so it the befalle, and kep thi wittes that thou hast, and let hem noght be drunke in wast: bot natheles ther is no wyht that mai withstonde loves miht. bot why the cause is, as i finde, of that ther is diverse kinde of lovedrunke, why men pleigneth after the court which al ordeigneth, i wol the tellen the manere; nou lest, mi sone, and thou schalt hiere. for the fortune of every chance after the goddes pourveance to man it groweth from above, so that the sped of every love is schape there, er it befalle. for jupiter aboven alle, which is of goddes soverein, hath in his celier, as men sein, tuo tonnes fulle of love drinke, that maken many an herte sinke and many an herte also to flete, or of the soure or of the swete. that on is full of such piment, which passeth all entendement of mannes witt, if he it taste, and makth a jolif herte in haste: that other biter as the galle, which makth a mannes herte palle, whos drunkeschipe is a sieknesse thurgh fielinge of the biternesse. cupide is boteler of bothe, which to the lieve and to the lothe yifth of the swete and of the soure, that some lawhe, and some loure. bot for so moche as he blind is, fulofte time he goth amis and takth the badde for the goode, which hindreth many a mannes fode withoute cause, and forthreth eke. so be ther some of love seke, whiche oghte of reson to ben hole, and some comen to the dole in happ and as hemselve leste drinke undeserved of the beste. and thus this blinde boteler yifth of the trouble in stede of cler and ek the cler in stede of trouble: lo, hou he can the hertes trouble, and makth men drunke al upon chaunce withoute lawe of governance. if he drawe of the swete tonne, thanne is the sorwe al overronne of lovedrunke, and schalt noght greven so to be drunken every even, for al is thanne bot a game. bot whanne it is noght of the same, and he the biter tonne draweth, such drunkeschipe an herte gnaweth and fiebleth al a mannes thoght, that betre him were have drunke noght and al his bred have eten dreie; for thanne he lest his lusti weie with drunkeschipe, and wot noght whider to go, the weies ben so slider, in which he mai per cas so falle, that he schal breke his wittes alle. and in this wise men be drunke after the drink that thei have drunke: bot alle drinken noght alike, for som schal singe and som schal syke, so that it me nothing merveilleth, mi sone, of love that thee eilleth; for wel i knowe be thi tale, that thou hast drunken of the duale, which biter is, til god the sende such grace that thou miht amende. bot, sone, thou schalt bidde and preie in such a wise as i schal seie, that thou the lusti welle atteigne thi wofull thurstes to restreigne of love, and taste the swetnesse; as bachus dede in his distresse, whan bodiliche thurst him hente in strange londes where he wente. this bachus sone of jupiter was hote, and as he wente fer be his fadres assignement to make a werre in orient, and gret pouer with him he ladde, so that the heiere hond he hadde and victoire of his enemys, and torneth homward with his pris, in such a contre which was dreie a meschief fell upon the weie. as he rod with his compainie nyh to the strondes of lubie, ther myhte thei no drinke finde of water nor of other kinde, so that himself and al his host were of defalte of drinke almost destruid, and thanne bachus preide to jupiter, and thus he seide: "o hihe fader, that sest al, to whom is reson that i schal beseche and preie in every nede, behold, mi fader, and tak hiede this wofull thurst that we ben inne to staunche, and grante ous forto winne, and sauf unto the contre fare, wher that oure lusti loves are waitende upon oure hom cominge." and with the vois of his preiynge, which herd was to the goddes hihe, he syh anon tofore his yhe a wether, which the ground hath sporned; and wher he hath it overtorned, ther sprang a welle freissh and cler, wherof his oghne boteler after the lustes of his wille was every man to drinke his fille. and for this ilke grete grace bachus upon the same place a riche temple let arere, which evere scholde stonde there to thursti men in remembrance. forthi, mi sone, after this chance it sit thee wel to taken hiede so forto preie upon thi nede, as bachus preide for the welle; and thenk, as thou hast herd me telle, hou grace he gradde and grace he hadde. he was no fol that ferst so radde, for selden get a domb man lond: tak that proverbe, and understond that wordes ben of vertu grete. forthi to speke thou ne lete, and axe and prei erli and late thi thurst to quenche, and thenk algate, the boteler which berth the keie is blind, as thou hast herd me seie; and if it mihte so betyde, that he upon the blinde side per cas the swete tonne arauhte, than schalt thou have a lusti drauhte and waxe of lovedrunke sobre. and thus i rede thou assobre thin herte in hope of such a grace; for drunkeschipe in every place, to whether side that it torne, doth harm and makth a man to sporne and ofte falle in such a wise, wher he per cas mai noght arise. and forto loke in evidence upon the sothe experience, so as it hath befalle er this, in every mannes mouth it is hou tristram was of love drunke with bele ysolde, whan thei drunke the drink which brangwein hem betok, er that king marc his eem hire tok to wyve, as it was after knowe. and ek, mi sone, if thou wolt knowe, as it hath fallen overmore in loves cause, and what is more of drunkeschipe forto drede, as it whilom befell in dede, wherof thou miht the betre eschuie of drunke men that thou ne suie the compaignie in no manere, a gret ensample thou schalt hiere. this finde i write in poesie of thilke faire ipotacie, of whos beaute ther as sche was spak every man, - and fell per cas, that piroto�s so him spedde, that he to wyve hire scholde wedde, wherof that he gret joie made. and for he wolde his love glade, ayein the day of mariage be mouthe bothe and be message hise frendes to the feste he preide, with gret worschipe and, as men seide, he hath this yonge ladi spoused. and whan that thei were alle housed, and set and served ate mete, ther was no wyn which mai be gete, that ther ne was plente ynouh: bot bachus thilke tonne drouh, wherof be weie of drunkeschipe the greteste of the felaschipe were oute of reson overtake; and venus, which hath also take the cause most in special, hath yove hem drinke forth withal of thilke cuppe which exciteth the lust wherinne a man deliteth: and thus be double weie drunke, of lust that ilke fyri funke hath mad hem, as who seith, halfwode, that thei no reson understode, ne to non other thing thei syhen, bot hire, which tofore here yhen was wedded thilke same day, that freisshe wif, that lusti may, on hire it was al that thei thoghten. and so ferforth here lustes soghten, that thei the whiche named were centauri, ate feste there of on assent, of an acord this yonge wif malgre hire lord in such a rage awei forth ladden, as thei whiche non insihte hadden bot only to her drunke fare, which many a man hath mad misfare in love als wel as other weie. wherof, if i schal more seie upon the nature of the vice, of custume and of exercice the mannes grace hou it fordoth, a tale, which was whilom soth, of fooles that so drunken were, i schal reherce unto thine ere. i rede in a cronique thus of galba and of vitellus, the whiche of spaigne bothe were the greteste of alle othre there, and bothe of o condicion after the disposicion of glotonie and drunkeschipe. that was a sori felaschipe: for this thou miht wel understonde, that man mai wel noght longe stonde which is wyndrunke of comun us; for he hath lore the vertus, wherof reson him scholde clothe; and that was seene upon hem bothe. men sein ther is non evidence, wherof to knowe a difference betwen the drunken and the wode, for thei be nevere nouther goode; for wher that wyn doth wit aweie, wisdom hath lost the rihte weie, that he no maner vice dredeth; nomore than a blind man thredeth his nedle be the sonnes lyht, nomore is reson thanne of myht, whan he with drunkeschipe is blent. and in this point thei weren schent, this galba bothe and ek vitelle, upon the cause as i schal telle, wherof good is to taken hiede. for thei tuo thurgh her drunkenhiede of witles excitacioun oppressede al the nacion of spaigne; for of fool usance, which don was of continuance of hem, whiche alday drunken were, ther was no wif ne maiden there, what so thei were, or faire or foule, whom thei ne token to defoule, wherof the lond was often wo: and ek in othre thinges mo thei wroghten many a sondri wrong. bot hou so that the dai be long, the derke nyht comth ate laste: god wolde noght thei scholden laste, and schop the lawe in such a wise, that thei thurgh dom to the juise be dampned forto be forlore. bot thei, that hadden ben tofore enclin to alle drunkenesse,- here ende thanne bar witnesse; for thei in hope to assuage the peine of deth, upon the rage that thei the lasse scholden fiele, of wyn let fille full a miele, and dronken til so was befalle that thei her strengthes losten alle withouten wit of eny brain; and thus thei ben halfdede slain, that hem ne grieveth bot a lyte. mi sone, if thou be forto wyte in eny point which i have seid, wherof thi wittes ben unteid, i rede clepe hem hom ayein. i schal do, fader, as ye sein, als ferforth as i mai suffise: bot wel i wot that in no wise the drunkeschipe of love aweie i mai remue be no weie, it stant noght upon my fortune. bot if you liste to comune of the seconde glotonie, which cleped is delicacie, wherof ye spieken hier tofore, beseche i wolde you therfore. mi sone, as of that ilke vice, which of alle othre is the norrice, and stant upon the retenue of venus, so as it is due, the proprete hou that it fareth the bok hierafter nou declareth. of this chapitre in which we trete there is yit on of such diete, to which no povere mai atteigne; for al is past of paindemeine and sondri wyn and sondri drinke, wherof that he wole ete and drinke: hise cokes ben for him affaited, so that his body is awaited, that him schal lacke no delit, als ferforth as his appetit sufficeth to the metes hote. wherof this lusti vice is hote of gule the delicacie, which al the hole progenie of lusti folk hath undertake to feede, whil that he mai take richesses wherof to be founde: of abstinence he wot no bounde, to what profit it scholde serve. and yit phisique of his conserve makth many a restauracioun unto his recreacioun, which wolde be to venus lief. thus for the point of his relief the coc which schal his mete arraie, bot he the betre his mouth assaie, his lordes thonk schal ofte lese, er he be served to the chese: for ther mai lacke noght so lyte, that he ne fint anon a wyte; for bot his lust be fully served, ther hath no wiht his thonk deserved. and yit for mannes sustenance, to kepe and holde in governance, to him that wole his hele gete is non so good as comun mete: for who that loketh on the bokes, it seith, confeccion of cokes, a man him scholde wel avise hou he it toke and in what wise. for who that useth that he knoweth, ful selden seknesse on him groweth, and who that useth metes strange, though his nature empeire and change it is no wonder, lieve sone, whan that he doth ayein his wone; for in phisique this i finde, usage is the seconde kinde. and riht so changeth his astat he that of love is delicat: for though he hadde to his hond the beste wif of al the lond, or the faireste love of alle, yit wolde his herte on othre falle and thenke hem mor delicious than he hath in his oghne hous: men sein it is nou ofte so; avise hem wel, thei that so do. and forto speke in other weie, fulofte time i have herd seie, that he which hath no love achieved, him thenkth that he is noght relieved, thogh that his ladi make him chiere, so as sche mai in good manere hir honour and hir name save, bot he the surplus mihte have. nothing withstondende hire astat, of love more delicat he set hire chiere at no delit, bot he have al his appetit. mi sone, if it be with thee so, tell me. myn holi fader, no: for delicat in such a wise of love, as ye to me devise, ne was i nevere yit gultif; for if i hadde such a wif as ye speke of, what scholde i more? for thanne i wolde neveremore for lust of eny wommanhiede myn herte upon non other fiede: and if i dede, it were a wast. bot al withoute such repast of lust, as ye me tolde above, of wif, or yit of other love, i faste, and mai no fode gete; so that for lacke of deinte mete, of which an herte mai be fedd, i go fastende to my bedd. bot myhte i geten, as ye tolde, so mochel that mi ladi wolde me fede with hir glad semblant, though me lacke al the remenant, yit scholde i somdel ben abeched and for the time wel refreched. bot certes, fader, sche ne doth; for in good feith, to telle soth, i trowe, thogh i scholde sterve, sche wolde noght hire yhe swerve, min herte with o goodly lok to fede, and thus for such a cok i mai go fastinge everemo: bot if so is that eny wo mai fede a mannes herte wel, therof i have at every meel of plente more than ynowh; bot that is of himself so towh, mi stomac mai it noght defie. lo, such is the delicacie of love, which myn herte fedeth; thus have i lacke of that me nedeth. bot for al this yit natheles i seie noght i am gylteles, that i somdel am delicat: for elles were i fulli mat, bot if that i som lusti stounde of confort and of ese founde, to take of love som repast; for thogh i with the fulle tast the lust of love mai noght fiele, min hunger otherwise i kiele of smale lustes whiche i pike, and for a time yit thei like; if that ye wisten what i mene. nou, goode sone, schrif thee clene of suche deyntes as ben goode, wherof thou takst thin hertes fode. mi fader, i you schal reherce, hou that mi fodes ben diverse, so as thei fallen in degre. o fiedinge is of that i se, an other is of that i here, the thridde, as i schal tellen here, it groweth of min oghne thoght: and elles scholde i live noght; for whom that failleth fode of herte, he mai noght wel the deth asterte. of sihte is al mi ferste fode, thurgh which myn yhe of alle goode hath that to him is acordant, a lusti fode sufficant. whan that i go toward the place wher i schal se my ladi face, min yhe, which is loth to faste, beginth to hungre anon so faste, that him thenkth of on houre thre, til i ther come and he hire se: and thanne after his appetit he takth a fode of such delit, that him non other deynte nedeth. of sondri sihtes he him fedeth: he seth hire face of such colour, that freisshere is than eny flour, he seth hire front is large and plein withoute fronce of eny grein, he seth hire yhen lich an hevene, he seth hire nase strauht and evene, he seth hire rode upon the cheke, he seth hire rede lippes eke, hire chyn acordeth to the face, al that he seth is full of grace, he seth hire necke round and clene, therinne mai no bon be sene, he seth hire handes faire and whyte; for al this thing withoute wyte he mai se naked ate leste, so is it wel the more feste and wel the mor delicacie unto the fiedinge of myn yhe. he seth hire schapthe forth withal, hire bodi round, hire middel smal, so wel begon with good array, which passeth al the lust of maii, whan he is most with softe schoures ful clothed in his lusti floures. with suche sihtes by and by min yhe is fed; bot finaly, whan he the port and the manere seth of hire wommanysshe chere, than hath he such delice on honde, him thenkth he mihte stille stonde, and that he hath ful sufficance of liflode and of sustienance as to his part for everemo. and if it thoghte alle othre so, fro thenne wolde he nevere wende, bot there unto the worldes ende he wolde abyde, if that he mihte, and fieden him upon the syhte. for thogh i mihte stonden ay into the time of domesday and loke upon hire evere in on, yit whanne i scholde fro hire gon, min yhe wolde, as thogh he faste, ben hungerstorven al so faste, til efte ayein that he hire syhe. such is the nature of myn yhe: ther is no lust so deintefull, of which a man schal noght be full, of that the stomac underfongeth, bot evere in on myn yhe longeth: for loke hou that a goshauk tireth, riht so doth he, whan that he pireth and toteth on hire wommanhiede; for he mai nevere fulli fiede his lust, bot evere aliche sore him hungreth, so that he the more desireth to be fed algate: and thus myn yhe is mad the gate, thurgh which the deyntes of my thoght of lust ben to myn herte broght. riht as myn yhe with his lok is to myn herte a lusti coc of loves fode delicat, riht so myn ere in his astat, wher as myn yhe mai noght serve, can wel myn hertes thonk deserve and fieden him fro day to day with suche deyntes as he may. for thus it is, that overal, wher as i come in special, i mai hiere of mi ladi pris; i hiere on seith that sche is wys, an other seith that sche is good, and som men sein, of worthi blod that sche is come, and is also so fair, that nawher is non so; and som men preise hire goodli chiere: thus every thing that i mai hiere, which souneth to mi ladi goode, is to myn ere a lusti foode. and ek min ere hath over this a deynte feste, whan so is that i mai hiere hirselve speke; for thanne anon mi faste i breke on suche wordes as sche seith, that full of trouthe and full of feith thei ben, and of so good desport, that to myn ere gret confort thei don, as thei that ben delices. for al the metes and the spices, that eny lombard couthe make, ne be so lusti forto take ne so ferforth restauratif, i seie as for myn oghne lif, as ben the wordes of hire mouth: for as the wyndes of the south ben most of alle debonaire, so whan hir list to speke faire, the vertu of hire goodly speche is verraily myn hertes leche. and if it so befalle among, that sche carole upon a song, whan i it hiere i am so fedd, that i am fro miself so ledd, as thogh i were in paradis; for certes, as to myn avis, whan i here of hir vois the stevene, me thenkth it is a blisse of hevene. and ek in other wise also fulofte time it falleth so, min ere with a good pitance is fedd of redinge of romance of ydoine and of amadas, that whilom weren in mi cas, and eke of othre many a score, that loveden longe er i was bore. for whan i of here loves rede, min ere with the tale i fede; and with the lust of here histoire somtime i drawe into memoire hou sorwe mai noght evere laste; and so comth hope in ate laste, whan i non other fode knowe. and that endureth bot a throwe, riht as it were a cherie feste; bot forto compten ate leste, as for the while yit it eseth and somdel of myn herte appeseth: for what thing to myn ere spreedeth, which is plesant, somdel it feedeth with wordes suche as he mai gete mi lust, in stede of other mete. lo thus, mi fader, as i seie, of lust the which myn yhe hath seie, and ek of that myn ere hath herd, fulofte i have the betre ferd. and tho tuo bringen in the thridde, the which hath in myn herte amidde his place take, to arraie the lusti fode, which assaie i mot; and nameliche on nyhtes, whan that me lacketh alle sihtes, and that myn heringe is aweie, thanne is he redy in the weie mi reresouper forto make, of which myn hertes fode i take. this lusti cokes name is hote thoght, which hath evere hise pottes hote of love buillende on the fyr with fantasie and with desir, of whiche er this fulofte he fedde min herte, whanne i was abedde; and thanne he set upon my bord bothe every syhte and every word of lust, which i have herd or sein. bot yit is noght mi feste al plein, bot al of woldes and of wisshes, therof have i my fulle disshes, bot as of fielinge and of tast, yit mihte i nevere have o repast. and thus, as i have seid aforn, i licke hony on the thorn, and as who seith, upon the bridel i chiewe, so that al is ydel as in effect the fode i have. bot as a man that wolde him save, whan he is seck, be medicine, riht so of love the famine i fonde in al that evere i mai to fiede and dryve forth the day, til i mai have the grete feste, which al myn hunger myhte areste. lo suche ben mi lustes thre; of that i thenke and hiere and se i take of love my fiedinge withoute tastinge or fielinge: and as the plover doth of eir i live, and am in good espeir that for no such delicacie i trowe i do no glotonie. and natheles to youre avis, min holi fader, that be wis, i recomande myn astat of that i have be delicat. mi sone, i understonde wel that thou hast told hier everydel, and as me thenketh be thi tale, it ben delices wonder smale, wherof thou takst thi loves fode. bot, sone, if that thou understode what is to ben delicious, thou woldest noght be curious upon the lust of thin astat to ben to sore delicat, wherof that thou reson excede: for in the bokes thou myht rede, if mannes wisdom schal be suied, it oghte wel to ben eschuied in love als wel as other weie; for, as these holi bokes seie, the bodely delices alle in every point, hou so thei falle, unto the soule don grievance. and forto take in remembrance, a tale acordant unto this, which of gret understondinge is to mannes soule resonable, i thenke telle, and is no fable. of cristes word, who wole it rede, hou that this vice is forto drede in thevangile it telleth plein, which mot algate be certein, for crist himself it berth witnesse. and thogh the clerk and the clergesse in latin tunge it rede and singe, yit for the more knoulechinge of trouthe, which is good to wite, i schal declare as it is write in engleissh, for thus it began. crist seith: "ther was a riche man, a mihti lord of gret astat, and he was ek so delicat of his clothing, that everyday of pourpre and bisse he made him gay, and eet and drank therto his fille after the lustes of his wille, as he which al stod in delice and tok non hiede of thilke vice. and as it scholde so betyde, a povere lazre upon a tyde cam to the gate and axed mete: bot there mihte he nothing gete his dedly hunger forto stanche; for he, which hadde his fulle panche of alle lustes ate bord, ne deigneth noght to speke a word, onliche a crumme forto yive, wherof the povere myhte live upon the yifte of his almesse. thus lai this povere in gret destresse acold and hungred ate gate, fro which he mihte go no gate, so was he wofulli besein. and as these holi bokes sein, the houndes comen fro the halle, wher that this sike man was falle, and as he lay ther forto die, the woundes of his maladie thei licken forto don him ese. bot he was full of such desese, that he mai noght the deth eschape; bot as it was that time schape, the soule fro the bodi passeth, and he whom nothing overpasseth, the hihe god, up to the hevene him tok, wher he hath set him evene in habrahammes barm on hyh, wher he the hevene joie syh and hadde al that he have wolde. and fell, as it befalle scholde, this riche man the same throwe with soudein deth was overthrowe, and forth withouten eny wente into the helle straght he wente; the fend into the fyr him drouh, wher that he hadde peine ynouh of flamme which that evere brenneth. and as his yhe aboute renneth, toward the hevene he cast his lok, wher that he syh and hiede tok hou lazar set was in his se als ferr as evere he mihte se with habraham; and thanne he preide unto the patriarch and seide: "send lazar doun fro thilke sete, and do that he his finger wete in water, so that he mai droppe upon my tunge, forto stoppe the grete hete in which i brenne." bot habraham answerde thenne and seide to him in this wise: "mi sone, thou thee miht avise and take into thi remembrance, hou lazar hadde gret penance, whyl he was in that other lif, bot thou in al thi lust jolif the bodily delices soghtest: forthi, so as thou thanne wroghtest, nou schalt thou take thi reward of dedly peine hierafterward in helle, which schal evere laste; and this lazar nou ate laste the worldes peine is overronne, in hevene and hath his lif begonne of joie, which is endeles. bot that thou preidest natheles, that i schal lazar to the sende with water on his finger ende, thin hote tunge forto kiele, thou schalt no such graces fiele; for to that foule place of sinne, for evere in which thou schalt ben inne, comth non out of this place thider, ne non of you mai comen hider; thus be yee parted nou atuo." the riche ayeinward cride tho: "o habraham, sithe it so is, that lazar mai noght do me this which i have axed in this place, i wolde preie an other grace. for i have yit of brethren fyve, that with mi fader ben alyve togedre duellende in on hous; to whom, as thou art gracious, i preie that thou woldest sende lazar, so that he mihte wende to warne hem hou the world is went, that afterward thei be noght schent of suche peines as i drye. lo, this i preie and this i crie, now i may noght miself amende." the patriarch anon suiende to his preiere ansuerde nay; and seide him hou that everyday his brethren mihten knowe and hiere of moi ses on erthe hiere and of prophetes othre mo, what hem was best. and he seith no; bot if ther mihte a man aryse fro deth to lyve in such a wise, to tellen hem hou that it were, he seide hou thanne of pure fere thei scholden wel be war therby. quod habraham: "nay sikerly; for if thei nou wol noght obeie to suche as techen hem the weie, and alday preche and alday telle hou that it stant of hevene and helle, thei wol noght thanne taken hiede, thogh it befelle so in dede that eny ded man were arered, to ben of him no betre lered than of an other man alyve." if thou, mi sone, canst descryve this tale, as crist himself it tolde, thou schalt have cause to beholde, to se so gret an evidence, wherof the sothe experience hath schewed openliche at ije, that bodili delicacie of him which yeveth non almesse schal after falle in gret destresse. and that was sene upon the riche: for he ne wolde unto his liche a crumme yiven of his bred, thanne afterward, whan he was ded, a drope of water him was werned. thus mai a mannes wit be lerned of hem that so delices taken; whan thei with deth ben overtaken, that erst was swete is thanne sour. bot he that is a governour of worldes good, if he be wys, withinne his herte he set no pris of al the world, and yit he useth the good, that he nothing refuseth, as he which lord is of the thinges. the nouches and the riche ringes, the cloth of gold and the perrie he takth, and yit delicacie he leveth, thogh he were al this. the beste mete that ther is he ett, and drinkth the beste drinke; bot hou that evere he ete or drinke, delicacie he put aweie, as he which goth the rihte weie noght only forto fiede and clothe his bodi, bot his soule bothe. bot thei that taken otherwise here lustes, ben none of the wise; and that whilom was schewed eke, if thou these olde bokes seke, als wel be reson as be kinde, of olde ensample as men mai finde. what man that wolde him wel avise, delicacie is to despise, whan kinde acordeth noght withal; wherof ensample in special of nero whilom mai be told, which ayein kinde manyfold hise lustes tok, til ate laste that god him wolde al overcaste; of whom the cronique is so plein, me list nomore of him to sein. and natheles for glotonie of bodili delicacie, to knowe his stomak hou it ferde, of that noman tofore herde, which he withinne himself bethoghte, a wonder soubtil thing he wroghte. thre men upon eleccioun of age and of complexioun lich to himself be alle weie he tok towardes him to pleie, and ete and drinke als wel as he. therof was no diversite; for every day whan that thei eete, tofore his oghne bord thei seete, and of such mete as he was served, althogh thei hadde it noght deserved, thei token service of the same. bot afterward al thilke game was into wofull ernest torned; for whan thei weren thus sojorned, withinne a time at after mete nero, which hadde noght foryete the lustes of his frele astat, as he which al was delicat, to knowe thilke experience, the men let come in his presence: and to that on the same tyde, a courser that he scholde ryde into the feld, anon he bad; wherof this man was wonder glad, and goth to prike and prance aboute. that other, whil that he was oute, he leide upon his bedd to slepe: the thridde, which he wolde kepe withinne his chambre, faire and softe he goth now doun nou up fulofte, walkende a pass, that he ne slepte, til he which on the courser lepte was come fro the field ayein. nero thanne, as the bokes sein, these men doth taken alle thre and slouh hem, for he wolde se the whos stomak was best defied: and whanne he hath the sothe tryed, he fond that he which goth the pass defyed best of alle was, which afterward he usede ay. and thus what thing unto his pay was most plesant, he lefte non: with every lust he was begon, wherof the bodi myhte glade, for he non abstinence made; bot most above alle erthli thinges of wommen unto the likinges nero sette al his hole herte, for that lust scholde him noght asterte. whan that the thurst of love him cawhte, wher that him list he tok a drauhte, he spareth nouther wif ne maide, that such an other, as men saide, in al this world was nevere yit. he was so drunke in al his wit thurgh sondri lustes whiche he tok, that evere, whil ther is a bok, of nero men schul rede and singe unto the worldes knowlechinge, mi goode sone, as thou hast herd. for evere yit it hath so ferd, delicacie in loves cas withoute reson is and was; for wher that love his herte set, him thenkth it myhte be no bet; and thogh it be noght fulli mete, the lust of love is evere swete. lo, thus togedre of felaschipe delicacie and drunkeschipe, wherof reson stant out of herre, have mad full many a wisman erre in loves cause most of alle: for thanne hou so that evere it falle, wit can no reson understonde, bot let the governance stonde to will, which thanne wext so wylde, that he can noght himselve schylde fro no peril, bot out of feere the weie he secheth hiere and there, him recheth noght upon what syde: for oftetime he goth beside, and doth such thing withoute drede, wherof him oghte wel to drede. bot whan that love assoteth sore, it passeth alle mennes lore; what lust it is that he ordeigneth, ther is no mannes miht restreigneth, and of the godd takth he non hiede: bot laweles withoute drede, his pourpos for he wolde achieve ayeins the pointz of the believe, he tempteth hevene and erthe and helle, hierafterward as i schall telle. who dar do thing which love ne dar? to love is every lawe unwar, bot to the lawes of his heste the fissch, the foul, the man, the beste of al the worldes kinde louteth. for love is he which nothing douteth: in mannes herte where he sit, he compteth noght toward his wit the wo nomore than the wele, no mor the hete than the chele, no mor the wete than the dreie, no mor to live than to deie, so that tofore ne behinde he seth nothing, bot as the blinde withoute insyhte of his corage he doth merveilles in his rage. to what thing that he wole him drawe, ther is no god, ther is no lawe, of whom that he takth eny hiede; bot as baiard the blinde stede, til he falle in the dich amidde, he goth ther noman wole him bidde; he stant so ferforth out of reule, ther is no wit that mai him reule. and thus to telle of him in soth, ful many a wonder thing he doth, that were betre to be laft, among the whiche is wicchecraft, that som men clepen sorcerie, which forto winne his druerie with many a circumstance he useth, ther is no point which he refuseth. the craft which that saturnus fond, to make prickes in the sond, that geomance cleped is, fulofte he useth it amis; and of the flod his ydromance, and of the fyr the piromance, with questions echon of tho he tempteth ofte, and ek also ae remance in juggement to love he bringth of his assent: for these craftes, as i finde, a man mai do be weie of kinde, be so it be to good entente. bot he goth al an other wente; for rathere er he scholde faile, with nigromance he wole assaile to make his incantacioun with hot subfumigacioun. thilke art which spatula is hote, and used is of comun rote among paiens, with that craft ek of which is auctor thosz the grek, he worcheth on and on be rowe: razel is noght to him unknowe, ne salomones candarie, his ydeac, his eutonye; the figure and the bok withal of balamuz, and of ghenbal the seal, and therupon thymage of thebith, for his avantage he takth, and somwhat of gibiere, which helplich is to this matiere. babilla with hire sones sevene, which hath renonced to the hevene, with cernes bothe square and rounde, he traceth ofte upon the grounde, makende his invocacioun; and for full enformacioun the scole which honorius wrot, he poursuieth: and lo, thus magique he useth forto winne his love, and spareth for no sinne. and over that of his sotie, riht as he secheth sorcerie of hem that ben magiciens, riht so of the naturiens upon the sterres from above his weie he secheth unto love, als fer as he hem understondeth. in many a sondry wise he fondeth: he makth ymage, he makth sculpture, he makth writinge, he makth figure, he makth his calculacions, he makth his demonstracions; his houres of astronomie he kepeth as for that partie which longeth to thinspeccion of love and his affeccion; he wolde into the helle seche the devel himselve to beseche, if that he wiste forto spede, to gete of love his lusti mede: wher that he hath his herte set, he bede nevere fare bet ne wite of other hevene more. mi sone, if thou of such a lore hast ben er this, i red thee leve. min holi fader, be youre leve of al that ye have spoken hiere which toucheth unto this matiere, to telle soth riht as i wene, i wot noght o word what ye mene. i wol noght seie, if that i couthe, that i nolde in mi lusti youthe benethe in helle and ek above to winne with mi ladi love don al that evere that i mihte; for therof have i non insihte wher afterward that i become, to that i wonne and overcome hire love, which i most coveite. mi sone, that goth wonder streite: for this i mai wel telle soth, ther is noman the which so doth, for al the craft that he can caste, that he nabeith it ate laste. for often he that wol beguile is guiled with the same guile, and thus the guilour is beguiled; as i finde in a bok compiled to this matiere an old histoire, the which comth nou to mi memoire, and is of gret essamplerie ayein the vice of sorcerie, wherof non ende mai be good. bot hou whilom therof it stod, a tale which is good to knowe to thee, mi sone, i schal beknowe. among hem whiche at troie were, uluxes ate siege there was on be name in special; of whom yit the memorial abit, for whyl ther is a mouth, for evere his name schal be couth. he was a worthi knyht and king and clerk knowende of every thing; he was a gret rethorien, he was a gret magicien; of tullius the rethorique, of king zorastes the magique, of tholome thastronomie, of plato the philosophie, of daniel the slepi dremes, of neptune ek the water stremes, of salomon and the proverbes, of macer al the strengthe of herbes, and the phisique of ypocras, and lich unto pictagoras of surgerie he knew the cures. bot somwhat of his aventures, which schal to mi matiere acorde, to thee, mi sone, i wol recorde. this king, of which thou hast herd sein, fro troie as he goth hom ayein be schipe, he fond the see divers, with many a wyndi storm revers. bot he thurgh wisdom that he schapeth ful many a gret peril ascapeth, of whiche i thenke tellen on, hou that malgre the nedle and ston wynddrive he was al soudeinly upon the strondes of cilly, wher that he moste abyde a whyle. tuo queenes weren in that yle calipsa named and circes; and whan they herde hou uluxes is londed ther upon the ryve, for him thei senden als so blive. with him suche as he wolde he nam and to the court to hem he cam. thes queenes were as tuo goddesses of art magique sorceresses, that what lord comth to that rivage, thei make him love in such a rage and upon hem assote so, that thei wol have, er that he go, al that he hath of worldes good. uluxes wel this understod, thei couthe moche, he couthe more; thei schape and caste ayein him sore and wroghte many a soutil wyle, bot yit thei mihte him noght beguile. bot of the men of his navie thei tuo forschope a gret partie, mai non of hem withstonde here hestes; som part thei schopen into bestes, som part thei schopen into foules, to beres, tigres, apes, oules, or elles be som other weie; ther myhte hem nothing desobeie, such craft thei hadde above kinde. bot that art couthe thei noght finde, of which uluxes was deceived, that he ne hath hem alle weyved, and broght hem into such a rote, that upon him thei bothe assote; and thurgh the science of his art he tok of hem so wel his part, that he begat circes with childe. he kepte him sobre and made hem wilde, he sette himselve so above, that with here good and with here love, who that therof be lief or loth, al quit into his schip he goth. circes toswolle bothe sides he lefte, and waiteth on the tydes, and straght thurghout the salte fom he takth his cours and comth him hom, where as he fond penolope; a betre wif ther mai non be, and yit ther ben ynowhe of goode. bot who hir goodschipe understode fro ferst that sche wifhode tok, hou many loves sche forsok and hou sche bar hire al aboute, ther whiles that hire lord was oute, he mihte make a gret avant amonges al the remenant that sche was on of al the beste. wel myhte he sette his herte in reste, this king, whan he hir fond in hele; for as he couthe in wisdom dele, so couthe sche in wommanhiede: and whan sche syh withoute drede hire lord upon his oghne ground, that he was come sauf and sound, in al this world ne mihte be a gladdere womman than was sche. the fame, which mai noght ben hidd, thurghout the lond is sone kidd, here king is come hom ayein: ther mai noman the fulle sein, hou that thei weren alle glade, so mochel joie of him thei made. the presens every day be newed, he was with yiftes al besnewed; the poeple was of him so glad, that thogh non other man hem bad, taillage upon hemself thei sette, and as it were of pure dette thei yeve here goodes to the king: this was a glad hom welcomyng. thus hath uluxes what he wolde, his wif was such as sche be scholde, his poeple was to him sougit, him lacketh nothing of delit. bot fortune is of such a sleyhte, that whan a man is most on heyhte, sche makth him rathest forto falle: ther wot noman what schal befalle, the happes over mannes hed ben honged with a tendre thred. that proved was on uluxes; for whan he was most in his pes, fortune gan to make him werre and sette his welthe al out of herre. upon a dai as he was merie, as thogh ther mihte him nothing derie, whan nyht was come, he goth to bedde, with slep and bothe his yhen fedde. and while he slepte, he mette a swevene: him thoghte he syh a stature evene, which brihtere than the sonne schon; a man it semeth was it non, bot yit it was as in figure most lich to mannyssh creature, bot as of beaute hevenelich it was most to an angel lich: and thus betwen angel and man beholden it this king began, and such a lust tok of the sihte, that fain he wolde, if that he mihte, the forme of that figure embrace; and goth him forth toward the place, wher he sih that ymage tho, and takth it in his armes tuo, and it embraceth him ayein and to the king thus gan it sein: "uluxes, understond wel this, the tokne of oure aqueintance is hierafterward to mochel tene: the love that is ous betuene, of that we nou such joie make, that on of ous the deth schal take, whan time comth of destine; it may non other wise be." uluxes tho began to preie that this figure wolde him seie what wyht he is that seith him so. this wyht upon a spere tho a pensel which was wel begon, embrouded, scheweth him anon: thre fisshes alle of o colour in manere as it were a tour upon the pensel were wroght. uluxes kneu this tokne noght, and preith to wite in som partie what thing it myhte signefie, "a signe it is," the wyht ansuerde, "of an empire:" and forth he ferde al sodeinly, whan he that seide. uluxes out of slep abreide, and that was riht ayein the day, that lengere slepen he ne may. men sein, a man hath knowleching save of himself of alle thing; his oghne chance noman knoweth, bot as fortune it on him throweth: was nevere yit so wys a clerk, which mihte knowe al goddes werk, ne the secret which god hath set ayein a man mai noght be let. uluxes, thogh that he be wys, with al his wit in his avis, the mor that he his swevene acompteth, the lasse he wot what it amonteth: for al his calculacion, he seth no demonstracion al pleinly forto knowe an ende; bot natheles hou so it wende, he dradde him of his oghne sone. that makth him wel the more astone, and schop therfore anon withal, so that withinne castel wall thelamachum his sone he schette, and upon him strong warde he sette. the sothe furthere he ne knew, til that fortune him overthreu; bot natheles for sikernesse, wher that he mihte wite and gesse a place strengest in his lond, ther let he make of lym and sond a strengthe where he wolde duelle; was nevere man yit herde telle of such an other as it was. and forto strengthe him in that cas, of al his lond the sekereste of servantz and the worthieste, to kepen him withinne warde, he sette his bodi forto warde; and made such an ordinance, for love ne for aqueintance, that were it erly, were it late, thei scholde lete in ate gate no maner man, what so betydde, bot if so were himself it bidde. bot al that myhte him noght availe, for whom fortune wole assaile, ther mai be non such resistence, which mihte make a man defence; al that schal be mot falle algate. this circes, which i spak of late, on whom uluxes hath begete a child, thogh he it have foryete, whan time com, as it was wone, sche was delivered of a sone, which cleped is thelogonus. this child, whan he was bore thus, aboute his moder to ful age, that he can reson and langage, in good astat was drawe forth: and whan he was so mochel worth to stonden in a mannes stede, circes his moder hath him bede that he schal to his fader go, and tolde him al togedre tho what man he was that him begat. and whan thelogonus of that was war and hath ful knowleching hou that his fader was a king, he preith his moder faire this, to go wher that his fader is; and sche him granteth that he schal, and made him redi forth withal. it was that time such usance, that every man the conoiscance of his contre bar in his hond, whan he wente into strange lond; and thus was every man therfore wel knowe, wher that he was bore: for espiaile and mistrowinges they dede thanne suche thinges, that every man mai other knowe. so it befell that ilke throwe thelogonus as in this cas; of his contre the signe was thre fisshes, whiche he scholde bere upon the penon of a spere: and whan that he was thus arraied and hath his harneis al assaied, that he was redy everydel, his moder bad him farewel, and seide him that he scholde swithe his fader griete a thousand sithe. thelogonus his moder kiste and tok his leve, and wher he wiste his fader was, the weie nam, til he unto nachaie cam, which of that lond the chief cite was cleped, and ther axeth he wher was the king and hou he ferde. and whan that he the sothe herde, wher that the king uluxes was, al one upon his hors gret pas he rod him forth, and in his hond he bar the signal of his lond with fisshes thre, as i have told; and thus he wente unto that hold, wher that his oghne fader duelleth. the cause why he comth he telleth unto the kepers of the gate, and wolde have comen in therate, bot schortli thei him seide nay: and he als faire as evere he may besoghte and tolde hem ofte this, hou that the king his fader is; bot they with proude wordes grete begunne to manace and threte, bot he go fro the gate faste, thei wolde him take and sette faste. fro wordes unto strokes thus thei felle, and so thelogonus was sore hurt and welnyh ded; bot with his scharpe speres hed he makth defence, hou so it falle, and wan the gate upon hem alle, and hath slain of the beste fyve; and thei ascriden als so blyve thurghout the castell al aboute. on every syde men come oute, wherof the kinges herte afflihte, and he with al the haste he mihte a spere cauhte and out he goth, as he that was nyh wod for wroth. he sih the gates ful of blod, thelogonus and wher he stod he sih also, bot he ne knew what man it was, and to him threw his spere, and he sterte out asyde. bot destine, which schal betide, befell that ilke time so, thelogonus knew nothing tho what man it was that to him caste, and while his oghne spere laste, with al the signe therupon he caste unto the king anon, and smot him with a dedly wounde. uluxes fell anon to grounde; tho every man, "the king! the king!" began to crie, and of this thing thelogonus, which sih the cas, on knes he fell and seide, "helas! i have min oghne fader slain: nou wolde i deie wonder fain, nou sle me who that evere wile, for certes it is right good skile." he crith, he wepth, he seith therfore, "helas, that evere was i bore, that this unhappi destine so wofulli comth in be me!" this king, which yit hath lif ynouh, his herte ayein to him he drouh, and to that vois an ere he leide and understod al that he seide, and gan to speke, and seide on hih, "bring me this man." and whan he sih thelogonus, his thoght he sette upon the swevene which he mette, and axeth that he myhte se his spere, on which the fisshes thre he sih upon a pensel wroght. tho wiste he wel it faileth noght, and badd him that he telle scholde fro whenne he cam and what he wolde. thelogonus in sorghe and wo so as he mihte tolde tho unto uluxes al the cas, hou that circes his moder was, and so forth seide him everydel, hou that his moder gret him wel, and in what wise sche him sente. tho wiste uluxes what it mente, and tok him in hise armes softe, and al bledende he kest him ofte, and seide, "sone, whil i live, this infortune i thee foryive." after his other sone in haste he sende, and he began him haste and cam unto his fader tyt. bot whan he sih him in such plit, he wolde have ronne upon that other anon, and slain his oghne brother, ne hadde be that uluxes betwen hem made acord and pes, and to his heir thelamachus he bad that he thelogonus with al his pouer scholde kepe, til he were of his woundes depe al hol, and thanne he scholde him yive lond wher upon he mihte live. thelamachus, whan he this herde, unto his fader he ansuerde and seide he wolde don his wille. so duelle thei togedre stille, these brethren, and the fader sterveth. lo, wherof sorcerie serveth. thurgh sorcerie his lust he wan, thurgh sorcerie his wo began, thurgh sorcerie his love he ches, thurgh sorcerie his lif he les; the child was gete in sorcerie, the which dede al this felonie: thing which was ayein kynde wroght unkindeliche it was aboght; the child his oghne fader slowh, that was unkindeschipe ynowh. forthi tak hiede hou that it is, so forto winne love amis, which endeth al his joie in wo: for of this art i finde also, that hath be do for loves sake, wherof thou miht ensample take, a gret cronique imperial, which evere into memorial among the men, hou so it wende, schal duelle to the worldes ende. the hihe creatour of thinges, which is the king of alle kinges, ful many a wonder worldes chance let slyden under his suffrance; ther wot noman the cause why, bot he the which is almyhty. and that was proved whilom thus, whan that the king nectanabus, which hadde egipte forto lede,- bot for he sih tofor the dede thurgh magique of his sorcerie, wherof he couthe a gret partie, hise enemys to him comende, fro whom he mihte him noght defende, out of his oghne lond he fledde; and in the wise as he him dredde it fell, for al his wicchecraft, so that egipte him was beraft, and he desguised fledde aweie be schipe, and hield the rihte weie to macedoine, wher that he aryveth ate chief cite. thre yomen of his chambre there al only forto serve him were, the whiche he trusteth wonder wel, for thei were trewe as eny stiel; and hapneth that thei with him ladde part of the beste good he hadde. thei take logginge in the toun after the disposicion wher as him thoghte best to duelle: he axeth thanne and herde telle hou that the king was oute go. upon a werre he hadde tho; but in that cite thanne was the queene, which olimpias was hote, and with sollempnete the feste of hir nativite, as it befell, was thanne holde; and for hire list to be beholde and preised of the poeple aboute, sche schop hir forto riden oute at after mete al openly. anon were alle men redy, and that was in the monthe of maii, this lusti queene in good arrai was set upon a mule whyt: to sen it was a gret delit the joie that the cite made; with freisshe thinges and with glade the noble toun was al behonged, and every wiht was sore alonged to se this lusti ladi ryde. ther was gret merthe on alle syde; wher as sche passeth be the strete, ther was ful many a tymber bete and many a maide carolende: and thus thurghout the toun pleiende this queene unto a pleine rod, wher that sche hoved and abod to se diverse game pleie, the lusti folk jouste and tourneie; and so forth every other man, which pleie couthe, his pley began, to plese with this noble queene. nectanabus cam to the grene amonges othre and drouh him nyh. bot whan that he this ladi sih and of hir beaute hiede tok, he couthe noght withdrawe his lok to se noght elles in the field, bot stod and only hire behield. of his clothinge and of his gere he was unlich alle othre there, so that it hapneth ate laste, the queene on him hire yhe caste, and knew that he was strange anon: bot he behield hire evere in on withoute blenchinge of his chere. sche tok good hiede of his manere, and wondreth why he dede so, and bad men scholde for him go. he cam and dede hire reverence, and sche him axeth in cilence for whenne he cam and what he wolde. and he with sobre wordes tolde, and seith, "ma dame, a clerk i am, to you and in message i cam, the which i mai noght tellen hiere; bot if it liketh you to hiere, it mot be seid al prively, wher non schal be bot ye and i." thus for the time he tok his leve. the dai goth forth til it was eve, that every man mot lete his werk; and sche thoghte evere upon this clerk, what thing it is he wolde mene: and in this wise abod the queene, and passeth over thilke nyht, til it was on the morwe liht. sche sende for him, and he com, with him his astellabre he nom, which was of fin gold precious with pointz and cercles merveilous; and ek the hevenely figures wroght in a bok ful of peintures he tok this ladi forto schewe, and tolde of ech of hem be rewe the cours and the condicion. and sche with gret affeccion sat stille and herde what he wolde: and thus whan he sih time, he tolde, and feigneth with hise wordes wise a tale, and seith in such a wise: "ma dame, bot a while ago, wher i was in egipte tho, and radde in scole of this science, it fell into mi conscience that i unto the temple wente, and ther with al myn hole entente as i mi sacrifice dede, on of the goddes hath me bede that i you warne prively, so that ye make you redy, and that ye be nothing agast; for he such love hath to you cast, that ye schul ben his oghne diere, and he schal be your beddefiere, til ye conceive and be with childe." and with that word sche wax al mylde, and somdel red becam for schame, and axeth him that goddes name, which so wol don hire compainie. and he seide, "amos of lubie." and sche seith, "that mai i noght lieve, bot if i sihe a betre prieve." "ma dame," quod nectanabus, "in tokne that it schal be thus, this nyht for enformacion ye schul have an avision: that amos schal to you appiere, to schewe and teche in what manere the thing schal afterward befalle. ye oghten wel above alle to make joie of such a lord; for whan ye ben of on acord, he schal a sone of you begete, which with his swerd schal winne and gete the wyde world in lengthe and brede; alle erthli kinges schull him drede, and in such wise, i you behote, the god of erthe he schal be hote." "if this be soth," tho quod the queene, "this nyht, thou seist, it schal be sene. and if it falle into mi grace, of god amos, that i pourchace to take of him so gret worschipe, i wol do thee such ladischipe, wherof thou schalt for everemo be riche." and he hir thonketh tho, and tok his leve and forth he wente. sche wiste litel what he mente, for it was guile and sorcerie, al that sche tok for prophecie. nectanabus thurghout the day, whan he cam hom wher as he lay, his chambre be himselve tok, and overtorneth many a bok, and thurgh the craft of artemage of wex he forgeth an ymage. he loketh his equacions and ek the constellacions, he loketh the conjunccions, he loketh the recepcions, his signe, his houre, his ascendent, and drawth fortune of his assent: the name of queene olimpias in thilke ymage write was amiddes in the front above. and thus to winne his lust of love nectanabus this werk hath diht; and whan it cam withinne nyht, that every wyht is falle aslepe, he thoghte he wolde his time kepe, as he which hath his houre apointed. and thanne ferst he hath enoignted with sondri herbes that figure, and therupon he gan conjure, so that thurgh his enchantement this ladi, which was innocent and wiste nothing of this guile, mette, as sche slepte thilke while, hou fro the hevene cam a lyht, which al hir chambre made lyht; and as sche loketh to and fro, sche sih, hir thoghte, a dragoun tho, whos scherdes schynen as the sonne, and hath his softe pas begonne with al the chiere that he may toward the bedd ther as sche lay, til he cam to the beddes side. and sche lai stille and nothing cride, for he dede alle his thinges faire and was courteis and debonaire: and as he stod hire fasteby, his forme he changeth sodeinly, and the figure of man he nom, to hire and into bedde he com, and such thing there of love he wroghte, wherof, so as hire thanne thoghte, thurgh likinge of this god amos with childe anon hire wombe aros, and sche was wonder glad withal. nectanabus, which causeth al of this metrede the substance, whan he sih time, his nigromance he stinte and nothing more seide of his carecte, and sche abreide out of hir slep, and lieveth wel that it is soth thanne everydel of that this clerk hire hadde told, and was the gladdere manyfold in hope of such a glad metrede, which after schal befalle in dede. sche longeth sore after the dai, that sche hir swevene telle mai to this guilour in privete, which kneu it als so wel as sche: and natheles on morwe sone sche lefte alle other thing to done, and for him sende, and al the cas sche tolde him pleinly as it was, and seide hou thanne wel sche wiste that sche his wordes mihte triste, for sche fond hire avisioun riht after the condicion which he hire hadde told tofore; and preide him hertely therfore that he hire holde covenant so forth of al the remenant, that sche may thurgh his ordinance toward the god do such plesance, that sche wakende myhte him kepe in such wise as sche mette aslepe. and he, that couthe of guile ynouh, whan he this herde, of joie he louh, and seith, "ma dame, it schal be do. bot this i warne you therto: this nyht, whan that he comth to pleie, that ther be no lif in the weie bot i, that schal at his likinge ordeine so for his cominge, that ye ne schull noght of him faile. for this, ma dame, i you consaile, that ye it kepe so prive, that no wiht elles bot we thre have knowlechinge hou that it is; for elles mihte it fare amis, if ye dede oght that scholde him grieve." and thus he makth hire to believe, and feigneth under guile feith: bot natheles al that he seith sche troweth; and ayein the nyht sche hath withinne hire chambre dyht, wher as this guilour faste by upon this god schal prively awaite, as he makth hire to wene: and thus this noble gentil queene, whan sche most trusteth, was deceived. the nyht com, and the chambre is weyved, nectanabus hath take his place, and whan he sih the time and space, thurgh the deceipte of his magique he putte him out of mannes like, and of a dragoun tok the forme, as he which wolde him al conforme to that sche sih in swevene er this; and thus to chambre come he is. the queene lay abedde and sih, and hopeth evere, as he com nyh, that he god of lubye were, so hath sche wel the lasse fere. bot for he wolde hire more assure, yit eft he changeth his figure, and of a wether the liknesse he tok, in signe of his noblesse with large hornes for the nones: of fin gold and of riche stones a corone on his hed he bar, and soudeinly, er sche was war, as he which alle guile can, his forme he torneth into man, and cam to bedde, and sche lai stille, wher as sche soffreth al his wille, as sche which wende noght misdo. bot natheles it hapneth so, althogh sche were in part deceived, yit for al that sche hath conceived the worthieste of alle kiththe, which evere was tofore or siththe of conqueste and chivalerie; so that thurgh guile and sorcerie ther was that noble knyht begunne, which al the world hath after wunne. thus fell the thing which falle scholde, nectanabus hath that he wolde; with guile he hath his love sped, with guile he cam into the bed, with guile he goth him out ayein: he was a schrewed chamberlein, so to beguile a worthi queene, and that on him was after seene. bot natheles the thing is do; this false god was sone go, with his deceipte and hield him clos, til morwe cam, that he aros. and tho, whan time and leisir was, the queene tolde him al the cas, as sche that guile non supposeth; and of tuo pointz sche him opposeth. on was, if that this god nomore wol come ayein, and overmore, hou sche schal stonden in acord with king philippe hire oghne lord, whan he comth hom and seth hire grone. "ma dame," he seith, "let me alone: as for the god i undertake that whan it liketh you to take his compaignie at eny throwe, if i a day tofore it knowe, he schal be with you on the nyht; and he is wel of such a myht to kepe you from alle blame. forthi conforte you, ma dame, ther schal non other cause be." thus tok he leve and forth goth he, and tho began he forto muse hou he the queene mihte excuse toward the king of that is falle; and fond a craft amonges alle, thurgh which he hath a see foul daunted, with his magique and so enchaunted, that he flyh forth, whan it was nyht, unto the kinges tente riht, wher that he lay amidde his host: and whanne he was aslepe most, with that the see foul to him broghte and othre charmes, whiche he wroghte at hom withinne his chambre stille, the king he torneth at his wille, and makth him forto dreme and se the dragoun and the privete which was betuen him and the queene. and over that he made him wene in swevene, hou that the god amos, whan he up fro the queene aros, tok forth a ring, wherinne a ston was set, and grave therupon a sonne, in which, whan he cam nyh, a leoun with a swerd he sih; and with that priente, as he tho mette, upon the queenes wombe he sette a seal, and goth him forth his weie. with that the swevene wente aweie, and tho began the king awake and sigheth for his wyves sake, wher as he lay withinne his tente, and hath gret wonder what it mente. with that he hasteth him to ryse anon, and sende after the wise, among the whiche ther was on, a clerc, his name is amphion: whan he the kinges swevene herde, what it betokneth he ansuerde, and seith, "so siker as the lif, a god hath leie be thi wif, and gete a sone, which schal winne the world and al that is withinne. as leon is the king of bestes, so schal the world obeie his hestes, which with his swerd schal al be wonne, als ferr as schyneth eny sonne." the king was doubtif of this dom; bot natheles, whan that he com ayein into his oghne lond, his wif with childe gret he fond. he mihte noght himselve stiere, that he ne made hire hevy chiere; bot he which couthe of alle sorwe, nectanabus, upon the morwe thurgh the deceipte and nigromance tok of a dragoun the semblance, and wher the king sat in his halle, com in rampende among hem alle with such a noise and such a rore, that thei agast were also sore as thogh thei scholde deie anon. and natheles he grieveth non, bot goth toward the deyss on hih; and whan he cam the queene nyh, he stinte his noise, and in his wise to hire he profreth his servise, and leith his hed upon hire barm; and sche with goodly chiere hire arm aboute his necke ayeinward leide, and thus the queene with him pleide in sihte of alle men aboute. and ate laste he gan to loute and obeissance unto hire make, as he that wolde his leve take; and sodeinly his lothly forme into an egle he gan transforme, and flyh and sette him on a raile; wherof the king hath gret mervaile, for there he pruneth him and piketh, as doth an hauk whan him wel liketh, and after that himself he schok, wherof that al the halle quok, as it a terremote were; thei seiden alle, god was there: in such a res and forth he flyh. the king, which al this wonder syh, whan he cam to his chambre alone, unto the queene he made his mone and of foryivenesse hir preide; for thanne he knew wel, as he seide, sche was with childe with a godd. thus was the king withoute rodd chastised, and the queene excused of that sche hadde ben accused. and for the gretere evidence, yit after that in the presence of king philipp and othre mo, whan thei ride in the fieldes tho, a phesant cam before here yhe, the which anon as thei hire syhe, fleende let an ey doun falle, and it tobrak tofore hem alle: and as thei token therof kepe, thei syhe out of the schelle crepe a litel serpent on the ground, which rampeth al aboute round, and in ayein it wolde have wonne, bot for the brennynge of the sonne it mihte noght, and so it deide. and therupon the clerkes seide, "as the serpent, whan it was oute, went enviroun the schelle aboute and mihte noght torne in ayein, so schal it fallen in certein: this child the world schal environe, and above alle the corone him schal befalle, and in yong age he schal desire in his corage, whan al the world is in his hond, to torn ayein into the lond wher he was bore, and in his weie homward he schal with puison deie." the king, which al this sih and herde, fro that dai forth, hou so it ferde, his jalousie hath al foryete. bot he which hath the child begete, nectanabus, in privete the time of his nativite upon the constellacioun awaiteth, and relacion makth to the queene hou sche schal do, and every houre apointeth so, that no mynut therof was lore. so that in due time is bore this child, and forth with therupon ther felle wondres many on of terremote universiel: the sonne tok colour of stiel and loste his lyht, the wyndes blewe, and manye strengthes overthrewe; the see his propre kinde changeth, and al the world his forme strangeth; the thonder with his fyri levene so cruel was upon the hevene, that every erthli creature tho thoghte his lif in aventure. the tempeste ate laste cesseth, the child is kept, his age encresseth, and alisandre his name is hote, to whom calistre and aristote to techen him philosophie entenden, and astronomie, with othre thinges whiche he couthe also, to teche him in his youthe nectanabus tok upon honde. bot every man mai understonde, of sorcerie hou that it wende, it wole himselve prove at ende, and namely forto beguile a lady, which withoute guile supposeth trouthe al that sche hiereth: bot often he that evele stiereth his schip is dreynt therinne amidde; and in this cas riht so betidde. nectanabus upon a nyht, whan it was fair and sterre lyht, this yonge lord ladde up on hih above a tour, wher as he sih thee sterres such as he acompteth, and seith what ech of hem amonteth, as thogh he knewe of alle thing; bot yit hath he no knowleching what schal unto himself befalle. whan he hath told his wordes alle, this yonge lord thanne him opposeth, and axeth if that he supposeth what deth he schal himselve deie. he seith, "or fortune is aweie and every sterre hath lost his wone, or elles of myn oghne sone i schal be slain, i mai noght fle." thoghte alisandre in privete, "hierof this olde dotard lieth": and er that other oght aspieth, al sodeinliche his olde bones he schof over the wal at ones, and seith him, "ly doun there apart: wherof nou serveth al thin art? thou knewe alle othre mennes chance and of thiself hast ignorance: that thou hast seid amonges alle of thi persone, is noght befalle." nectanabus, which hath his deth, yit while him lasteth lif and breth, to alisandre he spak and seide that he with wrong blame on him leide fro point to point and al the cas he tolde, hou he his sone was. tho he, which sory was ynowh, out of the dich his fader drouh, and tolde his moder hou it ferde in conseil; and whan sche it herde and kneu the toknes whiche he tolde, sche nyste what sche seie scholde, bot stod abayssht as for the while of his magique and al the guile. sche thoghte hou that sche was deceived, that sche hath of a man conceived, and wende a god it hadde be. bot natheles in such degre, so as sche mihte hire honour save, sche schop the body was begrave. and thus nectanabus aboghte the sorcerie which he wroghte: thogh he upon the creatures thurgh his carectes and figures the maistrie and the pouer hadde, his creatour to noght him ladde, ayein whos lawe his craft he useth, whan he for lust his god refuseth, and tok him to the dieules craft. lo, what profit him is belaft: that thing thurgh which he wende have stonde, ferst him exilede out of londe which was his oghne, and from a king made him to ben an underling; and siththen to deceive a queene, that torneth him to mochel teene; thurgh lust of love he gat him hate, that ende couthe he noght abate. his olde sleyhtes whiche he caste, yonge alisaundre hem overcaste, his fader, which him misbegat, he slouh, a gret mishap was that; bot for o mis an other mys was yolde, and so fulofte it is; nectanabus his craft miswente, so it misfell him er he wente. i not what helpeth that clergie which makth a man to do folie, and nameliche of nigromance, which stant upon the mescreance. and forto se more evidence, zorastes, which thexperience of art magique ferst forth drouh, anon as he was bore, he louh, which tokne was of wo suinge: for of his oghne controvinge he fond magique and tauhte it forth; bot al that was him litel worth, for of surrie a worthi king him slou, and that was his endyng. bot yit thurgh him this craft is used, and he thurgh al the world accused, for it schal nevere wel achieve that stant noght riht with the believe: bot lich to wolle is evele sponne, who lest himself hath litel wonne, an ende proveth every thing. sa�l, which was of juys king, up peine of deth forbad this art, and yit he tok therof his part. the phitonesse in samarie yaf him conseil be sorcerie, which after fell to mochel sorwe, for he was slain upon the morwe. to conne moche thing it helpeth, bot of to mochel noman yelpeth: so forto loke on every side, magique mai noght wel betyde. forthi, my sone, i wolde rede that thou of these ensamples drede, that for no lust of erthli love thou seche so to come above, wherof as in the worldes wonder thou schalt for evere be put under. mi goode fader, grant mercy, for evere i schal be war therby: of love what me so befalle, such sorcerie aboven alle fro this dai forth i schal eschuie, that so ne wol i noght poursuie mi lust of love forto seche. bot this i wolde you beseche, beside that me stant of love, as i you herde speke above hou alisandre was betawht to aristotle, and so wel tawht of al that to a king belongeth, wherof min herte sore longeth to wite what it wolde mene. for be reson i wolde wene that if i herde of thinges strange, yit for a time it scholde change mi peine, and lisse me somdiel. mi goode sone, thou seist wel. for wisdom, hou that evere it stonde, to him that can it understonde doth gret profit in sondri wise; bot touchende of so hih aprise, which is noght unto venus knowe, i mai it noght miselve knowe, which of hir court am al forthdrawe and can nothing bot of hir lawe. bot natheles to knowe more als wel as thou me longeth sore; and for it helpeth to comune, al ben thei noght to me comune, the scoles of philosophie, yit thenke i forto specefie, in boke as it is comprehended, wherof thou mihtest ben amended. for thogh i be noght al cunnynge upon the forme of this wrytynge, som part therof yit have i herd, in this matiere hou it hath ferd. explicit liber sextus incipit liber septimus. omnibus in causis sapiens doctrina salutem consequitur, nec habet quis nisi doctus opem. naturam superat doctrina, viro quod et ortus ingenii docilis non dedit, ipsa dabit. non ita discretus hominum per climata regnat, quin magis ut sapiat, indiget ipse schole. i genius the prest of love, mi sone, as thou hast preid above that i the scole schal declare of aristotle and ek the fare of alisandre, hou he was tauht, i am somdel therof destrauht; for it is noght to the matiere of love, why we sitten hiere to schryve, so as venus bad. bot natheles, for it is glad, so as thou seist, for thin aprise to hiere of suche thinges wise, wherof thou myht the time lisse, so as i can, i schal the wisse: for wisdom is at every throwe above alle other thing to knowe in loves cause and elleswhere. forthi, my sone, unto thin ere, though it be noght in the registre of venus, yit of that calistre and aristotle whylom write to alisandre, thou schalt wite. bot for the lores ben diverse, i thenke ferst to the reherce the nature of philosophie, which aristotle of his clergie, wys and expert in the sciences, declareth thilke intelligences, as of thre pointz in principal. wherof the ferste in special is theorique, which is grounded on him which al the world hath founded, which comprehendeth al the lore. and forto loken overmore, next of sciences the seconde is rethorique, whos faconde above alle othre is eloquent: to telle a tale in juggement so wel can noman speke as he. the laste science of the thre it is practique, whos office the vertu tryeth fro the vice, and techeth upon goode thewes to fle the compaignie of schrewes, which stant in disposicion of mannes free eleccion. practique enformeth ek the reule, hou that a worthi king schal reule his realme bothe in werre and pes. lo, thus danz aristotiles these thre sciences hath divided and the nature also decided, wherof that ech of hem schal serve. the ferste, which is the conserve and kepere of the remnant, as that which is most sufficant and chief of the philosophie, if i therof schal specefie so as the philosophre tolde, nou herkne, and kep that thou it holde. of theorique principal the philosophre in special the propretees hath determined, as thilke which is enlumined of wisdom and of hih prudence above alle othre in his science: and stant departed upon thre, the ferste of which in his degre is cleped in philosophie the science of theologie, that other named is phisique, the thridde is seid mathematique. theologie is that science which unto man yifth evidence of thing which is noght bodely, wherof men knowe redely the hihe almyhti trinite, which is o god in unite withouten ende and beginnynge and creatour of alle thinge, of hevene, of erthe and ek of helle. wherof, as olde bokes telle, the philosophre in his resoun wrot upon this conclusioun, and of his wrytinge in a clause he clepeth god the ferste cause, which of himself is thilke good, withoute whom nothing is good, of which that every creature hath his beinge and his nature. after the beinge of the thinges ther ben thre formes of beinges: thing which began and ende schal, that thing is cleped temporal; ther is also be other weie thing which began and schal noght deie. as soules, that ben spiritiel, here beinge is perpetuel: bot ther is on above the sonne, whos time nevere was begonne, and endeles schal evere be; that is the god, whos mageste alle othre thinges schal governe, and his beinge is sempiterne. the god, to whom that al honour belongeth, he is creatour, and othre ben hise creatures: the god commandeth the natures that thei to him obeien alle; withouten him, what so befalle, her myht is non, and he mai al: the god was evere and evere schal, and thei begonne of his assent; the times alle be present to god, to hem and alle unknowe, bot what him liketh that thei knowe: thus bothe an angel and a man, the whiche of al that god began be chief, obeien goddes myht, and he stant endeles upriht. to this science ben prive the clerkes of divinite, the whiche unto the poeple prechen the feith of holi cherche and techen, which in som cas upon believe stant more than thei conne prieve be weie of argument sensible: bot natheles it is credible, and doth a man gret meede have, to him that thenkth himself to save. theologie in such a wise of hih science and hih aprise above alle othre stant unlike, and is the ferste of theorique. phisique is after the secounde, thurgh which the philosophre hath founde to techen sondri knowlechinges upon the bodiliche thinges. of man, of beste, of herbe, of ston, of fissch, of foughl, of everychon that ben of bodely substance, the nature and the circumstance thurgh this science it is ful soght, which vaileth and which vaileth noght. the thridde point of theorique, which cleped is mathematique, devided is in sondri wise and stant upon diverse aprise. the ferste of whiche is arsmetique, and the secounde is seid musique, the thridde is ek geometrie, also the ferthe astronomie. of arsmetique the matiere is that of which a man mai liere what algorisme in nombre amonteth, whan that the wise man acompteth after the formel proprete of algorismes abece: be which multiplicacioun is mad and diminucioun of sommes be thexperience of this art and of this science. the seconde of mathematique, which is the science of musique, that techeth upon armonie a man to make melodie be vois and soun of instrument thurgh notes of acordement, the whiche men pronounce alofte, nou scharpe notes and nou softe, nou hihe notes and nou lowe, as be the gamme a man mai knowe, which techeth the prolacion of note and the condicion. mathematique of his science hath yit the thridde intelligence full of wisdom and of clergie and cleped is geometrie, thurgh which a man hath thilke sleyhte, of lengthe, of brede, of depthe, of heyhte to knowe the proporcion be verrai calculacion of this science: and in this wise these olde philosophres wise, of al this worldes erthe round, hou large, hou thikke was the ground, controeveden thexperience; the cercle and the circumference of every thing unto the hevene thei setten point and mesure evene. mathematique above therthe of hyh science hath yit the ferthe, which spekth upon astronomie and techeth of the sterres hihe, beginnynge upward fro the mone. bot ferst, as it was forto done, this aristotle in other thing unto this worthi yonge king the kinde of every element which stant under the firmament, hou it is mad and in what wise, fro point to point he gan devise. tofore the creacion of eny worldes stacion, of hevene, of erthe, or eke of helle, so as these olde bokes telle, as soun tofore the song is set and yit thei ben togedre knet, riht so the hihe pourveance tho hadde under his ordinance a gret substance, a gret matiere, of which he wolde in his manere these othre thinges make and forme. for yit withouten eny forme was that matiere universal, which hihte ylem in special. of ylem, as i am enformed, these elementz ben mad and formed, of ylem elementz they hote after the scole of aristote, of whiche if more i schal reherce, foure elementz ther ben diverse. the ferste of hem men erthe calle, which is the lowest of hem alle, and in his forme is schape round, substancial, strong, sadd and sound, as that which mad is sufficant to bere up al the remenant. for as the point in a compas stant evene amiddes, riht so was this erthe set and schal abyde, that it may swerve to no side, and hath his centre after the lawe of kinde, and to that centre drawe desireth every worldes thing, if ther ne were no lettyng. above therthe kepth his bounde the water, which is the secounde of elementz, and al withoute it environeth therthe aboute. bot as it scheweth, noght forthi this soubtil water myhtely, thogh it be of himselve softe, the strengthe of therthe perceth ofte; for riht as veines ben of blod in man, riht so the water flod therthe of his cours makth ful of veines, als wel the helles as the pleines. and that a man may sen at ije, for wher the hulles ben most hyhe, ther mai men welle stremes finde: so proveth it be weie of kinde the water heyher than the lond. and over this nou understond, air is the thridde of elementz, of whos kinde his aspirementz takth every lifissh creature, the which schal upon erthe endure: for as the fissh, if it be dreie, mot in defaute of water deie, riht so withouten air on lyve no man ne beste myhte thryve, the which is mad of fleissh and bon; there is outake of alle non. this air in periferies thre divided is of such degre, benethe is on and on amidde, to whiche above is set the thridde: and upon the divisions there ben diverse impressions of moist and ek of drye also, whiche of the sonne bothe tuo ben drawe and haled upon hy, and maken cloudes in the sky, as schewed is at mannes sihte; wherof be day and ek be nyhte after the times of the yer among ous upon erthe her in sondri wise thinges falle. the ferste periferie of alle engendreth myst and overmore the dewes and the frostes hore, after thilke intersticion in which thei take impression. fro the seconde, as bokes sein, the moiste dropes of the reyn descenden into middilerthe, and tempreth it to sed and erthe, and doth to springe grass and flour. and ofte also the grete schour out of such place it mai be take, that it the forme schal forsake of reyn, and into snow be torned; and ek it mai be so sojorned in sondri places up alofte, that into hail it torneth ofte. the thridde of thair after the lawe thurgh such matiere as up is drawe of dreie thing, as it is ofte, among the cloudes upon lofte, and is so clos, it may noght oute,- thanne is it chased sore aboute, til it to fyr and leyt be falle, and thanne it brekth the cloudes alle, the whiche of so gret noyse craken, that thei the feerful thonder maken. the thonderstrok smit er it leyte, and yit men sen the fyr and leyte, the thonderstrok er that men hiere: so mai it wel be proeved hiere in thing which schewed is fro feer, a mannes yhe is there nerr thanne is the soun to mannes ere. and natheles it is gret feere bothe of the strok and of the fyr, of which is no recoverir in place wher that thei descende, bot if god wolde his grace sende. and forto speken over this, in this partie of thair it is that men fulofte sen be nyhte the fyr in sondri forme alyhte. somtime the fyrdrake it semeth, and so the lewed poeple it demeth; somtime it semeth as it were a sterre, which that glydeth there: bot it is nouther of the tuo, the philosophre telleth so, and seith that of impressions thurgh diverse exalacions upon the cause and the matiere men sen diverse forme appiere of fyr, the which hath sondri name. assub, he seith, is thilke same, the which in sondry place is founde, whanne it is falle doun to grounde, so as the fyr it hath aneled, lich unto slym which is congeled. of exalacion i finde fyr kinled of the fame kinde, bot it is of an other forme; wherof, if that i schal conforme the figure unto that it is, these olde clerkes tellen this, that it is lik a got skippende, and for that it is such semende, it hatte capra saliens. and ek these astronomiens an other fyr also, be nyhte which scheweth him to mannes syhte, thei clepen eges, the which brenneth lik to the corrant fyr that renneth upon a corde, as thou hast sein, whan it with poudre is so besein of sulphre and othre thinges mo. ther is an other fyr also, which semeth to a mannes yhe be nyhtes time as thogh ther flyhe a dragon brennende in the sky, and that is cleped proprely daaly, wherof men sein fulofte, "lo, wher the fyri drake alofte fleth up in thair!" and so thei demen. bot why the fyres suche semen of sondri formes to beholde, the wise philosophre tolde, so as tofore it hath ben herd. lo thus, my sone, hou it hath ferd: of air the due proprete in sondri wise thou myht se, and hou under the firmament it is ek the thridde element, which environeth bothe tuo, the water and the lond also. and forto tellen overthis of elementz which the ferthe is, that is the fyr in his degre, which environeth thother thre and is withoute moist al drye. bot lest nou what seith the clergie; for upon hem that i have seid the creatour hath set and leid the kinde and the complexion of alle mennes nacion. foure elementz sondri ther be, lich unto whiche of that degre among the men ther ben also complexions foure and nomo, wherof the philosophre treteth, that he nothing behinde leteth, and seith hou that thei ben diverse, so as i schal to thee reherse. he which natureth every kinde, the myhti god, so as i finde, of man, which is his creature, hath so devided the nature, that non til other wel acordeth: and be the cause it so discordeth, the lif which fieleth the seknesse mai stonde upon no sekernesse. of therthe, which is cold and drye, the kinde of man malencolie is cleped, and that is the ferste, the most ungoodlich and the werste; for unto loves werk on nyht him lacketh bothe will and myht: no wonder is, in lusty place of love though he lese grace. what man hath that complexion, full of ymaginacion of dredes and of wrathful thoghtes, he fret himselven al to noghtes. the water, which is moyste and cold, makth fleume, which is manyfold foryetel, slou and wery sone of every thing which is to done: he is of kinde sufficant to holde love his covenant, bot that him lacketh appetit, which longeth unto such delit. what man that takth his kinde of thair, he schal be lyht, he schal be fair, for his complexion is blood. of alle ther is non so good, for he hath bothe will and myht to plese and paie love his riht: wher as he hath love undertake, wrong is if that he be forsake. the fyr of his condicion appropreth the complexion which in a man is colre hote, whos propretes ben dreie and hote: it makth a man ben enginous and swift of fote and ek irous; of contek and folhastifnesse he hath a riht gret besinesse, to thenke of love and litel may: though he behote wel a day, on nyht whan that he wole assaie, he may ful evele his dette paie. after the kinde of thelement, thus stant a mannes kinde went, as touchende his complexion, upon sondri division of dreie, of moiste, of chele, of hete, and ech of hem his oghne sete appropred hath withinne a man. and ferst to telle as i began, the splen is to malencolie assigned for herbergerie: the moiste fleume with his cold hath in the lunges for his hold ordeined him a propre stede, to duelle ther as he is bede: to the sanguin complexion nature of hire inspeccion a propre hous hath in the livere for his duellinge mad delivere: the dreie colre with his hete be weie of kinde his propre sete hath in the galle, wher he duelleth, so as the philosophre telleth. nou over this is forto wite, as it is in phisique write of livere, of lunge, of galle, of splen, thei alle unto the herte ben servantz, and ech in his office entendeth to don him service, as he which is chief lord above. the livere makth him forto love, the lunge yifth him weie of speche, the galle serveth to do wreche, the splen doth him to lawhe and pleie, whan al unclennesse is aweie: lo, thus hath ech of hem his dede. and to sustienen hem and fede in time of recreacion, nature hath in creacion the stomach for a comun coc ordeined, so as seith the boc. the stomach coc is for the halle, and builleth mete for hem alle, to make hem myghty forto serve the herte, that he schal noght sterve: for as a king in his empire above alle othre is lord and sire, so is the herte principal, to whom reson in special is yove as for the governance. and thus nature his pourveance hath mad for man to liven hiere; bot god, which hath the soule diere, hath formed it in other wise. that can noman pleinli devise; bot as the clerkes ous enforme, that lich to god it hath a forme, thurgh which figure and which liknesse the soule hath many an hyh noblesse appropred to his oghne kinde. bot ofte hir wittes be mad blinde al onliche of this ilke point, that hir abydinge is conjoint forth with the bodi forto duelle: that on desireth toward helle, that other upward to the hevene; so schul thei nevere stonde in evene, bot if the fleissh be overcome and that the soule have holi nome the governance, and that is selde, whil that the fleissh him mai bewelde. al erthli thing which god began was only mad to serve man; bot he the soule al only made himselven forto serve and glade. alle othre bestes that men finde thei serve unto here oghne kinde, bot to reson the soule serveth; wherof the man his thonk deserveth and get him with hise werkes goode the perdurable lyves foode. of what matiere it schal be told, a tale lyketh manyfold the betre, if it be spoke plein: thus thinke i forto torne ayein and telle plenerly therfore of therthe, wherof nou tofore i spak, and of the water eke, so as these olde clerkes spieke, and sette proprely the bounde after the forme of mappemounde, thurgh which the ground be pourparties departed is in thre parties, that is asie, aufrique, europe, the whiche under the hevene cope, als ferr as streccheth eny ground, begripeth al this erthe round. bot after that the hihe wrieche the water weies let out seche and overgo the helles hye, which every kinde made dye that upon middelerthe stod, outake noe and his blod, his sones and his doughtres thre, thei were sauf and so was he;- here names who that rede rihte, sem, cam, japhet the brethren hihte;- and whanne thilke almyhty hond withdrouh the water fro the lond, and al the rage was aweie, and erthe was the mannes weie, the sones thre, of whiche i tolde, riht after that hemselve wolde, this world departe thei begonne. asie, which lay to the sonne upon the marche of orient, was graunted be comun assent to sem, which was the sone eldeste; for that partie was the beste and double as moche as othre tuo. and was that time bounded so; wher as the flod which men nil calleth departeth fro his cours and falleth into the see alexandrine, ther takth asie ferst seisine toward the west, and over this of canahim wher the flod is into the grete see rennende, fro that into the worldes ende estward, asie it is algates, til that men come unto the gates of paradis, and there ho. and schortly for to speke it so, of orient in general withinne his bounde asie hath al. and thanne upon that other syde westward, as it fell thilke tyde, the brother which was hote cham upon his part aufrique nam. japhet europe tho tok he, thus parten thei the world on thre. bot yit ther ben of londes fele in occident as for the chele, in orient as for the hete, which of the poeple be forlete as lond desert that is unable, for it mai noght ben habitable. the water eke hath sondri bounde, after the lond wher it is founde, and takth his name of thilke londes wher that it renneth on the strondes: bot thilke see which hath no wane is cleped the gret occeane, out of the which arise and come the hyhe flodes alle and some; is non so litel welle spring, which ther ne takth his beginnyng, and lich a man that haleth breth be weie of kinde, so it geth out of the see and in ayein, the water, as the bokes sein. of elementz the propretes hou that they stonden be degres, as i have told, nou myht thou hiere, mi goode sone, al the matiere of erthe, of water, air and fyr. and for thou saist that thi desir is forto witen overmore the forme of aristotles lore, he seith in his entendement, that yit ther is an element above the foure, and is the fifte, set of the hihe goddes yifte, the which that orbis cleped is. and therupon he telleth this, that as the schelle hol and sound encloseth al aboute round what thing withinne an ey belongeth, riht so this orbis underfongeth these elementz alle everychon, which i have spoke of on and on. bot overthis nou tak good hiede, mi sone, for i wol procede to speke upon mathematique, which grounded is on theorique. the science of astronomie i thinke forto specefie, withoute which, to telle plein, alle othre science is in vein toward the scole of erthli thinges: for as an egle with his winges fleth above alle that men finde, so doth this science in his kinde. benethe upon this erthe hiere of alle thinges the matiere, as tellen ous thei that ben lerned, of thing above it stant governed, that is to sein of the planetes. the cheles bothe and ek the hetes, the chances of the world also, that we fortune clepen so, among the mennes nacion al is thurgh constellacion, wherof that som man hath the wele, and som man hath deseses fele in love als wel as othre thinges; the stat of realmes and of kinges in time of pes, in time of werre it is conceived of the sterre: and thus seith the naturien which is an astronomien. bot the divin seith otherwise, that if men weren goode and wise and plesant unto the godhede, thei scholden noght the sterres drede; for o man, if him wel befalle, is more worth than ben thei alle towardes him that weldeth al. bot yit the lawe original, which he hath set in the natures, mot worchen in the creatures, that therof mai be non obstacle, bot if it stonde upon miracle thurgh preiere of som holy man. and forthi, so as i began to speke upon astronomie, as it is write in the clergie, to telle hou the planetes fare, som part i thenke to declare, mi sone, unto thin audience. astronomie is the science of wisdom and of hih connynge, which makth a man have knowlechinge of sterres in the firmament, figure, cercle and moevement of ech of hem in sondri place, and what betwen hem is of space, hou so thei moeve or stonde faste, al this it telleth to the laste. assembled with astronomie is ek that ilke astrologie the which in juggementz acompteth theffect, what every sterre amonteth, and hou thei causen many a wonder to tho climatz that stonde hem under. and forto telle it more plein, these olde philosphres sein that orbis, which i spak of err, is that which we fro therthe a ferr beholde, and firmament it calle, in which the sterres stonden alle, among the whiche in special planetes sefne principal ther ben, that mannes sihte demeth, bot thorizonte, as to ous semeth. and also ther ben signes tuelve, whiche have her cercles be hemselve compassed in the zodiaque, in which thei have here places take. and as thei stonden in degre, here cercles more or lasse be, mad after the proporcion of therthe, whos condicion is set to be the foundement to sustiene up the firmament. and be this skile a man mai knowe, the more that thei stonden lowe, the more ben the cercles lasse; that causeth why that some passe here due cours tofore an other. bot nou, mi lieve dere brother, as thou desirest forto wite what i finde in the bokes write, to telle of the planetes sevene, hou that thei stonde upon the hevene and in what point that thei ben inne, tak hiede, for i wol beginne, so as the philosophre tauhte to alisandre and it betauhte, wherof that he was fulli tawht of wisdom, which was him betawht. benethe alle othre stant the mone, the which hath with the see to done: of flodes hihe and ebbes lowe upon his change it schal be knowe; and every fissh which hath a schelle mot in his governance duelle, to wexe and wane in his degre, as be the mone a man mai se; and al that stant upon the grounde of his moisture it mot be founde. alle othre sterres, as men finde, be schynende of here oghne kinde outake only the monelyht, which is noght of himselve bright, bot as he takth it of the sonne. and yit he hath noght al fulwonne his lyht, that he nys somdiel derk; bot what the lette is of that werk in almageste it telleth this: the mones cercle so lowe is, wherof the sonne out of his stage ne seth him noght with full visage, for he is with the ground beschaded, so that the mone is somdiel faded and may noght fully schyne cler. bot what man under his pouer is bore, he schal his places change and seche manye londes strange: and as of this condicion the mones disposicion upon the lond of alemaigne is set, and ek upon bretaigne, which nou is cleped engelond; for thei travaile in every lond. of the planetes the secounde above the mone hath take his bounde, mercurie, and his nature is this, that under him who that bore is, in boke he schal be studious and in wrytinge curious, and slouh and lustles to travaile in thing which elles myhte availe: he loveth ese, he loveth reste, so is he noght the worthieste; bot yit with somdiel besinesse his herte is set upon richesse. and as in this condicion, theffect and disposicion of this planete and of his chance is most in burgoigne and in france. next to mercurie, as wol befalle, stant that planete which men calle venus, whos constellacion governeth al the nacion of lovers, wher thei spiede or non, of whiche i trowe thou be on: bot whiderward thin happes wende, schal this planete schewe at ende, as it hath do to many mo, to some wel, to some wo. and natheles of this planete the moste part is softe and swete; for who that therof takth his berthe, he schal desire joie and merthe, gentil, courteis and debonaire, to speke his wordes softe and faire, such schal he be be weie of kinde, and overal wher he may finde plesance of love, his herte boweth with al his myht and there he woweth. he is so ferforth amourous, he not what thing is vicious touchende love, for that lawe ther mai no maner man withdrawe, the which venerien is bore be weie of kinde, and therefore venus of love the goddesse is cleped: bot of wantounesse the climat of hir lecherie is most commun in lombardie. next unto this planete of love the brighte sonne stant above, which is the hindrere of the nyht and forthrere of the daies lyht, as he which is the worldes ije, thurgh whom the lusti compaignie of foules be the morwe singe, the freisshe floures sprede and springe, the hihe tre the ground beschadeth, and every mannes herte gladeth. and for it is the hed planete, hou that he sitteth in his sete, of what richesse, of what nobleie, these bokes telle, and thus thei seie. of gold glistrende spoke and whiel the sonne his carte hath faire and wiel, in which he sitt, and is coroned with brighte stones environed; of whiche if that i speke schal, ther be tofore in special set in the front of his corone thre stones, whiche no persone hath upon erthe, and the ferste is be name cleped licuchis; that othre tuo be cleped thus, astrices and ceramius. in his corone also behinde, be olde bokes as i finde, ther ben of worthi stones thre set ech of hem in his degre: wherof a cristall is that on, which that corone is set upon; the seconde is an adamant; the thridde is noble and avenant, which cleped is ydriades. and over this yit natheles upon the sydes of the werk, after the wrytinge of the clerk, ther sitten fyve stones mo: the smaragdine is on of tho, jaspis and elitropius and dendides and jacinctus. lo, thus the corone is beset, wherof it schyneth wel the bet; and in such wise his liht to sprede sit with his diademe on hede the sonne schynende in his carte. and forto lede him swithe and smarte after the bryhte daies lawe, ther ben ordeined forto drawe foure hors his char and him withal, wherof the names telle i schal: erithe�s the ferste is hote, the which is red and schyneth hote, the seconde acteos the bryhte, lampes the thridde coursier hihte, and philoge�s is the ferthe, that bringen lyht unto this erthe, and gon so swift upon the hevene, in foure and twenty houres evene the carte with the bryhte sonne thei drawe, so that overronne thei have under the cercles hihe al middelerthe in such an hye. and thus the sonne is overal the chief planete imperial, above him and benethe him thre: and thus betwen hem regneth he, as he that hath the middel place among the sevene, and of his face be glade alle erthly creatures, and taken after the natures here ese and recreacion. and in his constellacion who that is bore in special, of good will and of liberal he schal be founde in alle place, and also stonde in mochel grace toward the lordes forto serve and gret profit and thonk deserve. and over that it causeth yit a man to be soubtil of wit to worche in gold, and to be wys in every thing which is of pris. bot forto speken in what cost of al this erthe he regneth most as for wisdom, it is in grece, wher is apropred thilke spiece. mars the planete bataillous next to the sonne glorious above stant, and doth mervailes upon the fortune of batailes. the conquerours be daies olde were unto this planete holde: bot who that his nativite hath take upon the proprete of martes disposicioun be weie of constellacioun, he schal be fiers and folhastif and desirous of werre and strif. bot forto telle redely in what climat most comunly that this planete hath his effect, seid is that he hath his aspect upon the holi lond so cast, that there is no pes stedefast. above mars upon the hevene, the sexte planete of the sevene, stant jupiter the delicat, which causeth pes and no debat. for he is cleped that planete which of his kinde softe and swete attempreth al that to him longeth; and whom this planete underfongeth to stonde upon his regiment, he schal be meke and pacient and fortunat to marchandie and lusti to delicacie in every thing which he schal do. this jupiter is cause also of the science of lyhte werkes, and in this wise tellen clerkes he is the planete of delices. bot in egipte of his offices he regneth most in special: for ther be lustes overal of al that to this lif befalleth; for ther no stormy weder falleth, which myhte grieve man or beste, and ek the lond is so honeste that it is plentevous and plein, ther is non ydel ground in vein; and upon such felicite stant jupiter in his degre. the heyeste and aboven alle stant that planete which men calle saturnus, whos complexion is cold, and his condicion causeth malice and crualte to him the whos nativite is set under his governance. for alle hise werkes ben grevance and enemy to mannes hele, in what degre that he schal dele. his climat is in orient, wher that he is most violent. of the planetes by and by, hou that thei stonde upon the sky, fro point to point as thou myht hiere, was alisandre mad to liere. bot overthis touchende his lore, of thing that thei him tawhte more upon the scoles of clergie now herkne the philosophie. he which departeth dai fro nyht, that on derk and that other lyht, of sevene daies made a weke, a monthe of foure wekes eke he hath ordeigned in his lawe, of monthes tuelve and ek forthdrawe he hath also the longe yeer. and as he sette of his pouer acordant to the daies sevene planetes sevene upon the hevene, as thou tofore hast herd devise, to speke riht in such a wise, to every monthe be himselve upon the hevene of signes tuelve he hath after his ordinal assigned on in special, wherof, so as i schal rehersen, the tydes of the yer diversen. bot pleinly forto make it knowe hou that the signes sitte arowe, ech after other be degre in substance and in proprete the zodiaque comprehendeth withinne his cercle, as it appendeth. the ferste of whiche natheles be name is cleped aries, which lich a wether of stature resembled is in his figure. and as it seith in almageste, of sterres tuelve upon this beste ben set, wherof in his degre the wombe hath tuo, the heved hath thre, the tail hath sevene, and in this wise, as thou myht hiere me divise, stant aries, which hot and drye is of himself, and in partie he is the receipte and the hous of myhty mars the bataillous. and overmore ek, as i finde, the creatour of alle kinde upon this signe ferst began the world, whan that he made man. and of this constellacioun the verray operacioun availeth, if a man therinne the pourpos of his werk beginne; for thanne he hath of proprete good sped and gret felicite. the tuelve monthes of the yeer attitled under the pouer of these tuelve signes stonde; wherof that thou schalt understonde this aries on of the tuelve hath march attitled for himselve, whan every bridd schal chese his make, and every neddre and every snake and every reptil which mai moeve, his myht assaieth forto proeve, to crepen out ayein the sonne, whan ver his seson hath begonne. taurus the seconde after this of signes, which figured is unto a bole, is dreie and cold; and as it is in bokes told, he is the hous appourtienant to venus, somdiel descordant. this bole is ek with sterres set, thurgh whiche he hath hise hornes knet unto the tail of aries, so is he noght ther sterreles. upon his brest ek eyhtetiene he hath, and ek, as it is sene, upon his tail stonde othre tuo. his monthe assigned ek also is averil, which of his schoures ministreth weie unto the floures. the thridde signe is gemini, which is figured redely lich to tuo twinnes of mankinde, that naked stonde; and as i finde, thei be with sterres wel bego: the heved hath part of thilke tuo that schyne upon the boles tail, so be thei bothe of o parail; but on the wombe of gemini ben fyve sterres noght forthi, and ek upon the feet be tweie, so as these olde bokes seie, that wise tholome�s wrot. his propre monthe wel i wot assigned is the lusti maii, whanne every brid upon his lay among the griene leves singeth, and love of his pointure stingeth after the lawes of nature the youthe of every creature. cancer after the reule and space of signes halt the ferthe place. like to the crabbe he hath semblance, and hath unto his retienance sextiene sterres, wherof ten, so as these olde wise men descrive, he berth on him tofore, and in the middel tuo be bore, and foure he hath upon his ende. thus goth he sterred in his kende, and of himself is moiste and cold, and is the propre hous and hold which appartieneth to the mone, and doth what longeth him to done. the monthe of juin unto this signe thou schalt after the reule assigne. the fifte signe is leo hote, whos kinde is schape dreie and hote, in whom the sonne hath herbergage. and the semblance of his ymage is a leoun, which in baillie of sterres hath his pourpartie: the foure, which as cancer hath upon his ende, leo tath upon his heved, and thanne nest he hath ek foure upon his brest, and on upon his tail behinde, in olde bokes as we finde. his propre monthe is juyl be name, in which men pleien many a game. after leo virgo the nexte of signes cleped is the sexte, wherof the figure is a maide; and as the philosophre saide, sche is the welthe and the risinge, the lust, the joie and the likinge unto mercurie: and soth to seie sche is with sterres wel beseie, wherof leo hath lent hire on, which sit on hih hir heved upon, hire wombe hath fyve, hir feet also have other fyve: and overmo touchende as of complexion, be kindly disposicion of dreie and cold this maiden is. and forto tellen over this hir monthe, thou schalt understonde, whan every feld hath corn in honde and many a man his bak hath plied, unto this signe is augst applied. after virgo to reknen evene libra sit in the nombre of sevene, which hath figure and resemblance unto a man which a balance berth in his hond as forto weie: in boke and as it mai be seie, diverse sterres to him longeth, wherof on hevede he underfongeth ferst thre, and ek his wombe hath tuo, and doun benethe eighte othre mo. this signe is hot and moiste bothe, the whiche thinges be noght lothe unto venus, so that alofte sche resteth in his hous fulofte, and ek saturnus often hyed is in this signe and magnefied. his propre monthe is seid septembre, which yifth men cause to remembre, if eny sor be left behinde of thing which grieve mai to kinde. among the signes upon heighte the signe which is nombred eighte is scorpio, which as feloun figured is a scorpioun. bot for al that yit natheles is scorpio noght sterreles; for libra granteth him his ende of eighte sterres, wher he wende, the whiche upon his heved assised he berth, and ek ther ben divised upon his wombe sterres thre, and eighte upon his tail hath he. which of his kinde is moiste and cold and unbehovely manyfold; he harmeth venus and empeireth, bot mars unto his hous repeireth, bot war whan thei togedre duellen. his propre monthe is, as men tellen, octobre, which bringth the kalende of wynter, that comth next suiende. the nynthe signe in nombre also, which folweth after scorpio, is cleped sagittarius, the whos figure is marked thus, a monstre with a bowe on honde: on whom that sondri sterres stonde, thilke eighte of whiche i spak tofore, the whiche upon the tail ben bore of scorpio, the heved al faire bespreden of the sagittaire; and eighte of othre stonden evene upon his wombe, and othre sevene ther stonde upon his tail behinde. and he is hot and dreie of kinde: to jupiter his hous is fre, bot to mercurie in his degre, for thei ben noght of on assent, he worcheth gret empeirement. this signe hath of his proprete a monthe, which of duete after the sesoun that befalleth the plowed oxe in wynter stalleth; and fyr into the halle he bringeth, and thilke drinke of which men singeth, he torneth must into the wyn; thanne is the larder of the swyn; that is novembre which i meene, whan that the lef hath lost his greene. the tenthe signe dreie and cold, the which is capricornus told, unto a got hath resemblance: for whos love and whos aqueintance withinne hise houses to sojorne it liketh wel unto satorne, bot to the mone it liketh noght, for no profit is there wroght. this signe as of his proprete upon his heved hath sterres thre, and ek upon his wombe tuo, and tweie upon his tail also. decembre after the yeeres forme, so as the bokes ous enforme, with daies schorte and nyhtes longe this ilke signe hath underfonge. of tho that sitte upon the hevene of signes in the nombre ellevene aquarius hath take his place, and stant wel in satornes grace, which duelleth in his herbergage, bot to the sonne he doth oultrage. this signe is verraily resembled lich to a man which halt assembled in eyther hand a water spoute, wherof the stremes rennen oute. he is of kinde moiste and hot, and he that of the sterres wot seith that he hath of sterres tuo upon his heved, and ben of tho that capricorn hath on his ende; and as the bokes maken mende, that tholome�s made himselve, he hath ek on his wombe tuelve, and tweie upon his ende stonde. thou schalt also this understonde, the frosti colde janever, whan comen is the newe yeer, that janus with his double face in his chaiere hath take his place and loketh upon bothe sides, somdiel toward the wynter tydes, somdiel toward the yeer suiende, that is the monthe belongende unto this signe, and of his dole he yifth the ferste primerole. the tuelfthe, which is last of alle of signes, piscis men it calle, the which, as telleth the scripture, berth of tuo fisshes the figure. so is he cold and moiste of kinde, and ek with sterres, as i finde, beset in sondri wise, as thus: tuo of his ende aquarius hath lent unto his heved, and tuo this signe hath of his oghne also upon his wombe, and over this upon his ende also ther is a nombre of twenty sterres bryghte, which is to sen a wonder sighte. toward this signe into his hous comth jupiter the glorious, and venus ek with him acordeth to duellen, as the bok recordeth. the monthe unto this signe ordeined is februer, which is bereined, and with londflodes in his rage at fordes letteth the passage. nou hast thou herd the proprete of signes, bot in his degre albumazar yit over this seith, so as therthe parted is in foure, riht so ben divised the signes tuelve and stonde assised, that ech of hem for his partie hath his climat to justefie. wherof the ferste regiment toward the part of orient from antioche and that contre governed is of signes thre, that is cancer, virgo, leo: and toward occident also from armenie, as i am lerned, of capricorn it stant governed, of pisces and aquarius: and after hem i finde thus, southward from alisandre forth tho signes whiche most ben worth in governance of that doaire, libra thei ben and sagittaire with scorpio, which is conjoint with hem to stonde upon that point: constantinople the cite, so as the bokes tellen me, the laste of this division stant untoward septemtrion, wher as be weie of pourveance hath aries the governance forth with taurus and gemini. thus ben the signes propreli divided, as it is reherced, wherof the londes ben diversed. lo thus, mi sone, as thou myht hiere, was alisandre mad to liere of hem that weren for his lore. but nou to loken overmore, of othre sterres hou thei fare i thenke hierafter to declare, so as king alisandre in youthe of him that suche thinges couthe enformed was tofore his yhe be nyhte upon the sterres hihe. upon sondri creacion stant sondri operacion, som worcheth this, som worcheth that; the fyr is hot in his astat and brenneth what he mai atteigne, the water mai the fyr restreigne, the which is cold and moist also. of other thing it farth riht so upon this erthe among ous here; and forto speke in this manere, upon the hevene, as men mai finde, the sterres ben of sondri kinde and worchen manye sondri thinges to ous, that ben here underlinges. among the whiche forth withal nectanabus in special, which was an astronomien and ek a gret magicien, and undertake hath thilke emprise to alisandre in his aprise as of magique naturel to knowe, enformeth him somdel of certein sterres what thei mene; of whiche, he seith, ther ben fiftene, and sondrily to everich on a gras belongeth and a ston, wherof men worchen many a wonder to sette thing bothe up and under. to telle riht as he began, the ferste sterre aldeboran, the cliereste and the moste of alle, be rihte name men it calle; which lich is of condicion to mars, and of complexion to venus, and hath therupon carbunculum his propre ston: his herbe is anabulla named, which is of gret vertu proclamed. the seconde is noght vertules; clota or elles pliades it hatte, and of the mones kinde he is, and also this i finde, he takth of mars complexion: and lich to such condicion his ston appropred is cristall, and ek his herbe in special the vertuous fenele it is. the thridde, which comth after this, is hote algol the clere rede, which of satorne, as i may rede, his kinde takth, and ek of jove complexion to his behove. his propre ston is dyamant, which is to him most acordant; his herbe, which is him betake, is hote eleborum the blake. so as it falleth upon lot, the ferthe sterre is alhaiot, which in the wise as i seide er of satorne and of jupiter hath take his kinde; and therupon the saphir is his propre ston, marrubium his herbe also, the whiche acorden bothe tuo. and canis maior in his like the fifte sterre is of magique, the whos kinde is venerien, as seith this astronomien. his propre ston is seid berille, bot forto worche and to fulfille thing which to this science falleth, ther is an herbe which men calleth saveine, and that behoveth nede to him that wole his pourpos spede. the sexte suiende after this be name canis minor is; the which sterre is mercurial be weie of kinde, and forth withal, as it is writen in the carte, complexion he takth of marte. his ston and herbe, as seith the scole, ben achates and primerole. the sefnthe sterre in special of this science is arial, which sondri nature underfongeth. the ston which propre unto him longeth, gorgonza proprely it hihte: his herbe also, which he schal rihte upon the worchinge as i mene, is celidoine freissh and grene. sterre ala corvi upon heihte hath take his place in nombre of eighte, which of his kinde mot parforne the will of marte and of satorne: to whom lapacia the grete is herbe, bot of no beyete; his ston is honochinus hote, thurgh which men worchen gret riote. the nynthe sterre faire and wel be name is hote alaezel, which takth his propre kinde thus bothe of mercurie and of venus. his ston is the grene amyraude, to whom is yoven many a laude: salge is his herbe appourtenant aboven al the rememant. the tenthe sterre is almareth, which upon lif and upon deth thurgh kinde of jupiter and mart he doth what longeth to his part. his ston is jaspe, and of planteine he hath his herbe sovereine. the sterre ellefthe is venenas, the whos nature is as it was take of venus and of the mone, in thing which he hath forto done. of adamant is that perrie in which he worcheth his maistrie; thilke herbe also which him befalleth, cicorea the bok it calleth. alpheta in the nombre sit, and is the twelfthe sterre yit; of scorpio which is governed, and takth his kinde, as i am lerned; and hath his vertu in the ston which cleped is topazion: his herbe propre is rosmarine, which schapen is for his covine. of these sterres, whiche i mene, cor scorpionis is thritiene; the whos nature mart and jove have yoven unto his behove. his herbe is aristologie, which folweth his astronomie: the ston which that this sterre alloweth, is sardis, which unto him boweth. the sterre which stant next the laste, nature on him this name caste and clepeth him botercadent; which of his kinde obedient is to mercurie and to venus. his ston is seid crisolitus, his herbe is cleped satureie, so as these olde bokes seie. bot nou the laste sterre of alle the tail of scorpio men calle, which to mercurie and to satorne be weie of kinde mot retorne after the preparacion of due constellacion. the calcedoine unto him longeth, which for his ston he underfongeth; of majorane his herbe is grounded. thus have i seid hou thei be founded, of every sterre in special, which hath his herbe and ston withal, as hermes in his bokes olde witnesse berth of that i tolde. the science of astronomie, which principal is of clergie to dieme betwen wo and wel in thinges that be naturel, thei hadde a gret travail on honde that made it ferst ben understonde; and thei also which overmore here studie sette upon this lore, thei weren gracious and wys and worthi forto bere a pris. and whom it liketh forto wite of hem that this science write, on of the ferste which it wrot after noe , it was nembrot, to his disciple ychonithon and made a bok forth therupon the which megaster cleped was. an other auctor in this cas is arachel, the which men note; his bok is abbategnyh hote. danz tholome is noght the leste, which makth the bok of almageste; and alfraganus doth the same, whos bok is chatemuz be name. gebuz and alpetragus eke of planisperie, which men seke, the bokes made: and over this ful many a worthi clerc ther is, that writen upon this clergie the bokes of altemetrie, planemetrie and ek also, whiche as belongen bothe tuo, so as thei ben naturiens, unto these astronomiens. men sein that habraham was on; bot whether that he wrot or non, that finde i noght; and moi ses ek was an other: bot hermes above alle othre in this science he hadde a gret experience; thurgh him was many a sterre assised, whos bokes yit ben auctorized. i mai noght knowen alle tho that writen in the time tho of this science; bot i finde, of jugement be weie of kinde that in o point thei alle acorden: of sterres whiche thei recorden that men mai sen upon the hevene, ther ben a thousend sterres evene and tuo and twenty, to the syhte whiche aren of hemself so bryhte, that men mai dieme what thei be, the nature and the proprete. nou hast thou herd, in which a wise these noble philosophres wise enformeden this yonge king, and made him have a knowleching of thing which ferst to the partie belongeth of philosophie, which theorique cleped is, as thou tofore hast herd er this. bot nou to speke of the secounde, which aristotle hath also founde, and techeth hou to speke faire, which is a thing full necessaire to contrepeise the balance, wher lacketh other sufficance. above alle erthli creatures the hihe makere of natures the word to man hath yove alone, so that the speche of his persone, or forto lese or forto winne, the hertes thoght which is withinne mai schewe, what it wolde mene; and that is noghwhere elles sene of kinde with non other beste. so scholde he be the more honeste, to whom god yaf so gret a yifte, and loke wel that he ne schifte hise wordes to no wicked us; for word the techer of vertus is cleped in philosophie. wherof touchende this partie, is rethorique the science appropred to the reverence of wordes that ben resonable: and for this art schal be vailable with goodli wordes forto like, it hath gramaire, it hath logiqe, that serven bothe unto the speche. gramaire ferste hath forto teche to speke upon congruite: logique hath eke in his degre betwen the trouthe and the falshode the pleine wordes forto schode, so that nothing schal go beside, that he the riht ne schal decide. wherof full many a gret debat reformed is to good astat, and pes sustiened up alofte with esy wordes and with softe, wher strengthe scholde lete it falle. the philosophre amonges alle forthi commendeth this science, which hath the reule of eloquence. in ston and gras vertu ther is, bot yit the bokes tellen this, that word above alle erthli thinges is vertuous in his doinges, wher so it be to evele or goode. for if the wordes semen goode and ben wel spoke at mannes ere, whan that ther is no trouthe there, thei don fulofte gret deceipte; for whan the word to the conceipte descordeth in so double a wise, such rethorique is to despise in every place, and forto drede. for of uluxes thus i rede, as in the bok of troie is founde, his eloquence and his facounde of goodly wordes whiche he tolde, hath mad that anthenor him solde the toun, which he with tresoun wan. word hath beguiled many a man; with word the wilde beste is daunted, with word the serpent is enchaunted, of word among the men of armes ben woundes heeled with the charmes, wher lacketh other medicine; word hath under his discipline of sorcerie the karectes. the wordes ben of sondri sectes, of evele and eke of goode also; the wordes maken frend of fo, and fo of frend, and pes of werre, and werre of pes, and out of herre the word this worldes cause entriketh, and reconsileth whan him liketh. the word under the coupe of hevene set every thing or odde or evene; with word the hihe god is plesed, with word the wordes ben appesed, the softe word the loude stilleth; wher lacketh good, the word fulfilleth, to make amendes for the wrong; whan wordes medlen with the song, it doth plesance wel the more. bot forto loke upon the lore hou tullius his rethorique componeth, ther a man mai pike hou that he schal hise wordes sette, hou he schal lose, hou he schal knette, and in what wise he schal pronounce his tale plein withoute frounce. wherof ensample if thou wolt seche, tak hiede and red whilom the speche of julius and cithero, which consul was of rome tho, of catoun eke and of cillene, behold the wordes hem betwene, whan the tresoun of cateline descoevered was, and the covine of hem that were of his assent was knowe and spoke in parlement, and axed hou and in what wise men scholde don hem to juise. cillenus ferst his tale tolde, to trouthe and as he was beholde, the comun profit forto save, he seide hou tresoun scholde have a cruel deth; and thus thei spieke, the consul bothe and catoun eke, and seiden that for such a wrong ther mai no peine be to strong. bot julius with wordes wise his tale tolde al otherwise, as he which wolde her deth respite, and fondeth hou he mihte excite the jugges thurgh his eloquence fro deth to torne the sentence and sette here hertes to pite. nou tolden thei, nou tolde he; thei spieken plein after the lawe, bot he the wordes of his sawe coloureth in an other weie spekende, and thus betwen the tweie, to trete upon this juggement, made ech of hem his argument. wherof the tales forto hiere, ther mai a man the scole liere of rethoriqes eloquences, which is the secounde of sciences touchende to philosophie; wherof a man schal justifie hise wordes in disputeisoun, and knette upon conclusioun his argument in such a forme, which mai the pleine trouthe enforme and the soubtil cautele abate, which every trewman schal debate. the ferste, which is theorique, and the secounde rethorique, sciences of philosophie, i have hem told as in partie, so as the philosophre it tolde to alisandre: and nou i wolde telle of the thridde what it is, the which practique cleped is. practique stant upon thre thinges toward the governance of kinges; wherof the ferst etique is named, the whos science stant proclamed to teche of vertu thilke reule, hou that a king himself schal reule of his moral condicion with worthi disposicion of good livinge in his persone, which is the chief of his corone. it makth a king also to lerne hou he his bodi schal governe, hou he schal wake, hou he schal slepe, hou that he schal his hele kepe in mete, in drinke, in clothinge eke: ther is no wisdom forto seke as for the reule of his persone, the which that this science al one ne techeth as be weie of kinde, that ther is nothing left behinde. that other point which to practique belongeth is iconomique, which techeth thilke honestete thurgh which a king in his degre his wif and child schal reule and guie, so forth with al the companie which in his houshold schal abyde, and his astat on every syde in such manere forto lede, that he his houshold ne mislede. practique hath yit the thridde aprise, which techeth hou and in what wise thurgh hih pourveied ordinance a king schal sette in governance his realme, and that is policie, which longeth unto regalie in time of werre, in time of pes, to worschipe and to good encress of clerk, of kniht and of marchant, and so forth of the remenant of al the comun poeple aboute, withinne burgh and ek withoute, of hem that ben artificiers, whiche usen craftes and mestiers, whos art is cleped mechanique. and though thei ben noght alle like, yit natheles, hou so it falle, o lawe mot governe hem alle, or that thei lese or that thei winne, after thastat that thei ben inne. lo, thus this worthi yonge king was fulli tauht of every thing, which mihte yive entendement of good reule and good regiment to such a worthi prince as he. bot of verray necessite the philosophre him hath betake fyf pointz, whiche he hath undertake to kepe and holde in observance, as for the worthi governance which longeth to his regalie, after the reule of policie. to every man behoveth lore, bot to noman belongeth more than to a king, which hath to lede the poeple; for of his kinghede he mai hem bothe save and spille. and for it stant upon his wille, it sit him wel to ben avised, and the vertus whiche are assissed unto a kinges regiment, to take in his entendement: wherof to tellen, as thei stonde, hierafterward nou woll i fonde. among the vertus on is chief, and that is trouthe, which is lief to god and ek to man also. and for it hath ben evere so, tawhte aristotle, as he wel couthe, to alisandre, hou in his youthe he scholde of trouthe thilke grace with al his hole herte embrace, so that his word be trewe and plein, toward the world and so certein that in him be no double speche: for if men scholde trouthe seche and founde it noght withinne a king, it were an unsittende thing. the word is tokne of that withinne, ther schal a worthi king beginne to kepe his tunge and to be trewe, so schal his pris ben evere newe. avise him every man tofore, and be wel war, er he be swore, for afterward it is to late, if that he wole his word debate. for as a king in special above alle othre is principal of his pouer, so scholde he be most vertuous in his degre; and that mai wel be signefied be his corone and specified. the gold betokneth excellence, that men schull don him reverence as to here liege soverein. the stones, as the bokes sein, commended ben in treble wise: ferst thei ben harde, and thilke assisse betokneth in a king constance, so that ther schal no variance be founde in his condicion; and also be descripcion the vertu which is in the stones a verrai signe is for the nones of that a king schal ben honeste and holde trewly his beheste of thing which longeth to kinghede: the bryhte colour, as i rede, which in the stones is schynende, is in figure betoknende the cronique of this worldes fame, which stant upon his goode name. the cercle which is round aboute is tokne of al the lond withoute, which stant under his gerarchie, that he it schal wel kepe and guye. and for that trouthe, hou so it falle, is the vertu soverein of alle, that longeth unto regiment, a tale, which is evident of trouthe in comendacioun, toward thin enformacion, mi sone, hierafter thou schalt hiere of a cronique in this matiere. as the cronique it doth reherce, a soldan whilom was of perce, which daires hihte, and ytaspis his fader was; and soth it is that thurgh wisdom and hih prudence mor than for eny reverence of his lignage as be descente the regne of thilke empire he hente: and as he was himselve wys, the wisemen he hield in pris and soghte hem oute on every side, that toward him thei scholde abide. among the whiche thre ther were that most service unto him bere, as thei which in his chambre lyhen and al his conseil herde and syhen. here names ben of strange note, arpaghes was the ferste hote, and manachaz was the secounde, zorobabel, as it is founde in the cronique, was the thridde. this soldan, what so him betidde, to hem he triste most of alle, wherof the cas is so befalle: this lord, which hath conceiptes depe, upon a nyht whan he hath slepe, as he which hath his wit desposed, touchende a point hem hath opposed. the kinges question was this; of thinges thre which strengest is, the wyn, the womman or the king: and that thei scholde upon this thing of here ansuere avised be, he yaf hem fulli daies thre, and hath behote hem be his feith that who the beste reson seith, he schal receive a worthi mede. upon this thing thei token hiede and stoden in desputeison, that be diverse opinion of argumentz that thei have holde arpaghes ferst his tale tolde, and seide hou that the strengthe of kinges is myhtiest of alle thinges. for king hath pouer over man, and man is he which reson can, as he which is of his nature the moste noble creature of alle tho that god hath wroght: and be that skile it semeth noght, he seith, that eny erthly thing mai be so myhty as a king. a king mai spille, a king mai save, a king mai make of lord a knave and of a knave a lord also: the pouer of a king stant so, that he the lawes overpasseth; what he wol make lasse, he lasseth, what he wol make more, he moreth; and as the gentil faucon soreth, he fleth, that noman him reclameth; bot he al one alle othre tameth, and stant himself of lawe fre. lo, thus a kinges myht, seith he, so as his reson can argue, is strengest and of most value. bot manachaz seide otherwise, that wyn is of the more emprise; and that he scheweth be this weie. the wyn fulofte takth aweie the reson fro the mannes herte; the wyn can make a krepel sterte, and a delivere man unwelde; it makth a blind man to behelde, and a bryht yhed seme derk; it makth a lewed man a clerk, and fro the clerkes the clergie it takth aweie, and couardie it torneth into hardiesse; of avarice it makth largesse. the wyn makth ek the goode blod, in which the soule which is good hath chosen hire a resting place, whil that the lif hir wole embrace. and be this skile manachas ansuered hath upon this cas, and seith that wyn be weie of kinde is thing which mai the hertes binde wel more than the regalie. zorobabel for his partie seide, as him thoghte for the beste, that wommen ben the myhtieste. the king and the vinour also of wommen comen bothe tuo; and ek he seide hou that manhede thurgh strengthe unto the wommanhede of love, wher he wole or non, obeie schal; and therupon, to schewe of wommen the maistrie, a tale which he syh with yhe as for ensample he tolde this,- hou apemen, of besazis which dowhter was, in the paleis sittende upon his hihe deis, whan he was hotest in his ire toward the grete of his empire, cirus the king tirant sche tok, and only with hire goodly lok sche made him debonaire and meke, and be the chyn and be the cheke sche luggeth him riht as hir liste, that nou sche japeth, nou sche kiste, and doth with him what evere hir liketh; whan that sche loureth, thanne he siketh, and whan sche gladeth, he is glad: and thus this king was overlad with hire which his lemman was. among the men is no solas, if that ther be no womman there; for bot if that the wommen were, this worldes joie were aweie: thurgh hem men finden out the weie to knihthode and to worldes fame; thei make a man to drede schame, and honour forto be desired: thurgh the beaute of hem is fyred the dart of which cupide throweth, wherof the jolif peine groweth, which al the world hath under fote. a womman is the mannes bote, his lif, his deth, his wo, his wel; and this thing mai be schewed wel, hou that wommen ben goode and kinde, for in ensample this i finde. whan that the duk ametus lay sek in his bedd, that every day men waiten whan he scholde deie, alceste his wif goth forto preie, as sche which wolde thonk deserve, with sacrifice unto minerve, to wite ansuere of the goddesse hou that hir lord of his seknesse, wherof he was so wo besein, recovere myhte his hele ayein. lo, thus sche cride and thus sche preide, til ate laste a vois hir seide, that if sche wolde for his sake the maladie soffre and take, and deie hirself, he scholde live. of this ansuere alceste hath yive unto minerve gret thonkinge, so that hir deth and his livinge sche ches with al hire hole entente, and thus acorded hom sche wente. into the chambre and whan sche cam, hire housebonde anon sche nam in bothe hire armes and him kiste, and spak unto him what hire liste; and therupon withinne a throwe this goode wif was overthrowe and deide, and he was hool in haste. so mai a man be reson taste, hou next after the god above the trouthe of wommen and the love, in whom that alle grace is founde, is myhtiest upon this grounde and most behovely manyfold. lo, thus zorobabel hath told the tale of his opinion: bot for final conclusion what strengest is of erthli thinges, the wyn, the wommen or the kinges, he seith that trouthe above hem alle is myhtiest, hou evere it falle. the trouthe, hou so it evere come, mai for nothing ben overcome; it mai wel soffre for a throwe, bot ate laste it schal be knowe. the proverbe is, who that is trewe, him schal his while nevere rewe: for hou so that the cause wende, the trouthe is schameles ate ende, bot what thing that is troutheles, it mai noght wel be schameles, and schame hindreth every wyht: so proveth it, ther is no myht withoute trouthe in no degre. and thus for trouthe of his decre zorobabel was most commended, wherof the question was ended, and he resceived hath his mede for trouthe, which to mannes nede is most behoveliche overal. forthi was trouthe in special the ferste point in observance betake unto the governance of alisandre, as it is seid: for therupon the ground is leid of every kinges regiment, as thing which most convenient is forto sette a king in evene bothe in this world and ek in hevene. next after trouthe the secounde, in policie as it is founde, which serveth to the worldes fame in worschipe of a kinges name, largesse it is, whos privilegge ther mai non avarice abregge. the worldes good was ferst comune, bot afterward upon fortune was thilke comun profit cessed: for whan the poeple stod encresced and the lignages woxen grete, anon for singulier beyete drouh every man to his partie; wherof cam in the ferste envie with gret debat and werres stronge, and laste among the men so longe, til noman wiste who was who, ne which was frend ne which was fo. til ate laste in every lond withinne hemself the poeple fond that it was good to make a king, which mihte appesen al this thing and yive riht to the lignages in partinge of here heritages and ek of al here other good; and thus above hem alle stod the king upon his regalie, as he which hath to justifie the worldes good fro covoitise. so sit it wel in alle wise a king betwen the more and lesse to sette his herte upon largesse toward himself and ek also toward his poeple; and if noght so, that is to sein, if that he be toward himselven large and fre and of his poeple take and pile, largesse be no weie of skile it mai be seid, bot avarice, which in a king is a gret vice. a king behoveth ek to fle the vice of prodegalite, that he mesure in his expence so kepe, that of indigence he mai be sauf: for who that nedeth, in al his werk the worse he spedeth. as aristotle upon chaldee ensample of gret auctorite unto king alisandre tauhte of thilke folk that were unsauhte toward here king for his pilage: wherof he bad, in his corage that he unto thre pointz entende, wher that he wolde his good despende. ferst scholde he loke, hou that it stod, that al were of his oghne good the yiftes whiche he wolde yive; so myhte he wel the betre live: and ek he moste taken hiede if ther be cause of eny nede, which oghte forto be defended, er that his goodes be despended: he mot ek, as it is befalle, amonges othre thinges alle se the decertes of his men; and after that thei ben of ken and of astat and of merite, he schal hem largeliche aquite, or for the werre, or for the pes, that non honour falle in descres, which mihte torne into defame, bot that he kepe his goode name, so that he be noght holde unkinde. for in cronique a tale i finde, which spekth somdiel of this matiere, hierafterward as thou schalt hiere. in rome, to poursuie his riht, ther was a worthi povere kniht, which cam al one forto sein his cause, when the court was plein, wher julius was in presence. and for him lacketh of despence, ther was with him non advocat to make ple for his astat. bot thogh him lacke forto plede, him lacketh nothing of manhede; he wiste wel his pours was povere, bot yit he thoghte his riht recovere, and openly poverte alleide, to themperour and thus he seide: "o julius, lord of the lawe, behold, mi conseil is withdrawe for lacke of gold: do thin office after the lawes of justice: help that i hadde conseil hiere upon the trouthe of mi matiere." and julius with that anon assigned him a worthi on, bot he himself no word ne spak. this kniht was wroth and fond a lak in themperour, and seide thus: "o thou unkinde julius, whan thou in thi bataille were up in aufrique, and i was there, mi myht for thi rescousse i dede and putte noman in my stede, thou wost what woundes ther i hadde: bot hier i finde thee so badde, that thee ne liste speke o word thin oghne mouth, nor of thin hord to yive a florin me to helpe. hou scholde i thanne me beyelpe fro this dai forth of thi largesse, whan such a gret unkindenesse is founde in such a lord as thou?" this julius knew wel ynou that al was soth which he him tolde; and for he wolde noght ben holde unkinde, he tok his cause on honde, and as it were of goddes sonde, he yaf him good ynouh to spende for evere into his lives ende. and thus scholde every worthi king take of his knihtes knowleching, whan that he syh thei hadden nede, for every service axeth mede: bot othre, which have noght deserved thurgh vertu, bot of japes served, a king schal noght deserve grace, thogh he be large in such a place. it sit wel every king to have discrecion, whan men him crave, so that he mai his yifte wite: wherof i finde a tale write, hou cinichus a povere kniht a somme which was over myht preide of his king antigonus. the king ansuerde to him thus, and seide hou such a yifte passeth his povere astat: and thanne he lasseth, and axeth bot a litel peny, if that the king wol yive him eny. the king ansuerde, it was to smal for him, which was a lord real; to yive a man so litel thing it were unworschipe in a king. be this ensample a king mai lere that forto yive is in manere: for if a king his tresor lasseth withoute honour and thonkles passeth, whan he himself wol so beguile, i not who schal compleigne his while, ne who be rihte him schal relieve. bot natheles this i believe, to helpe with his oghne lond behoveth every man his hond to sette upon necessite; and ek his kinges realte mot every liege man conforte, with good and bodi to supporte, whan thei se cause resonable: for who that is noght entendable to holde upriht his kinges name, him oghte forto be to blame. of policie and overmore to speke in this matiere more, so as the philosophre tolde, a king after the reule is holde to modifie and to adresce hise yiftes upon such largesce that he mesure noght excede: for if a king falle into nede, it causeth ofte sondri thinges whiche are ungoodly to the kinges. what man wol noght himself mesure, men sen fulofte that mesure him hath forsake: and so doth he that useth prodegalite, which is the moder of poverte, wherof the londes ben deserte; and namely whan thilke vice aboute a king stant in office and hath withholde of his partie the covoitouse flaterie, which many a worthi king deceiveth, er he the fallas aperceiveth of hem that serven to the glose. for thei that cunnen plese and glose, ben, as men tellen, the norrices unto the fostringe of the vices, wherof fulofte natheles a king is blamed gulteles. a philosophre, as thou schalt hiere, spak to a king of this matiere, and seide him wel hou that flatours coupable were of thre errours. on was toward the goddes hihe, that weren wrothe of that thei sihe the meschief which befalle scholde of that the false flatour tolde. toward the king an other was, whan thei be sleihte and be fallas of feigned wordes make him wene that blak is whyt and blew is grene touchende of his condicion: for whanne he doth extorcion with manye an other vice mo, men schal noght finden on of tho to groucche or speke therayein, bot holden up his oil and sein that al is wel, what evere he doth; and thus of fals thei maken soth, so that here kinges yhe is blent and wot not hou the world is went. the thridde errour is harm comune, with which the poeple mot commune of wronges that thei bringen inne: and thus thei worchen treble sinne, that ben flatours aboute a king. ther myhte be no worse thing aboute a kinges regalie, thanne is the vice of flaterie. and natheles it hath ben used, that it was nevere yit refused as forto speke in court real; for there it is most special, and mai noght longe be forbore. bot whan this vice of hem is bore, that scholden the vertus forthbringe, and trouthe is torned to lesinge, it is, as who seith, ayein kinde, wherof an old ensample i finde. among these othre tales wise of philosophres, in this wise i rede, how whilom tuo ther were, and to the scole forto lere unto athenes fro cartage here frendes, whan thei were of age, hem sende; and ther thei stoden longe, til thei such lore have underfonge, that in here time thei surmonte alle othre men, that to acompte of hem was tho the grete fame. the ferste of hem his rihte name was diogenes thanne hote, in whom was founde no riote: his felaw arisippus hyhte, which mochel couthe and mochel myhte. bot ate laste, soth to sein, thei bothe tornen hom ayein unto cartage and scole lete. this diogenes no beyete of worldes good or lasse or more ne soghte for his longe lore, bot tok him only forto duelle at hom; and as the bokes telle, his hous was nyh to the rivere besyde a bregge, as thou schalt hiere. ther duelleth he to take his reste, so as it thoghte him for the beste, to studie in his philosophie, as he which wolde so defie the worldes pompe on every syde. bot arisippe his bok aside hath leid, and to the court he wente, wher many a wyle and many a wente with flaterie and wordes softe he caste, and hath compassed ofte hou he his prince myhte plese; and in this wise he gat him ese of vein honour and worldes good. the londes reule upon him stod, the king of him was wonder glad, and all was do, what thing he bad, bothe in the court and ek withoute. with flaterie he broghte aboute his pourpos of the worldes werk, which was ayein the stat of clerk, so that philosophie he lefte and to richesse himself uplefte: lo, thus hadde arisippe his wille. bot diogenes duelte stille a home and loked on his bok: he soghte noght the worldes crok for vein honour ne for richesse, bot all his hertes besinesse he sette to be vertuous; and thus withinne his oghne hous he liveth to the sufficance of his havinge. and fell per chance, this diogene upon a day, and that was in the monthe of may, whan that these herbes ben holsome, he walketh forto gadre some in his gardin, of whiche his joutes he thoghte have, and thus aboutes whanne he hath gadred what him liketh, he satte him thanne doun and pyketh, and wyssh his herbes in the flod upon the which his gardin stod, nyh to the bregge, as i tolde er. and hapneth, whil he sitteth ther, cam arisippes be the strete with manye hors and routes grete, and straght unto the bregge he rod. wher that he hoved and abod; for as he caste his yhe nyh, his felaw diogene he syh, and what he dede he syh also, wherof he seide to him so: "o diogene, god thee spede. it were certes litel nede to sitte there and wortes pyke, if thou thi prince couthest lyke, so as i can in my degre." "o arisippe," ayein quod he, "if that thou couthist, so as i, thi wortes pyke, trewely it were als litel nede or lasse, that thou so worldly wolt compasse with flaterie forto serve, wherof thou thenkest to deserve thi princes thonk, and to pourchace hou thou myht stonden in his grace, for getinge of a litel good. if thou wolt take into thi mod reson, thou myht be reson deeme that so thi prince forto queeme is noght to reson acordant, bot it is gretly descordant unto the scoles of athene." lo, thus ansuerde diogene ayein the clerkes flaterie. bot yit men sen thessamplerie of arisippe is wel received, and thilke of diogene is weyved. office in court and gold in cofre is nou, men sein, the philosophre which hath the worschipe in the halle; bot flaterie passeth alle in chambre, whom the court avanceth; for upon thilke lot it chanceth to be beloved nou aday. i not if it be ye or nay, bot as the comun vois it telleth; bot wher that flaterie duelleth in eny lond under the sonne, ther is ful many a thing begonne which were betre to be left; that hath be schewed nou and eft. bot if a prince wolde him reule of the romeins after the reule, in thilke time as it was used, this vice scholde be refused, wherof the princes ben assoted. bot wher the pleine trouthe is noted, ther may a prince wel conceive, that he schal noght himself deceive, of that he hiereth wordes pleine; for him thar noght be reson pleigne, that warned is er him be wo. and that was fully proeved tho, whan rome was the worldes chief, the sothseiere tho was lief, which wolde noght the trouthe spare, bot with hise wordes pleine and bare to themperour hise sothes tolde, as in cronique is yit withholde, hierafterward as thou schalt hiere acordende unto this matiere. to se this olde ensamplerie, that whilom was no flaterie toward the princes wel i finde; wherof so as it comth to mynde, mi sone, a tale unto thin ere, whil that the worthi princes were at rome, i thenke forto tellen. for whan the chances so befellen that eny emperour as tho victoire hadde upon his fo, and so forth cam to rome ayein, of treble honour he was certein, wherof that he was magnefied. the ferste, as it is specefied, was, whan he cam at thilke tyde, the charr in which he scholde ryde foure whyte stiedes scholden drawe; of jupiter be thilke lawe the cote he scholde were also; hise prisoners ek scholden go endlong the charr on eyther hond, and alle the nobles of the lond tofore and after with him come ridende and broghten him to rome, in thonk of his chivalerie and for non other flaterie. and that was schewed forth withal; wher he sat in his charr real, beside him was a ribald set, which hadde hise wordes so beset, to themperour in al his gloire he seide, "tak into memoire, for al this pompe and al this pride let no justice gon aside, bot know thiself, what so befalle. for men sen ofte time falle thing which men wende siker stonde: thogh thou victoire have nou on honde, fortune mai noght stonde alway; the whiel per chance an other day mai torne, and thou myht overthrowe; ther lasteth nothing bot a throwe." with these wordes and with mo this ribald, which sat with him tho, to themperour his tale tolde: and overmor what evere he wolde, or were it evel or were it good, so pleinly as the trouthe stod, he spareth noght, bot spekth it oute; and so myhte every man aboute the day of that solempnete his tale telle als wel as he to themperour al openly. and al was this the cause why; that whil he stod in that noblesse, he scholde his vanite represse with suche wordes as he herde. lo nou, hou thilke time it ferde toward so hih a worthi lord: for this i finde ek of record, which the cronique hath auctorized. what emperour was entronized, the ferste day of his corone, wher he was in his real throne and hield his feste in the paleis sittende upon his hihe deis with al the lust that mai be gete, whan he was gladdest at his mete, and every menstral hadde pleid, and every disour hadde seid what most was plesant to his ere, than ate laste comen there hise macons, for thei scholden crave wher that he wolde be begrave, and of what ston his sepulture thei scholden make, and what sculpture he wolde ordeine therupon. tho was ther flaterie non the worthi princes to bejape; the thing was other wise schape with good conseil; and otherwise thei were hemselven thanne wise, and understoden wel and knewen. whan suche softe wyndes blewen of flaterie into here ere, thei setten noght here hertes there; bot whan thei herden wordes feigned, the pleine trouthe it hath desdeigned of hem that weren so discrete. so tok the flatour no beyete of him that was his prince tho: and forto proven it is so, a tale which befell in dede in a cronique of rome i rede. cesar upon his real throne wher that he sat in his persone and was hyest in al his pris, a man, which wolde make him wys, fell doun knelende in his presence, and dede him such a reverence, as thogh the hihe god it were: men hadden gret mervaille there of the worschipe which he dede. this man aros fro thilke stede, and forth with al the same tyde he goth him up and be his side he set him doun as pier and pier, and seide, "if thou that sittest hier art god, which alle thinges myht, thanne have i do worshipe ariht as to the god; and other wise, if thou be noght of thilke assisse, bot art a man such as am i, than mai i sitte faste by, for we be bothen of o kinde." cesar ansuerde and seide, "o blinde, thou art a fol, it is wel sene upon thiself: for if thou wene i be a god, thou dost amys to sitte wher thou sest god is; and if i be a man, also thou hast a gret folie do, whan thou to such on as schal deie the worschipe of thi god aweie hast yoven so unworthely. thus mai i prove redely, thou art noght wys." and thei that herde hou wysly that the king ansuerde, it was to hem a newe lore; wherof thei dradden him the more, and broghten nothing to his ere, bot if it trouthe and reson were. so be ther manye, in such a wise that feignen wordes to be wise, and al is verray flaterie to him which can it wel aspie. the kinde flatour can noght love bot forto bringe himself above; for hou that evere his maister fare, so that himself stonde out of care, him reccheth noght: and thus fulofte deceived ben with wordes softe the kinges that ben innocent. wherof as for chastiement the wise philosophre seide, what king that so his tresor leide upon such folk, he hath the lesse, and yit ne doth he no largesse, bot harmeth with his oghne hond himself and ek his oghne lond, and that be many a sondri weie. wherof if that a man schal seie, as forto speke in general, wher such thing falleth overal that eny king himself misreule, the philosophre upon his reule in special a cause sette, which is and evere hath be the lette in governance aboute a king upon the meschief of the thing, and that, he seith, is flaterie. wherof tofore as in partie what vice it is i have declared; for who that hath his wit bewared upon a flatour to believe, whan that he weneth best achieve his goode world, it is most fro. and forto proeven it is so ensamples ther ben manyon, of whiche if thou wolt knowen on, it is behovely forto hiere what whilom fell in this matiere. among the kinges in the bible i finde a tale, and is credible, of him that whilom achab hihte, which hadde al irahel to rihte; bot who that couthe glose softe and flatre, suche he sette alofte in gret astat and made hem riche; bot thei that spieken wordes liche to trouthe and wolde it noght forbere, for hem was non astat to bere, the court of suche tok non hiede. til ate laste upon a nede, that benedab king of surie of irahel a gret partie, which ramoth galaath was hote, hath sesed; and of that riote he tok conseil in sondri wise, bot noght of hem that weren wise. and natheles upon this cas to strengthen him, for josaphas, which thanne was king of judee, he sende forto come, as he which thurgh frendschipe and alliance was next to him of aqueintance; for joram sone of josaphath achabbes dowhter wedded hath, which hihte faire godelie. and thus cam into samarie king josaphat, and he fond there the king achab: and whan thei were togedre spekende of this thing, this josaphat seith to the king, hou that he wolde gladly hiere som trew prophete in this matiere, that he his conseil myhte yive to what point that it schal be drive. and in that time so befell, ther was such on in irahel, which sette him al to flaterie, and he was cleped sedechie; and after him achab hath sent: and he at his comandement tofore him cam, and be a sleyhte he hath upon his heved on heyhte tuo large hornes set of bras, as he which al a flatour was, and goth rampende as a leoun and caste hise hornes up and doun, and bad men ben of good espeir, for as the hornes percen their, he seith, withoute resistence, so wiste he wel of his science that benedab is desconfit. whan sedechie upon this plit hath told this tale to his lord, anon ther were of his acord prophetes false manye mo to bere up oil, and alle tho affermen that which he hath told, wherof the king achab was bold and yaf hem yiftes al aboute. but josaphat was in gret doute, and hield fantosme al that he herde, preiende achab, hou so it ferde, if ther were eny other man, the which of prophecie can, to hiere him speke er that thei gon. quod achab thanne, "ther is on, a brothell, which micheas hihte; bot he ne comth noght in my sihte, for he hath longe in prison lein. him liketh nevere yit to sein a goodly word to mi plesance; and natheles at thin instance he schal come oute, and thanne he may seie as he seide many day; for yit he seide nevere wel." tho josaphat began somdel to gladen him in hope of trouthe, and bad withouten eny slouthe that men him scholden fette anon. and thei that weren for him gon, whan that thei comen wher he was, thei tolden unto micheas the manere hou that sedechie declared hath his prophecie; and therupon thei preie him faire that he wol seie no contraire, wherof the king mai be desplesed, for so schal every man ben esed, and he mai helpe himselve also. micheas upon trouthe tho his herte sette, and to hem seith, al that belongeth to his feith and of non other feigned thing, that wol he telle unto his king, als fer as god hath yove him grace. thus cam this prophete into place wher he the kinges wille herde; and he therto anon ansuerde, and seide unto him in this wise: "mi liege lord, for mi servise, which trewe hath stonden evere yit, thou hast me with prisone aquit; bot for al that i schal noght glose of trouthe als fer as i suppose; and as touchende of this bataille, thou schalt noght of the sothe faile. for if it like thee to hiere, as i am tauht in that matiere, thou miht it understonde sone; bot what is afterward to done avise thee, for this i sih. i was tofor the throne on hih, wher al the world me thoghte stod, and there i herde and understod the vois of god with wordes cliere axende, and seide in this manere: "in what thing mai i best beguile the king achab?" and for a while upon this point thei spieken faste. tho seide a spirit ate laste, "i undertake this emprise." and god him axeth in what wise. "i schal," quod he, "deceive and lye with flaterende prophecie in suche mouthes as he lieveth." and he which alle thing achieveth bad him go forth and don riht so. and over this i sih also the noble peple of irahel dispers as schep upon an hell, withoute a kepere unarraied: and as thei wente aboute astraied, i herde a vois unto hem sein, "goth hom into your hous ayein, til i for you have betre ordeigned." quod sedechie, "thou hast feigned this tale in angringe of the king." and in a wraththe upon this thing he smot michee upon the cheke; the king him hath rebuked eke, and every man upon him cride: thus was he schent on every side, ayein and into prison lad, for so the king himselve bad. the trouthe myhte noght ben herd; bot afterward as it hath ferd, the dede proveth his entente: achab to the bataille wente, wher benedab for al his scheld him slouh, so that upon the feld his poeple goth aboute astray. bot god, which alle thinges may, so doth that thei no meschief have; here king was ded and thei ben save, and hom ayein in goddes pes thei wente, and al was founde les that sedechie hath seid tofore. so sit it wel a king therfore to loven hem that trouthe mene; for ate laste it wol be sene that flaterie is nothing worth. bot nou to mi matiere forth, as forto speken overmore after the philosophres lore, the thridde point of policie i thenke forto specifie. what is a lond wher men ben none? what ben the men whiche are al one withoute a kinges governance? what is a king in his ligance, wher that ther is no lawe in londe? what is to take lawe on honde, bot if the jugges weren trewe? these olde worldes with the newe who that wol take in evidence, ther mai he se thexperience, what thing it is to kepe lawe, thurgh which the wronges ben withdrawe and rihtwisnesse stant commended, wherof the regnes ben amended. for wher the lawe mai comune the lordes forth with the commune, ech hath his propre duete; and ek the kinges realte of bothe his worschipe underfongeth, to his astat as it belongeth, which of his hihe worthinesse hath to governe rihtwisnesse, as he which schal the lawe guide. and natheles upon som side his pouer stant above the lawe, to yive bothe and to withdrawe the forfet of a mannes lif; but thinges whiche are excessif ayein the lawe, he schal noght do for love ne for hate also. the myhtes of a king ben grete, bot yit a worthi king schal lete of wrong to don, al that he myhte; for he which schal the poeple ryhte, it sit wel to his regalie that he himself ferst justefie towardes god in his degre: for his astat is elles fre toward alle othre in his persone, save only to the god al one, which wol himself a king chastise, wher that non other mai suffise. so were it good to taken hiede that ferst a king his oghne dede betwen the vertu and the vice redresce, and thanne of his justice so sette in evene the balance towardes othre in governance, that to the povere and to the riche hise lawes myhten stonde liche, he schal excepte no persone. bot for he mai noght al him one in sondri places do justice, he schal of his real office with wys consideracion ordeigne his deputacion of suche jugges as ben lerned, so that his poeple be governed be hem that trewe ben and wise. for if the lawe of covoitise be set upon a jugges hond, wo is the poeple of thilke lond, for wrong mai noght himselven hyde: bot elles on that other side, if lawe stonde with the riht, the poeple is glad and stant upriht. wher as the lawe is resonable, the comun poeple stant menable, and if the lawe torne amis, the poeple also mistorned is. and in ensample of this matiere of maximin a man mai hiere, of rome which was emperour, that whanne he made a governour be weie of substitucion of province or of region, he wolde ferst enquere his name, and let it openly proclame what man he were, or evel or good. and upon that his name stod enclin to vertu or to vice, so wolde he sette him in office, or elles putte him al aweie. thus hield the lawe his rihte weie, which fond no let of covoitise: the world stod than upon the wise, as be ensample thou myht rede; and hold it in thi mynde, i rede. in a cronique i finde thus, hou that gayus fabricius, which whilom was consul of rome, be whom the lawes yede and come, whan the sampnites to him broghte a somme of gold, and him besoghte to don hem favour in the lawe, toward the gold he gan him drawe, wherof in alle mennes lok a part up in his hond he tok, which to his mouth in alle haste he putte, it forto smelle and taste, and to his yhe and to his ere, bot he ne fond no confort there: and thanne he gan it to despise, and tolde unto hem in this wise: "i not what is with gold to thryve, whan non of all my wittes fyve fynt savour ne delit therinne. so is it bot a nyce sinne of gold to ben to covoitous; bot he is riche and glorious, which hath in his subjeccion tho men whiche in possession ben riche of gold, and be this skile; for he mai aldai whan he wile, or be hem lieve or be hem lothe, justice don upon hem bothe." lo, thus he seide, and with that word he threw tofore hem on the bord the gold out of his hond anon, and seide hem that he wolde non: so that he kepte his liberte to do justice and equite, withoute lucre of such richesse. ther be nou fewe of suche, i gesse; for it was thilke times used, that every jugge was refused which was noght frend to comun riht; bot thei that wolden stonde upriht for trouthe only to do justice preferred were in thilke office to deme and jugge commun lawe: which nou, men sein, is al withdrawe. to sette a lawe and kepe it noght ther is no comun profit soght; bot above alle natheles the lawe, which is mad for pes, is good to kepe for the beste, for that set alle men in reste. the rihtful emperour conrade to kepe pes such lawe made, that non withinne the cite in destorbance of unite dorste ones moeven a matiere. for in his time, as thou myht hiere, what point that was for lawe set it scholde for no gold be let, to what persone that it were. and this broghte in the comun fere, why every man the lawe dradde, for ther was non which favour hadde. so as these olde bokes sein, i finde write hou a romein, which consul was of the pretoire, whos name was carmidotoire, he sette a lawe for the pes, that non, bot he be wepneles, schal come into the conseil hous, and elles as malicious he schal ben of the lawe ded. to that statut and to that red acorden alle it schal be so, for certein cause which was tho: nou lest what fell therafter sone. this consul hadde forto done, and was into the feldes ride; and thei him hadden longe abide, that lordes of the conseil were, and for him sende, and he cam there with swerd begert, and hath foryete, til he was in the conseil sete. was non of hem that made speche, til he himself it wolde seche, and fond out the defalte himselve; and thanne he seide unto the tuelve, whiche of the senat weren wise, "i have deserved the juise, in haste that it were do." and thei him seiden alle no; for wel thei wiste it was no vice, whan he ne thoghte no malice, bot onliche of a litel slouthe: and thus thei leften as for routhe to do justice upon his gilt, for that he scholde noght be spilt. and whanne he sih the maner hou thei wolde him save, he made avou with manfull herte, and thus he seide, that rome scholde nevere abreide his heires, whan he were of dawe, that here ancestre brak the lawe. forthi, er that thei weren war, forth with the same swerd he bar the statut of his lawe he kepte, so that al rome his deth bewepte. in other place also i rede, wher that a jugge his oghne dede ne wol noght venge of lawe broke, the king it hath himselven wroke. the grete king which cambises was hote, a jugge laweles he fond, and into remembrance he dede upon him such vengance: out of his skyn he was beflain al quyk, and in that wise slain, so that his skyn was schape al meete, and nayled on the same seete wher that his sone scholde sitte. avise him, if he wolde flitte the lawe for the coveitise, ther sih he redi his juise. thus in defalte of other jugge the king mot otherwhile jugge, to holden up the rihte lawe. and forto speke of tholde dawe, to take ensample of that was tho, i finde a tale write also, hou that a worthi prince is holde the lawes of his lond to holde, ferst for the hihe goddes sake, and ek for that him is betake the poeple forto guide and lede, which is the charge of his kinghede. in a cronique i rede thus of the rihtful ligurgius, which of athenis prince was, hou he the lawe in every cas, wherof he scholde his poeple reule, hath set upon so good a reule, in al this world that cite non of lawe was so wel begon forth with the trouthe of governance. ther was among hem no distance, bot every man hath his encress; ther was withoute werre pes, withoute envie love stod; richesse upon the comun good and noght upon the singuler ordeigned was, and the pouer of hem that weren in astat was sauf: wherof upon debat ther stod nothing, so that in reste mihte every man his herte reste. and whan this noble rihtful king sih hou it ferde of al this thing, wherof the poeple stod in ese, he, which for evere wolde plese the hihe god, whos thonk he soghte, a wonder thing thanne him bethoghte, and schop if that it myhte be, hou that his lawe in the cite mihte afterward for evere laste. and therupon his wit he caste what thing him were best to feigne, that he his pourpos myhte atteigne. a parlement and thus he sette, his wisdom wher that he besette in audience of grete and smale, and in this wise he tolde his tale: "god wot, and so ye witen alle, hierafterward hou so it falle, yit into now my will hath be to do justice and equite in forthringe of comun profit; such hath ben evere my delit. bot of o thing i am beknowe, the which mi will is that ye knowe: the lawe which i tok on honde, was altogedre of goddes sonde and nothing of myn oghne wit; so mot it nede endure yit, and schal do lengere, if ye wile. for i wol telle you the skile; the god mercurius and no man he hath me tawht al that i can of suche lawes as i made, wherof that ye ben alle glade; it was the god and nothing i, which dede al this, and nou forthi he hath comanded of his grace that i schal come into a place which is forein out in an yle, wher i mot tarie for a while, with him to speke, as he hath bede. for as he seith, in thilke stede he schal me suche thinges telle, that evere, whyl the world schal duelle, athenis schal the betre fare. bot ferst, er that i thider fare, for that i wolde that mi lawe amonges you ne be withdrawe ther whyles that i schal ben oute, forthi to setten out of doute bothe you and me, this wol i preie, that ye me wolde assure and seie with such an oth as i wol take, that ech of you schal undertake mi lawes forto kepe and holde." thei seiden alle that thei wolde, and therupon thei swore here oth, that fro the time that he goth, til he to hem be come ayein, thei scholde hise lawes wel and plein in every point kepe and fulfille. thus hath ligurgius his wille, and tok his leve and forth he wente. bot lest nou wel to what entente of rihtwisnesse he dede so: for after that he was ago, he schop him nevere to be founde; so that athenis, which was bounde, nevere after scholde be relessed, ne thilke goode lawe cessed, which was for comun profit set. and in this wise he hath it knet; he, which the comun profit soghte, the king, his oghne astat ne roghte; to do profit to the comune, he tok of exil the fortune, and lefte of prince thilke office only for love and for justice, thurgh which he thoghte, if that he myhte, for evere after his deth to rihte the cite which was him betake. wherof men oghte ensample take the goode lawes to avance with hem which under governance the lawes have forto kepe; for who that wolde take kepe of hem that ferst the lawes founde, als fer as lasteth eny bounde of lond, here names yit ben knowe: and if it like thee to knowe some of here names hou thei stonde, nou herkne and thou schalt understonde. of every bienfet the merite the god himself it wol aquite; and ek fulofte it falleth so, the world it wole aquite also, bot that mai noght ben evene liche: the god he yifth the heveneriche, the world yifth only bot a name, which stant upon the goode fame of hem that don the goode dede. and in this wise double mede resceiven thei that don wel hiere; wherof if that thee list to hiere after the fame as it is blowe, ther myht thou wel the sothe knowe, hou thilke honeste besinesse of hem that ferst for rihtwisnesse among the men the lawes made, mai nevere upon this erthe fade. for evere, whil ther is a tunge, here name schal be rad and sunge and holde in the cronique write; so that the men it scholden wite, to speke good, as thei wel oghten, of hem that ferst the lawes soghten in forthringe of the worldes pes. unto thebreus was moi ses the ferste, and to thegipciens mercurius, and to troiens ferst was neuma pompilius, to athenes ligurgius yaf ferst the lawe, and to gregois forone�s hath thilke vois, and romulus to the romeins. for suche men that ben vileins the lawe in such a wise ordeigneth, that what man to the lawe pleigneth, be so the jugge stonde upriht, he schal be served of his riht. and so ferforth it is befalle that lawe is come among ous alle: god lieve it mote wel ben holde, as every king therto is holde; for thing which is of kinges set, with kinges oghte it noght be let. what king of lawe takth no kepe, be lawe he mai no regne kepe. do lawe awey, what is a king? wher is the riht of eny thing, if that ther be no lawe in londe? this oghte a king wel understonde, as he which is to lawe swore, that if the lawe be forbore withouten execucioun, if makth a lond torne up so doun, which is unto the king a sclandre. forthi unto king alisandre the wise philosophre bad, that he himselve ferst be lad of lawe, and forth thanne overal so do justice in general, that al the wyde lond aboute the justice of his lawe doute, and thanne schal he stonde in reste. for therto lawe is on the beste above alle other erthly thing, to make a liege drede his king. bot hou a king schal gete him love toward the hihe god above, and ek among the men in erthe, this nexte point, which is the ferthe of aristotles lore, it techeth: wherof who that the scole secheth, what policie that it is the bok reherceth after this. it nedeth noght that i delate the pris which preised is algate, and hath ben evere and evere schal, wherof to speke in special, it is the vertu of pite, thurgh which the hihe mageste was stered, whan his sone alyhte, and in pite the world to rihte tok of the maide fleissh and blod. pite was cause of thilke good, wherof that we ben alle save: wel oghte a man pite to have and the vertu to sette in pris, whan he himself which is al wys hath schewed why it schal be preised. pite may noght be conterpeised of tirannie with no peis; for pite makth a king courteis bothe in his word and in his dede. it sit wel every liege drede his king and to his heste obeie, and riht so be the same weie it sit a king to be pitous toward his poeple and gracious upon the reule of governance, so that he worche no vengance, which mai be cleped crualte. justice which doth equite is dredfull, for he noman spareth; bot in the lond wher pite fareth the king mai nevere faile of love, for pite thurgh the grace above, so as the philosphre affermeth, his regne in good astat confermeth. thus seide whilom constantin: "what emperour that is enclin to pite forto be servant, of al the worldes remenant he is worthi to ben a lord." in olde bokes of record this finde i write of essamplaire: troian the worthi debonaire, be whom that rome stod governed, upon a time as he was lerned of that he was to familier, he seide unto that conseiller, that forto ben an emperour his will was noght for vein honour, ne yit for reddour of justice; bot if he myhte in his office hise lordes and his poeple plese, him thoghte it were a grettere ese with love here hertes to him drawe, than with the drede of eny lawe. for whan a thing is do for doute, fulofte it comth the worse aboute; bot wher a king is pietous, he is the more gracious, that mochel thrift him schal betyde, which elles scholde torne aside. of pite forto speke plein, which is with mercy wel besein, fulofte he wole himselve peine to kepe an other fro the peine: for charite the moder is of pite, which nothing amis can soffre, if he it mai amende. it sit to every man livende to be pitous, bot non so wel as to a king, which on the whiel fortune hath set aboven alle: for in a king, if so befalle that his pite be ferme and stable, to al the lond it is vailable only thurgh grace of his persone; for the pite of him al one mai al the large realme save. so sit it wel a king to have pite; for this valeire tolde, and seide hou that be daies olde codrus, which was in his degre king of athenis the cite, a werre he hadde ayein dorrence: and forto take his evidence what schal befalle of the bataille, he thoghte he wolde him ferst consaille with appollo, in whom he triste; thurgh whos ansuere this he wiste, of tuo pointz that he myhte chese, or that he wolde his body lese and in bataille himselve deie, or elles the seconde weie, to sen his poeple desconfit. bot he, which pite hath parfit upon the point of his believe, the poeple thoghte to relieve, and ches himselve to be ded. wher is nou such an other hed, which wolde for the lemes dye? and natheles in som partie it oghte a kinges herte stere, that he hise liege men forbere. and ek toward hise enemis fulofte he may deserve pris, to take of pite remembrance, wher that he myhte do vengance: for whanne a king hath the victoire, and thanne he drawe into memoire to do pite in stede of wreche, he mai noght faile of thilke speche wherof arist the worldes fame, to yive a prince a worthi name. i rede hou whilom that pompeie, to whom that rome moste obeie, a werre hadde in jeupartie ayein the king of ermenie, which of long time him hadde grieved. bot ate laste it was achieved that he this king desconfit hadde, and forth with him to rome ladde as prisoner, wher many a day in sori plit and povere he lay, the corone of his heved deposed, withinne walles faste enclosed; and with ful gret humilite he soffreth his adversite. pompeie sih his pacience and tok pite with conscience, so that upon his hihe deis tofore al rome in his paleis, as he that wolde upon him rewe, let yive him his corone newe and his astat al full and plein restoreth of his regne ayein, and seide it was more goodly thing to make than undon a king, to him which pouer hadde of bothe. thus thei, that weren longe wrothe, acorden hem to final pes; and yit justice natheles was kept and in nothing offended; wherof pompeie was comended. ther mai no king himself excuse, bot if justice he kepe and use, which for teschuie crualte he mot attempre with pite. of crualte the felonie engendred is of tirannie, ayein the whos condicion god is himself the champion, whos strengthe mai noman withstonde. for evere yit it hath so stonde, that god a tirant overladde; bot wher pite the regne ladde, ther mihte no fortune laste which was grevous, bot ate laste the god himself it hath redresced. pite is thilke vertu blessed which nevere let his maister falle; bot crualte, thogh it so falle that it mai regne for a throwe, god wole it schal ben overthrowe: wherof ensamples ben ynowhe of hem that thilke merel drowhe. of crualte i rede thus: whan the tirant leoncius was to thempire of rome arrived, fro which he hath with strengthe prived the pietous justinian, as he which was a cruel man, his nase of and his lippes bothe he kutte, for he wolde him lothe unto the poeple and make unable. bot he which is al merciable, the hihe god, ordeigneth so, that he withinne a time also, whan he was strengest in his ire, was schoven out of his empire. tiberius the pouer hadde, and rome after his will he ladde, and for leonce in such a wise ordeigneth, that he tok juise of nase and lippes bothe tuo, for that he dede an other so, which more worthi was than he. lo, which a fall hath crualte, and pite was set up ayein: for after that the bokes sein, therbellis king of bulgarie with helpe of his chivalerie justinian hath unprisoned and to thempire ayein coroned. in a cronique i finde also of siculus, which was ek so a cruel king lich the tempeste, the whom no pite myhte areste,- he was the ferste, as bokes seie, upon the see which fond galeie and let hem make for the werre,- as he which al was out of herre fro pite and misericorde; for therto couthe he noght acorde, bot whom he myhte slen, he slouh, and therof was he glad ynouh. he hadde of conseil manyon, among the whiche ther was on, be name which berillus hihte; and he bethoghte him hou he myhte unto the tirant do likinge, and of his oghne ymaginynge let forge and make a bole of bras, and on the side cast ther was a dore, wher a man mai inne, whan he his peine schal beginne thurgh fyr, which that men putten under. and al this dede he for a wonder, that whanne a man for peine cride, the bole of bras, which gapeth wyde, it scholde seme as thogh it were a belwinge in a mannes ere, and noght the criinge of a man. bot he which alle sleihtes can, the devel, that lith in helle fast, him that this caste hath overcast, that for a trespas which he dede he was putt in the same stede, and was himself the ferste of alle which was into that peine falle that he for othre men ordeigneth; ther was noman which him compleigneth. of tirannie and crualte be this ensample a king mai se, himself and ek his conseil bothe, hou thei ben to mankinde lothe and to the god abhominable. ensamples that ben concordable i finde of othre princes mo, as thou schalt hiere, of time go. the grete tirant dionys, which mannes lif sette of no pris, unto his hors fulofte he yaf the men in stede of corn and chaf, so that the hors of thilke stod devoureden the mennes blod; til fortune ate laste cam, that hercules him overcam, and he riht in the same wise of this tirant tok the juise: as he til othre men hath do, the same deth he deide also, that no pite him hath socoured, til he was of hise hors devoured. of lichaon also i finde hou he ayein the lawe of kinde hise hostes slouh, and into mete he made her bodies to ben ete with othre men withinne his hous. bot jupiter the glorious, which was commoeved of this thing, vengance upon this cruel king so tok, that he fro mannes forme into a wolf him let transforme: and thus the crualte was kidd, which of long time he hadde hidd; a wolf he was thanne openly, the whos nature prively he hadde in his condicion. and unto this conclusioun, that tirannie is to despise, i finde ensample in sondri wise, and nameliche of hem fulofte, the whom fortune hath set alofte upon the werres forto winne. bot hou so that the wrong beginne of tirannie, it mai noght laste, bot such as thei don ate laste to othre men, such on hem falleth; for ayein suche pite calleth vengance to the god above. for who that hath no tender love in savinge of a mannes lif, he schal be founde so gultif, that whanne he wolde mercy crave in time of nede, he schal non have. of the natures this i finde, the fierce leon in his kinde, which goth rampende after his preie, if he a man finde in his weie, he wole him slen, if he withstonde. bot if the man coude understonde to falle anon before his face in signe of mercy and of grace, the leon schal of his nature restreigne his ire in such mesure, as thogh it were a beste tamed, and torne awey halfvinge aschamed, that he the man schal nothing grieve. hou scholde than a prince achieve the worldes grace, if that he wolde destruie a man whanne he is yolde and stant upon his mercy al? bot forto speke in special, ther have be suche and yit ther be tirantz, whos hertes no pite mai to no point of mercy plie, that thei upon her tirannie ne gladen hem the men to sle; and as the rages of the see ben unpitous in the tempeste, riht so mai no pite areste of crualte the gret oultrage, which the tirant in his corage engendred hath: wherof i finde a tale, which comth nou to mynde. i rede in olde bokes thus: ther was a duk, which spertachus men clepe, and was a werreiour, a cruel man, a conquerour with strong pouer the which he ladde. for this condicion he hadde, that where him hapneth the victoire, his lust and al his moste gloire was forto sle and noght to save: of rancoun wolde he no good have for savinge of a mannes lif, bot al goth to the swerd and knyf, so lief him was the mannes blod. and natheles yit thus it stod, so as fortune aboute wente, he fell riht heir as be descente to perse, and was coroned king. and whan the worschipe of this thing was falle, and he was king of perse, if that thei weren ferst diverse, the tirannies whiche he wroghte, a thousendfold welmore he soghte thanne afterward to do malice. the god vengance ayein the vice hath schape: for upon a tyde, whan he was heihest in his pride, in his rancour and in his hete ayein the queene of marsagete, which thameris that time hihte, he made werre al that he myhte: and sche, which wolde hir lond defende, hir oghne sone ayein him sende, which the defence hath undertake. bot he desconfit was and take; and whan this king him hadde in honde, he wol no mercy understonde, bot dede him slen in his presence. the tidinge of this violence whan it cam to the moder ere, sche sende anon ay wydewhere to suche frendes as sche hadde, a gret pouer til that sche ladde. in sondri wise and tho sche caste hou sche this king mai overcaste; and ate laste acorded was, that in the danger of a pass, thurgh which this tirant scholde passe, sche schop his pouer to compasse with strengthe of men be such a weie that he schal noght eschape aweie. and whan sche hadde thus ordeigned, sche hath hir oghne bodi feigned, for feere as thogh sche wolde flee out of hir lond: and whan that he hath herd hou that this ladi fledde, so faste after the chace he spedde, that he was founde out of array. for it betidde upon a day, into the pas whanne he was falle, thembuisschementz tobrieken alle and him beclipte on every side, that fle ne myhte he noght aside: so that ther weren dede and take tuo hundred thousend for his sake, that weren with him of his host. and thus was leid the grete bost of him and of his tirannie: it halp no mercy forto crie to him which whilom dede non; for he unto the queene anon was broght, and whan that sche him sih, this word sche spak and seide on hih: "o man, which out of mannes kinde reson of man hast left behinde and lived worse than a beste, whom pite myhte noght areste, the mannes blod to schede and spille thou haddest nevere yit thi fille. bot nou the laste time is come, that thi malice is overcome: as thou til othre men hast do, nou schal be do to thee riht so." tho bad this ladi that men scholde a vessel bringe, in which sche wolde se the vengance of his juise, which sche began anon devise; and tok the princes whiche he ladde, be whom his chief conseil he hadde, and whil hem lasteth eny breth, sche made hem blede to the deth into the vessel wher it stod: and whan it was fulfild of blod, sche caste this tirant therinne, and seide him, "lo, thus myht thou wynne the lustes of thin appetit. in blod was whilom thi delit, nou schalt thou drinken al thi fille." and thus onliche of goddes wille, he which that wolde himselve strange to pite, fond mercy so strange, that he withoute grace is lore. so may it schewe wel therfore that crualte hath no good ende; bot pite, hou so that it wende, makth that the god is merciable, if ther be cause resonable why that a king schal be pitous. bot elles, if he be doubtous to slen in cause of rihtwisnesse, it mai be said no pitousnesse, bot it is pusillamite, which every prince scholde flee. for if pite mesure excede, kinghode may noght wel procede to do justice upon the riht: for it belongeth to a knyht als gladly forto fihte as reste, to sette his liege poeple in reste, whan that the werre upon hem falleth; for thanne he mote, as it befalleth, of his knyhthode as a leon be to the poeple a champioun withouten eny pite feigned. for if manhode be restreigned, or be it pes or be it werre, justice goth al out of herre, so that knyhthode is set behinde. of aristotles lore i finde, a king schal make good visage, that noman knowe of his corage bot al honour and worthinesse: for if a king schal upon gesse withoute verrai cause drede, he mai be lich to that i rede; and thogh that it be lich a fable, thensample is good and resonable. as it be olde daies fell, i rede whilom that an hell up in the londes of archade a wonder dredful noise made; for so it fell that ilke day, this hell on his childinge lay, and whan the throwes on him come, his noise lich the day of dome was ferfull in a mannes thoght of thing which that thei sihe noght, bot wel thei herden al aboute the noise, of which thei were in doute, as thei that wenden to be lore of thing which thanne was unbore. the nerr this hell was upon chance to taken his deliverance, the more unbuxomliche he cride; and every man was fledd aside, for drede and lefte his oghne hous: and ate laste it was a mous, the which was bore and to norrice betake; and tho thei hield hem nyce, for thei withoute cause dradde. thus if a king his herte ladde with every thing that he schal hiere, fulofte he scholde change his chiere and upon fantasie drede, whan that ther is no cause of drede. orace to his prince tolde, that him were levere that he wolde upon knihthode achillem suie in time of werre, thanne eschuie, so as tersites dede at troie. achilles al his hole joie sette upon armes forto fihte; tersites soghte al that he myhte unarmed forto stonde in reste: bot of the tuo it was the beste that achilles upon the nede hath do, wherof his knyhtlihiede is yit comended overal. king salomon in special seith, as ther is a time of pes, so is a time natheles of werre, in which a prince algate schal for the comun riht debate and for his oghne worschipe eke. bot it behoveth noght to seke only the werre for worschipe, bot to the riht of his lordschipe, which he is holde to defende, mote every worthi prince entende. betwen the simplesce of pite and the folhaste of crualte, wher stant the verray hardiesce, ther mote a king his herte adresce, whanne it is time to forsake, and whan time is also to take the dedly werres upon honde, that he schal for no drede wonde, if rihtwisnesse be withal. for god is myhty overal to forthren every mannes trowthe, bot it be thurgh his oghne slowthe; and namely the kinges nede it mai noght faile forto spede, for he stant one for hem alle; so mote it wel the betre falle and wel the more god favoureth, whan he the comun riht socoureth. and forto se the sothe in dede, behold the bible and thou myht rede of grete ensamples manyon, wherof that i wol tellen on. upon a time as it befell, ayein judee and irahel whan sondri kinges come were in pourpos to destruie there the poeple which god kepte tho,- and stod in thilke daies so, that gedeon, which scholde lede the goddes folk, tok him to rede, and sende in al the lond aboute, til he assembled hath a route with thritti thousend of defence, to fihte and make resistence ayein the whiche hem wolde assaille: and natheles that o bataille of thre that weren enemys was double mor than was al his; wherof that gedeon him dradde, that he so litel poeple hadde. bot he which alle thing mai helpe, wher that ther lacketh mannes helpe, to gedeon his angel sente, and bad, er that he forther wente, al openly that he do crie that every man in his partie which wolde after his oghne wille in his delice abide stille at hom in eny maner wise, for pourchas or for covoitise, for lust of love or lacke of herte, he scholde noght aboute sterte, bot holde him stille at hom in pes: wherof upon the morwe he les wel twenty thousend men and mo, the whiche after the cri ben go. thus was with him bot only left the thridde part, and yit god eft his angel sende and seide this to gedeon: "if it so is that i thin help schal undertake, thou schalt yit lasse poeple take, be whom mi will is that thou spede. forthi tomorwe tak good hiede, unto the flod whan ye be come, what man that hath the water nome up in his hond and lapeth so, to thi part ches out alle tho; and him which wery is to swinke, upon his wombe and lith to drinke, forsak and put hem alle aweie. for i am myhti alle weie, wher as me list myn help to schewe in goode men, thogh thei ben fewe." this gedeon awaiteth wel, upon the morwe and everydel, as god him bad, riht so he dede. and thus ther leften in that stede with him thre hundred and nomo, the remenant was al ago: wherof that gedeon merveileth, and therupon with god conseileth, pleignende as ferforth as he dar. and god, which wolde he were war that he schal spede upon his riht, hath bede him go the same nyht and take a man with him, to hiere what schal be spoke in his matere among the hethen enemis; so mai he be the more wys, what afterward him schal befalle. this gedeon amonges alle phara, to whom he triste most, be nyhte tok toward thilke host, which logged was in a valleie, to hiere what thei wolden seie; upon his fot and as he ferde, tuo sarazins spekende he herde. quod on, "ared mi swevene ariht, which i mette in mi slep to nyht. me thoghte i sih a barli cake, which fro the hull his weie hath take, and cam rollende doun at ones; and as it were for the nones, forth in his cours so as it ran, the kinges tente of madian, of amalech, of amoreie, of amon and of jebuseie, and many an other tente mo with gret noise, as me thoghte tho, it threw to grounde and overcaste, and al this host so sore agaste that i awok for pure drede." "this swevene can i wel arede," quod thother sarazin anon: "the barli cake is gedeon, which fro the hell doun sodeinly schal come and sette such ascry upon the kinges and ous bothe, that it schal to ous alle lothe: for in such drede he schal ous bringe, that if we hadden flyht of wynge, the weie on fote in desespeir we scholden leve and flen in their, for ther schal nothing him withstonde." whan gedeon hath understonde this tale, he thonketh god of al, and priveliche ayein he stal, so that no lif him hath perceived. and thanne he hath fulli conceived that he schal spede; and therupon the nyht suiende he schop to gon this multitude to assaile. nou schalt thou hiere a gret mervaile, with what voisdie that he wroghte. the litel poeple which he broghte, was non of hem that he ne hath a pot of erthe, in which he tath a lyht brennende in a kressette, and ech of hem ek a trompette bar in his other hond beside; and thus upon the nyhtes tyde duk gedeon, whan it was derk, ordeineth him unto his werk, and parteth thanne his folk in thre, and chargeth hem that thei ne fle, and tawhte hem hou they scholde ascrie alle in o vois per compaignie, and what word ek thei scholden speke, and hou thei scholde here pottes breke echon with other, whan thei herde that he himselve ferst so ferde; for whan thei come into the stede, he bad hem do riht as he dede. and thus stalkende forth a pas this noble duk, whan time was, his pot tobrak and loude ascride, and tho thei breke on every side. the trompe was noght forto seke; he blew, and so thei blewen eke with such a noise among hem alle, as thogh the hevene scholde falle. the hull unto here vois ansuerde, this host in the valleie it herde, and sih hou that the hell alyhte; so what of hieringe and of sihte, thei cawhten such a sodein feere, that non of hem belefte there: the tentes hole thei forsoke, that thei non other good ne toke, bot only with here bodi bare thei fledde, as doth the wylde hare. and evere upon the hull thei blewe, til that thei sihe time, and knewe that thei be fled upon the rage; and whan thei wiste here avantage, thei felle anon unto the chace. thus myht thou sen hou goddes grace unto the goode men availeth; but elles ofte time it faileth to suche as be noght wel disposed. this tale nedeth noght be glosed, for it is openliche schewed that god to hem that ben wel thewed hath yove and granted the victoire: so that thensample of this histoire is good for every king to holde; ferst in himself that he beholde if he be good of his livinge, and that the folk which he schal bringe be good also, for thanne he may be glad of many a merie day, in what as evere he hath to done. for he which sit above the mone and alle thing mai spille and spede, in every cause, in every nede his goode king so wel adresceth, that alle his fomen he represseth, so that ther mai noman him dere; and als so wel he can forbere, and soffre a wickid king to falle in hondes of his fomen alle. nou forthermore if i schal sein of my matiere, and torne ayein to speke of justice and pite after the reule of realte, this mai a king wel understonde, knihthode mot ben take on honde, whan that it stant upon the nede: he schal no rihtful cause drede, nomore of werre thanne of pes, if he wol stonde blameles; for such a cause a king mai have that betre him is to sle than save, wherof thou myht ensample finde. the hihe makere of mankinde be samuel to sa�l bad, that he schal nothing ben adrad ayein king agag forto fihte; for this the godhede him behihte, that agag schal ben overcome: and whan it is so ferforth come, that sa�l hath him desconfit, the god bad make no respit, that he ne scholde him slen anon. bot sa�l let it overgon and dede noght the goddes heste: for agag made gret beheste of rancoun which he wolde yive, king sa�l soffreth him to live and feigneth pite forth withal. bot he which seth and knoweth al, the hihe god, of that he feigneth to samuel upon him pleigneth, and sende him word, for that he lefte of agag that he ne berefte the lif, he schal noght only dye himself, bot fro his regalie he schal be put for everemo, noght he, bot ek his heir also, that it schal nevere come ayein. thus myht thou se the sothe plein, that of tomoche and of tolyte upon the princes stant the wyte. bot evere it was a kinges riht to do the dedes of a knyht; for in the handes of a king the deth and lif is al o thing after the lawes of justice. to slen it is a dedly vice, bot if a man the deth deserve; and if a king the lif preserve of him which oghte forto dye, he suieth noght thensamplerie which in the bible is evident: hou david in his testament, whan he no lengere myhte live, unto his sone in charge hath yive that he joab schal slen algate; and whan david was gon his gate, the yonge wise salomon his fader heste dede anon, and slouh joab in such a wise, that thei that herden the juise evere after dradden him the more, and god was ek wel paid therfore, that he so wolde his herte plye the lawes forto justefie. and yit he kepte forth withal pite, so as a prince schal, that he no tirannie wroghte; he fond the wisdom which he soghte, and was so rihtful natheles, that al his lif he stod in pes, that he no dedly werres hadde, for every man his wisdom dradde. and as he was himselve wys, riht so the worthi men of pris he hath of his conseil withholde; for that is every prince holde, to make of suche his retenue whiche wise ben, and to remue the foles: for ther is nothing which mai be betre aboute a king, than conseil, which is the substance of all a kinges governance. in salomon a man mai see what thing of most necessite unto a worthi king belongeth. whan he his kingdom underfongeth, god bad him chese what he wolde, and seide him that he have scholde what he wolde axe, as of o thing. and he, which was a newe king, forth therupon his bone preide to god, and in this wise he seide: "o king, be whom that i schal regne, yif me wisdom, that i my regne, forth with thi poeple which i have, to thin honour mai kepe and save." whan salomon his bone hath taxed, the god of that which he hath axed was riht wel paid, and granteth sone noght al only that he his bone schal have of that, bot of richesse, of hele, of pes, of hih noblesse, forth with wisdom at his axinges, which stant above alle othre thinges. bot what king wole his regne save, ferst him behoveth forto have after the god and his believe such conseil which is to believe, fulfild of trouthe and rihtwisnesse: bot above alle in his noblesse betwen the reddour and pite a king schal do such equite and sette the balance in evene, so that the hihe god in hevene and al the poeple of his nobleie loange unto his name seie. for most above all erthli good, wher that a king himself is good it helpeth, for in other weie if so be that a king forsueie, fulofte er this it hath be sein, the comun poeple is overlein and hath the kinges senne aboght, al thogh the poeple agulte noght. of that the king his god misserveth, the poeple takth that he descerveth hier in this world, bot elleswhere i not hou it schal stonde there. forthi good is a king to triste ferst to himself, as he ne wiste non other help bot god alone; so schal the reule of his persone withinne himself thurgh providence ben of the betre conscience. and forto finde ensample of this, a tale i rede, and soth it is. in a cronique it telleth thus: the king of rome lucius withinne his chambre upon a nyht the steward of his hous, a knyht, forth with his chamberlein also, to conseil hadde bothe tuo, and stoden be the chiminee togedre spekende alle thre. and happeth that the kinges fol sat be the fyr upon a stol, as he that with his babil pleide, bot yit he herde al that thei seide, and therof token thei non hiede. the king hem axeth what to rede of such matiere as cam to mouthe, and thei him tolden as thei couthe. whan al was spoke of that thei mente, the king with al his hole entente thanne ate laste hem axeth this, what king men tellen that he is: among the folk touchende his name, or be it pris, or be it blame, riht after that thei herden sein, he bad hem forto telle it plein, that thei no point of soth forbere, be thilke feith that thei him bere. the steward ferst upon this thing yaf his ansuere unto the king and thoghte glose in this matiere, and seide, als fer as he can hiere, his name is good and honourable: thus was the stieward favorable, that he the trouthe plein ne tolde. the king thanne axeth, as he scholde, the chamberlein of his avis. and he, that was soubtil and wys, and somdiel thoghte upon his feith, him tolde hou al the poeple seith that if his conseil were trewe, thei wiste thanne wel and knewe that of himself he scholde be a worthi king in his degre: and thus the conseil he accuseth in partie, and the king excuseth. the fol, which herde of al the cas that time, as goddes wille was, sih that thei seiden noght ynowh, and hem to skorne bothe lowh, and to the king he seide tho: "sire king, if that it were so, of wisdom in thin oghne mod that thou thiselven were good, thi conseil scholde noght be badde." the king therof merveille hadde, whan that a fol so wisly spak, and of himself fond out the lack withinne his oghne conscience: and thus the foles evidence, which was of goddes grace enspired, makth that good conseil was desired. he putte awey the vicious and tok to him the vertuous; the wrongful lawes ben amended, the londes good is wel despended, the poeple was nomore oppressed, and thus stod every thing redressed. for where a king is propre wys, and hath suche as himselven is of his conseil, it mai noght faile that every thing ne schal availe: the vices thanne gon aweie, and every vertu holt his weie; wherof the hihe god is plesed, and al the londes folk is esed. for if the comun poeple crie, and thanne a king list noght to plie to hiere what the clamour wolde, and otherwise thanne he scholde desdeigneth forto don hem grace, it hath be sen in many place, ther hath befalle gret contraire; and that i finde of ensamplaire. after the deth of salomon, whan thilke wise king was gon, and roboas in his persone receive scholde the corone, the poeple upon a parlement avised were of on assent, and alle unto the king thei preiden, with comun vois and thus thei seiden: "oure liege lord, we thee beseche that thou receive oure humble speche and grante ous that which reson wile, or of thi grace or of thi skile. thi fader, whil he was alyve and myhte bothe grante and pryve, upon the werkes whiche he hadde the comun poeple streite ladde: whan he the temple made newe, thing which men nevere afore knewe he broghte up thanne of his taillage, and al was under the visage of werkes whiche he made tho. bot nou it is befalle so, that al is mad, riht as he seide, and he was riche whan he deide; so that it is no maner nede, if thou therof wolt taken hiede, to pilen of the poeple more, which long time hath be grieved sore. and in this wise as we thee seie, with tendre herte we thee preie that thou relesse thilke dette, which upon ous thi fader sette. and if thee like to don so, we ben thi men for everemo, to gon and comen at thin heste." the king, which herde this requeste, seith that he wole ben avised, and hath therof a time assised; and in the while as he him thoghte upon this thing, conseil he soghte. and ferst the wise knyhtes olde, to whom that he his tale tolde, conseilen him in this manere; that he with love and with glad chiere foryive and grante al that is axed of that his fader hadde taxed; for so he mai his regne achieve with thing which schal him litel grieve. the king hem herde and overpasseth, and with these othre his wit compasseth, that yonge were and nothing wise. and thei these olde men despise, and seiden: "sire, it schal be schame for evere unto thi worthi name, if thou ne kepe noght the riht, whil thou art in thi yonge myht, which that thin olde fader gat. bot seie unto the poeple plat, that whil thou livest in thi lond, the leste finger of thin hond it schal be strengere overal than was thi fadres bodi al. and this also schal be thi tale, if he hem smot with roddes smale, with scorpions thou schalt hem smyte; and wher thi fader tok a lyte, thou thenkst to take mochel more. thus schalt thou make hem drede sore the grete herte of thi corage, so forto holde hem in servage. this yonge king him hath conformed to don as he was last enformed, which was to him his undoinge: for whan it cam to the spekinge, he hath the yonge conseil holde, that he the same wordes tolde of al the poeple in audience; and whan thei herden the sentence of his malice and the manace, anon tofore his oghne face thei have him oultreli refused and with ful gret reproef accused. so thei begunne forto rave, that he was fain himself to save; for as the wilde wode rage of wyndes makth the see salvage, and that was calm bringth into wawe, so for defalte of grace and lawe this poeple is stered al at ones and forth thei gon out of hise wones; so that of the lignages tuelve tuo tribes only be hemselve with him abiden and nomo: so were thei for everemo of no retorn withoute espeir departed fro the rihtfull heir. al irahel with comun vois a king upon here oghne chois among hemself anon thei make, and have here yonge lord forsake; a povere knyht jeroboas thei toke, and lefte roboas, which rihtfull heir was be descente. lo, thus the yonge cause wente: for that the conseil was noght good, the regne fro the rihtfull blod evere afterward divided was. so mai it proven be this cas that yong conseil, which is to warm, er men be war doth ofte harm. old age for the conseil serveth, and lusti youthe his thonk deserveth upon the travail which he doth; and bothe, forto seie a soth, be sondri cause forto have, if that he wole his regne save, a king behoveth every day. that on can and that other mai, be so the king hem bothe reule, for elles al goth out of reule. and upon this matiere also a question betwen the tuo thus writen in a bok i fond; wher it be betre for the lond a king himselve to be wys, and so to bere his oghne pris, and that his consail be noght good, or other wise if it so stod, a king if he be vicious and his conseil be vertuous. it is ansuerd in such a wise, that betre it is that thei be wise be whom that the conseil schal gon, for thei be manye, and he is on; and rathere schal an one man with fals conseil, for oght he can, from his wisdom be mad to falle, thanne he al one scholde hem alle fro vices into vertu change, for that is wel the more strange. forthi the lond mai wel be glad, whos king with good conseil is lad, which set him unto rihtwisnesse, so that his hihe worthinesse betwen the reddour and pite doth mercy forth with equite. a king is holden overal to pite, bot in special to hem wher he is most beholde; thei scholde his pite most beholde that ben the lieges of his lond, for thei ben evere under his hond after the goddes ordinaunce to stonde upon his governance. of themperour anthonius i finde hou that he seide thus, that levere him were forto save oon of his lieges than to have of enemis a thousend dede. and this he lernede, as i rede, of cipio, which hadde be consul of rome. and thus to se diverse ensamples hou thei stonde, a king which hath the charge on honde the comun poeple to governe, if that he wole, he mai wel lerne. is non so good to the plesance of god, as is good governance; and every governance is due to pite: thus i mai argue that pite is the foundement of every kinges regiment, if it be medled with justice. thei tuo remuen alle vice, and ben of vertu most vailable to make a kinges regne stable. lo, thus the foure pointz tofore, in governance as thei ben bore, of trouthe ferst and of largesse, of pite forth with rihtwisnesse, i have hem told; and over this the fifte point, so as it is set of the reule of policie, wherof a king schal modefie the fleisschly lustes of nature, nou thenk i telle of such mesure, that bothe kinde schal be served and ek the lawe of god observed. the madle is mad for the the femele, bot where as on desireth fele, that nedeth noght be weie of kinde: for whan a man mai redy finde his oghne wif, what scholde he seche in strange places to beseche to borwe an other mannes plouh, whan he hath geere good ynouh affaited at his oghne heste, and is to him wel more honeste than other thing which is unknowe? forthi scholde every good man knowe and thenke, hou that in mariage his trouthe pliht lith in morgage, which if he breke, it is falshode, and that descordeth to manhode, and namely toward the grete, wherof the bokes alle trete; so as the philosophre techeth to alisandre, and him betecheth the lore hou that he schal mesure his bodi, so that no mesure of fleisshly lust he scholde excede. and thus forth if i schal procede, the fifte point, as i seide er, is chastete, which sielde wher comth nou adaies into place; and natheles, bot it be grace above alle othre in special, is non that chaste mai ben all. bot yit a kinges hihe astat, which of his ordre as a prelat schal ben enoignt and seintefied, he mot be more magnefied for dignete of his corone, than scholde an other low persone, which is noght of so hih emprise. therfore a prince him scholde avise, er that he felle in such riote, and namely that he nassote to change for the wommanhede the worthinesse of his manhede. of aristotle i have wel rad, hou he to alisandre bad, that forto gladen his corage he schal beholde the visage of wommen, whan that thei ben faire. bot yit he set an essamplaire, his bodi so to guide and reule, that he ne passe noght the reule, wherof that he himself beguile. for in the womman is no guile of that a man himself bewhapeth; whan he his oghne wit bejapeth, i can the wommen wel excuse: bot what man wole upon hem muse after the fool impression of his ymaginacioun, withinne himself the fyr he bloweth, wherof the womman nothing knoweth, so mai sche nothing be to wyte. for if a man himself excite to drenche, and wol it noght forbere, the water schal no blame bere. what mai the gold, thogh men coveite? if that a man wol love streite, the womman hath him nothing bounde; if he his oghne herte wounde, sche mai noght lette the folie; and thogh so felle of compainie that he myht eny thing pourchace, yit makth a man the ferste chace, the womman fleth and he poursuieth: so that be weie of skile it suieth, the man is cause, hou so befalle, that he fulofte sithe is falle wher that he mai noght wel aryse. and natheles ful manye wise befoled have hemself er this, as nou adaies yit it is among the men and evere was, the stronge is fieblest in this cas. it sit a man be weie of kinde to love, bot it is noght kinde a man for love his wit to lese: for if the monthe of juil schal frese and that decembre schal ben hot, the yeer mistorneth, wel i wot. to sen a man fro his astat thurgh his sotie effeminat, and leve that a man schal do, it is as hose above the scho, to man which oghte noght ben used. bot yit the world hath ofte accused ful grete princes of this dede, hou thei for love hemself mislede, wherof manhode stod behinde, of olde ensamples as i finde. these olde gestes tellen thus, that whilom sardana pallus, which hield al hol in his empire the grete kingdom of assire, was thurgh the slouthe of his corage falle into thilke fyri rage of love, which the men assoteth, wherof himself he so rioteth, and wax so ferforth wommannyssh, that ayein kinde, as if a fissh abide wolde upon the lond, in wommen such a lust he fond, that he duelte evere in chambre stille, and only wroghte after the wille of wommen, so as he was bede, that selden whanne in other stede if that he wolde wenden oute, to sen hou that it stod aboute. bot ther he keste and there he pleide, thei tawhten him a las to breide, and weve a pours, and to enfile a perle: and fell that ilke while, on barbarus the prince of mede sih hou this king in wommanhede was falle fro chivalerie, and gat him help and compaignie, and wroghte so, that ate laste this king out of his regne he caste, which was undon for everemo: and yit men speken of him so, that it is schame forto hiere. forthi to love is in manere. king david hadde many a love, bot natheles alwey above knyhthode he kepte in such a wise, that for no fleisshli covoitise of lust to ligge in ladi armes he lefte noght the lust of armes. for where a prince hise lustes suieth, that he the werre noght poursuieth, whan it is time to ben armed, his contre stant fulofte harmed, whan thenemis ben woxe bolde, that thei defence non beholde. ful many a lond hath so be lore, as men mai rede of time afore of hem that so here eses soghten, which after thei full diere aboghten. to mochel ese is nothing worth, for that set every vice forth and every vertu put abak, wherof priss torneth into lak, as in cronique i mai reherse: which telleth hou the king of perse, that cirus hihte, a werre hadde ayein a poeple which he dradde, of a contre which liddos hihte; bot yit for oght that he do mihte as in bataille upon the werre, he hadde of hem alwey the werre. and whan he sih and wiste it wel, that he be strengthe wan no del, thanne ate laste he caste a wyle this worthi poeple to beguile, and tok with hem a feigned pes, which scholde lasten endeles, so as he seide in wordes wise, bot he thoghte al in other wise. for it betidd upon the cas, whan that this poeple in reste was, thei token eses manyfold; and worldes ese, as it is told, be weie of kinde is the norrice of every lust which toucheth vice. thus whan thei were in lustes falle, the werres ben foryeten alle; was non which wolde the worschipe of armes, bot in idelschipe thei putten besinesse aweie and token hem to daunce and pleie; bot most above alle othre thinges thei token hem to the likinges of fleysshly lust, that chastete received was in no degre, bot every man doth what him liste. and whan the king of perse it wiste, that thei unto folie entenden, with his pouer, whan thei lest wenden, mor sodeinly than doth the thunder he cam, for evere and put hem under. and thus hath lecherie lore the lond, which hadde be tofore the beste of hem that were tho. and in the bible i finde also a tale lich unto this thing, hou amalech the paien king, whan that he myhte be no weie defende his lond and putte aweie the worthi poeple of irael, this sarazin, as it befell, thurgh the conseil of balaam a route of faire wommen nam, that lusti were and yonge of age, and bad hem gon to the lignage of these hebreus: and forth thei wente with yhen greye and browes bente and wel arraied everych on; and whan thei come were anon among thebreus, was non insihte, bot cacche who that cacche myhte, and ech of hem hise lustes soghte, whiche after thei full diere boghte. for grace anon began to faile, that whan thei comen to bataille thanne afterward, in sori plit thei were take and disconfit, so that withinne a litel throwe the myht of hem was overthrowe, that whilom were wont to stonde. til phinees the cause on honde hath take, this vengance laste, bot thanne it cessede ate laste, for god was paid of that he dede: for wher he fond upon a stede a couple which misferde so, thurghout he smot hem bothe tuo, and let hem ligge in mennes yhe; wherof alle othre whiche hem sihe ensamplede hem upon the dede, and preiden unto the godhiede here olde sennes to amende: and he, which wolde his mercy sende, restorede hem to newe grace. thus mai it schewe in sondri place, of chastete hou the clennesse acordeth to the worthinesse of men of armes overal; bot most of alle in special this vertu to a king belongeth, for upon his fortune it hongeth of that his lond schal spede or spille. forthi bot if a king his wille fro lustes of his fleissh restreigne, ayein himself he makth a treigne, into the which if that he slyde, him were betre go besyde. for every man mai understonde, hou for a time that it stonde, it is a sori lust to lyke, whos ende makth a man to syke and torneth joies into sorwe. the brihte sonne be the morwe beschyneth noght the derke nyht, the lusti youthe of mannes myht, in age bot it stonde wel, mistorneth al the laste whiel. that every worthi prince is holde withinne himself himself beholde, to se the stat of his persone, and thenke hou ther be joies none upon this erthe mad to laste, and hou the fleissh schal ate laste the lustes of this lif forsake, him oghte a gret ensample take of salomon, whos appetit was holy set upon delit, to take of wommen the plesance: so that upon his ignorance the wyde world merveileth yit, that he, which alle mennes wit in thilke time hath overpassed, with fleisshly lustes was so tassed, that he which ladde under the lawe the poeple of god, himself withdrawe he hath fro god in such a wise, that he worschipe and sacrifise for sondri love in sondri stede unto the false goddes dede. this was the wise ecclesiaste, the fame of whom schal evere laste, that he the myhti god forsok, ayein the lawe whanne he tok his wyves and his concubines of hem that weren sarazines, for whiche he dede ydolatrie. for this i rede of his sotie: sche of sidoyne so him ladde, that he knelende his armes spradde to astrathen with gret humblesse, which of hire lond was the goddesse: and sche that was a moabite so ferforth made him to delite thurgh lust, which al his wit devoureth, that he chamos hire god honoureth. an other amonyte also with love him hath assoted so, hire god moloch that with encense he sacreth, and doth reverence in such a wise as sche him bad. thus was the wiseste overlad with blinde lustes whiche he soghte; bot he it afterward aboghte. for achias selonites, which was prophete, er his decess, whil he was in hise lustes alle, betokneth what schal after falle. for on a day, whan that he mette jeroboam the knyht, he grette and bad him that he scholde abyde, to hiere what him schal betyde. and forth withal achias caste his mantell of, and also faste he kut it into pieces twelve, wherof tuo partz toward himselve he kepte, and al the remenant, as god hath set his covenant, he tok unto jeroboas, of nabal which the sone was, and of the kinges court a knyht: and seide him, "such is goddes myht, as thou hast sen departed hiere mi mantell, riht in such manere after the deth of salomon god hath ordeigned therupon, this regne thanne he schal divide: which time thou schalt ek abide, and upon that division the regne as in proporcion as thou hast of mi mantell take, thou schalt receive, i undertake. and thus the sone schal abie the lustes and the lecherie of him which nou his fader is." so forto taken hiede of this, it sit a king wel to be chaste, for elles he mai lihtly waste himself and ek his regne bothe, and that oghte every king to lothe. o, which a senne violent, wherof so wys a king was schent, that the vengance in his persone was noght ynouh to take al one, bot afterward, whan he was passed, it hath his heritage lassed, as i more openli tofore the tale tolde. and thus therfore the philosophre upon this thing writ and conseileth to a king, that he the surfet of luxure schal tempre and reule of such mesure, which be to kinde sufficant and ek to reson acordant, so that the lustes ignorance be cause of no misgovernance, thurgh which that he be overthrowe, as he that wol no reson knowe. for bot a mannes wit be swerved, whan kinde is dueliche served, it oghte of reson to suffise; for if it falle him otherwise, he mai tho lustes sore drede. for of anthonie thus i rede, which of severus was the sone, that he his lif of comun wone yaf holy unto thilke vice, and ofte time he was so nyce, wherof nature hire hath compleigned unto the god, which hath desdeigned the werkes whiche antonie wroghte of lust, whiche he ful sore aboghte: for god his forfet hath so wroke that in cronique it is yit spoke. bot forto take remembrance of special misgovernance thurgh covoitise and injustice forth with the remenant of vice, and nameliche of lecherie, i finde write a gret partie withinne a tale, as thou schalt hiere, which is thensample of this matiere. so as these olde gestes sein, the proude tirannyssh romein tarquinus, which was thanne king and wroghte many a wrongful thing, of sones hadde manyon, among the whiche arrons was on, lich to his fader of maneres; so that withinne a fewe yeres with tresoun and with tirannie thei wonne of lond a gret partie, and token hiede of no justice, which due was to here office upon the reule of governance; bot al that evere was plesance unto the fleisshes lust thei toke. and fell so, that thei undertoke a werre, which was noght achieved, bot ofte time it hadde hem grieved, ayein a folk which thanne hihte the gabiens: and al be nyhte this arrons, whan he was at hom in rome, a prive place he nom withinne a chambre, and bet himselve and made him woundes ten or tuelve upon the bak, as it was sene; and so forth with hise hurtes grene in al the haste that he may he rod, and cam that other day unto gabie the cite, and in he wente: and whan that he was knowe, anon the gates schette, the lordes alle upon him sette with drawe swerdes upon honde. this arrons wolde hem noght withstonde, bot seide, "i am hier at your wille, als lief it is that ye me spille, as if myn oghne fader dede." and forthwith in the same stede he preide hem that thei wolde se, and schewede hem in what degre his fader and hise brethren bothe, whiche, as he seide, weren wrothe, him hadde beten and reviled, for evere and out of rome exiled. and thus he made hem to believe, and seide, if that he myhte achieve his pourpos, it schal wel be yolde, be so that thei him helpe wolde. whan that the lordes hadde sein hou wofully he was besein, thei token pite of his grief; bot yit it was hem wonder lief that rome him hadde exiled so. these gabiens be conseil tho upon the goddes made him swere, that he to hem schal trouthe bere and strengthen hem with al his myht; and thei also him have behiht to helpen him in his querele. thei schopen thanne for his hele that he was bathed and enoignt, til that he was in lusti point; and what he wolde thanne he hadde, that he al hol the cite ladde riht as he wolde himself divise. and thanne he thoghte him in what wise he myhte his tirannie schewe; and to his conseil tok a schrewe, whom to his fader forth he sente in his message, and he tho wente, and preide his fader forto seie be his avis, and finde a weie, hou they the cite myhten winne, whil that he stod so wel therinne. and whan the messager was come to rome, and hath in conseil nome the king, it fell per chance so that thei were in a gardin tho, this messager forth with the king. and whanne he hadde told the thing in what manere that it stod, and that tarquinus understod be the message hou that it ferde, anon he tok in honde a yerde, and in the gardin as thei gon, the lilie croppes on and on, wher that thei weren sprongen oute, he smot of, as thei stode aboute, and seide unto the messager: "lo, this thing, which i do nou hier, schal ben in stede of thin ansuere; and in this wise as i me bere, thou schalt unto mi sone telle." and he no lengere wolde duelle, bot tok his leve and goth withal unto his lord, and told him al, hou that his fader hadde do. whan arrons herde him telle so, anon he wiste what it mente, and therto sette al his entente, til he thurgh fraude and tricherie the princes hefdes of gabie hath smiten of, and al was wonne: his fader cam tofore the sonne into the toun with the romeins, and tok and slowh the citezeins withoute reson or pite, that he ne spareth no degre. and for the sped of this conqueste he let do make a riche feste with a sollempne sacrifise in phebus temple; and in this wise whan the romeins assembled were, in presence of hem alle there, upon thalter whan al was diht and that the fyres were alyht, from under thalter sodeinly an hidous serpent openly cam out and hath devoured al the sacrifice, and ek withal the fyres queynt, and forth anon, so as he cam, so is he gon into the depe ground ayein. and every man began to sein, "ha lord, what mai this signefie?" and therupon thei preie and crie to phebus, that thei mihten knowe the cause: and he the same throwe with gastly vois, that alle it herde, the romeins in this wise ansuerde, and seide hou for the wikkidnesse of pride and of unrihtwisnesse, that tarquin and his sone hath do, the sacrifice is wasted so, which myhte noght ben acceptable upon such senne abhominable. and over that yit he hem wisseth, and seith that which of hem ferst kisseth his moder, he schal take wrieche upon the wrong: and of that speche thei ben withinne here hertes glade, thogh thei outward no semblant made. ther was a knyht which brutus hihte, and he with al the haste he myhte to grounde fell and therthe kiste, bot non of hem the cause wiste, bot wenden that he hadde sporned per chance, and so was overtorned. bot brutus al an other mente; for he knew wel in his entente hou therthe of every mannes kinde is moder: bot thei weren blinde, and sihen noght so fer as he. bot whan thei leften the cite and comen hom to rome ayein, thanne every man which was romein and moder hath, to hire he bende and keste, and ech of hem thus wende to be the ferste upon the chance, of tarquin forto do vengance, so as thei herden phebus sein. bot every time hath his certein, so moste it nedes thanne abide, til afterward upon a tyde tarquinus made unskilfully a werre, which was fasteby ayein a toun with walles stronge which ardea was cleped longe, and caste a siege theraboute, that ther mai noman passen oute. so it befell upon a nyht, arrons, which hadde his souper diht, a part of the chivalerie with him to soupe in compaignie hath bede: and whan thei comen were and seten at the souper there, among here othre wordes glade arrons a gret spekinge made, who hadde tho the beste wif of rome: and ther began a strif, for arrons seith he hath the beste. so jangle thei withoute reste, til ate laste on collatin, a worthi knyht, and was cousin to arrons, seide him in this wise: "it is," quod he, "of non emprise to speke a word, bot of the dede, therof it is to taken hiede. anon forthi this same tyde lep on thin hors and let ous ryde: so mai we knowe bothe tuo unwarli what oure wyves do, and that schal be a trewe assay." this arrons seith noght ones nay: on horse bak anon thei lepte in such manere, and nothing slepte, ridende forth til that thei come al prively withinne rome; in strange place and doun thei lihte, and take a chambre, and out of sihte thei be desguised for a throwe, so that no lif hem scholde knowe. and to the paleis ferst thei soghte, to se what thing this ladi wroghte of which arrons made his avant: and thei hire sihe of glad semblant, al full of merthes and of bordes; bot among alle hire othre wordes sche spak noght of hire housebonde. and whan thei hadde al understonde of thilke place what hem liste, thei gon hem forth, that non it wiste, beside thilke gate of bras, collacea which cleped was, wher collatin hath his duellinge. ther founden thei at hom sittinge lucrece his wif, al environed with wommen, whiche are abandoned to werche, and sche wroghte ek withal, and bad hem haste, and seith, "it schal be for mi housebondes were, which with his swerd and with his spere lith at the siege in gret desese. and if it scholde him noght displese, nou wolde god i hadde him hiere; for certes til that i mai hiere som good tidinge of his astat, min herte is evere upon debat. for so as alle men witnesse, he is of such an hardiesse, that he can noght himselve spare, and that is al my moste care, whan thei the walles schulle assaile. bot if mi wisshes myhte availe, i wolde it were a groundles pet, be so the siege were unknet, and i myn housebonde sihe." with that the water in hire yhe aros, that sche ne myhte it stoppe, and as men sen the dew bedroppe the leves and the floures eke, riht so upon hire whyte cheke the wofull salte teres felle. whan collatin hath herd hire telle the menynge of hire trewe herte, anon with that to hire he sterte, and seide, "lo, mi goode diere, nou is he come to you hiere, that ye most loven, as ye sein." and sche with goodly chiere ayein beclipte him in hire armes smale, and the colour, which erst was pale, to beaute thanne was restored, so that it myhte noght be mored. the kinges sone, which was nyh, and of this lady herde and syh the thinges as thei ben befalle, the resoun of hise wittes alle hath lost; for love upon his part cam thanne, and of his fyri dart with such a wounde him hath thurghsmite, that he mot nedes fiele and wite of thilke blinde maladie, to which no cure of surgerie can helpe. bot yit natheles at thilke time he hield his pes, that he no contienance made, bot openly with wordes glade, so as he couthe in his manere, he spak and made frendly chiere, til it was time forto go. and collatin with him also his leve tok, so that be nyhte with al the haste that thei myhte thei riden to the siege ayein. bot arrons was so wo besein with thoghtes whiche upon him runne, that he al be the brode sunne to bedde goth, noght forto reste, bot forto thenke upon the beste and the faireste forth withal, that evere he syh or evere schal, so as him thoghte in his corage, where he pourtreieth hire ymage: ferst the fetures of hir face, in which nature hadde alle grace of wommanly beaute beset, so that it myhte noght be bet; and hou hir yelwe her was tresced and hire atir so wel adresced, and hou sche spak, and hou sche wroghte, and hou sche wepte, al this he thoghte, that he foryeten hath no del, bot al it liketh him so wel, that in the word nor in the dede hire lacketh noght of wommanhiede. and thus this tirannysshe knyht was soupled, bot noght half ariht, for he non other hiede tok, bot that he myhte be som crok, althogh it were ayein hire wille, the lustes of his fleissh fulfille; which love was noght resonable, for where honour is remuable, it oghte wel to ben avised. bot he, which hath his lust assised with melled love and tirannie, hath founde upon his tricherie a weie which he thenkth to holde, and seith, "fortune unto the bolde is favorable forto helpe." and thus withinne himself to yelpe, as he which was a wylde man, upon his treson he began: and up he sterte, and forth he wente on horsebak, bot his entente ther knew no wiht, and thus he nam the nexte weie, til he cam unto collacea the gate of rome, and it was somdiel late, riht evene upon the sonne set, as he which hadde schape his net hire innocence to betrappe. and as it scholde tho mishappe, als priveliche as evere he myhte he rod, and of his hors alyhte tofore collatines in, and al frendliche he goth him in, as he that was cousin of house. and sche, which is the goode spouse, lucrece, whan that sche him sih, with goodli chiere drowh him nyh, as sche which al honour supposeth, and him, so as sche dar, opposeth hou it stod of hire housebonde. and he tho dede hire understonde with tales feigned in his wise, riht as he wolde himself devise, wherof he myhte hire herte glade, that sche the betre chiere made, whan sche the glade wordes herde, hou that hire housebonde ferde. and thus the trouthe was deceived with slih tresoun, which was received to hire which mente alle goode; for as the festes thanne stode, his souper was ryht wel arraied. bot yit he hath no word assaied to speke of love in no degre; bot with covert subtilite his frendly speches he affaiteth, and as the tigre his time awaiteth in hope forto cacche his preie. whan that the bordes were aweie and thei have souped in the halle, he seith that slep is on him falle, and preith he moste go to bedde; and sche with alle haste spedde, so as hire thoghte it was to done, that every thing was redi sone. sche broghte him to his chambre tho and tok hire leve, and forth is go into hire oghne chambre by, as sche that wende certeinly have had a frend, and hadde a fo, wherof fell after mochel wo. this tirant, thogh he lyhe softe, out of his bed aros fulofte, and goth aboute, and leide his ere to herkne, til that alle were to bedde gon and slepten faste. and thanne upon himself he caste a mantell, and his swerd al naked he tok in honde; and sche unwaked abedde lay, but what sche mette, god wot; for he the dore unschette so prively that non it herde, the softe pas and forth he ferde unto the bed wher that sche slepte, al sodeinliche and in he crepte, and hire in bothe his armes tok. with that this worthi wif awok, which thurgh tendresce of wommanhiede hire vois hath lost for pure drede, that o word speke sche ne dar: and ek he bad hir to be war, for if sche made noise or cry, he seide, his swerd lay faste by to slen hire and hire folk aboute. and thus he broghte hire herte in doute, that lich a lomb whanne it is sesed in wolves mouth, so was desesed lucrece, which he naked fond: wherof sche swounede in his hond, and, as who seith, lay ded oppressed. and he, which al him hadde adresced to lust, tok thanne what him liste, and goth his wey, that non it wiste, into his oghne chambre ayein, and clepede up his chamberlein, and made him redi forto ryde. and thus this lecherouse pride to horse lepte and forth he rod; and sche, which in hire bed abod, whan that sche wiste he was agon, sche clepede after liht anon and up aros long er the day, and caste awey hire freissh aray, as sche which hath the world forsake, and tok upon the clothes blake: and evere upon continuinge, riht as men sen a welle springe, with yhen fulle of wofull teres, hire her hangende aboute hire eres, sche wepte, and noman wiste why. bot yit among full pitously sche preide that thei nolden drecche hire housebonde forto fecche forth with hire fader ek also. thus be thei comen bothe tuo, and brutus cam with collatin, which to lucrece was cousin, and in thei wenten alle thre to chambre, wher thei myhten se the wofulleste upon this molde, which wepte as sche to water scholde. the chambre dore anon was stoke, er thei have oght unto hire spoke; thei sihe hire clothes al desguised, and hou sche hath hirself despised, hire her hangende unkemd aboute, bot natheles sche gan to loute and knele unto hire housebonde; and he, which fain wolde understonde the cause why sche ferde so, with softe wordes axeth tho, "what mai you be, mi goode swete?" and sche, which thoghte hirself unmete and the lest worth of wommen alle, hire wofull chiere let doun falle for schame and couthe unnethes loke. and thei therof good hiede toke, and preiden hire in alle weie that sche ne spare forto seie unto hir frendes what hire eileth, why sche so sore hirself beweileth, and what the sothe wolde mene. and sche, which hath hire sorwes grene, hire wo to telle thanne assaieth, bot tendre schame hire word delaieth, that sondri times as sche minte to speke, upon the point sche stinte. and thei hire bidden evere in on to telle forth, and therupon, whan that sche sih sche moste nede, hire tale betwen schame and drede sche tolde, noght withoute peine. and he, which wolde hire wo restreigne, hire housebonde, a sory man, conforteth hire al that he can, and swor, and ek hire fader bothe, that thei with hire be noght wrothe of that is don ayein hire wille; and preiden hire to be stille, for thei to hire have al foryive. bot sche, which thoghte noght to live, of hem wol no foryivenesse, and seide, of thilke wickednesse which was unto hire bodi wroght, al were it so sche myhte it noght, nevere afterward the world ne schal reproeven hire; and forth withal, er eny man therof be war, a naked swerd, the which sche bar withinne hire mantel priveli, betwen hire hondes sodeinly sche tok, and thurgh hire herte it throng, and fell to grounde, and evere among, whan that sche fell, so as sche myhte, hire clothes with hire hand sche rihte, that noman dounward fro the kne scholde eny thing of hire se: thus lay this wif honestely, althogh sche deide wofully. tho was no sorwe forto seke: hire housebonde, hire fader eke aswoune upon the bodi felle; ther mai no mannes tunge telle in which anguisshe that thei were. bot brutus, which was with hem there, toward himself his herte kepte, and to lucrece anon he lepte, the blodi swerd and pulleth oute, and swor the goddes al aboute that he therof schal do vengance. and sche tho made a contienance, hire dedlich yhe and ate laste in thonkinge as it were up caste, and so behield him in the wise, whil sche to loke mai suffise. and brutus with a manlich herte hire housebonde hath mad up sterte forth with hire fader ek also in alle haste, and seide hem tho that thei anon withoute lette a beere for the body fette; lucrece and therupon bledende he leide, and so forth out criende he goth into the market place of rome: and in a litel space thurgh cry the cite was assembled, and every mannes herte is trembled, whan thei the sothe herde of the cas. and therupon the conseil was take of the grete and of the smale, and brutus tolde hem al the tale; and thus cam into remembrance of senne the continuance, which arrons hadde do tofore, and ek, long time er he was bore, of that his fadre hadde do the wrong cam into place tho; so that the comun clamour tolde the newe schame of sennes olde. and al the toun began to crie, "awey, awey the tirannie of lecherie and covoitise!" and ate laste in such a wise the fader in the same while forth with his sone thei exile, and taken betre governance. bot yit an other remembrance that rihtwisnesse and lecherie acorden noght in compaignie with him that hath the lawe on honde, that mai a man wel understonde, as be a tale thou shalt wite, of olde ensample as it is write. at rome whan that apius, whos other name is claudius, was governour of the cite, ther fell a wonder thing to se touchende a gentil maide, as thus, whom livius virginius begeten hadde upon his wif: men seiden that so fair a lif as sche was noght in al the toun. this fame, which goth up and doun, to claudius cam in his ere, wherof his thoght anon was there, which al his herte hath set afyre, that he began the flour desire which longeth unto maydenhede, and sende, if that he myhte spede the blinde lustes of his wille. bot that thing mai he noght fulfille, for sche stod upon mariage; a worthi kniht of gret lignage, ilicius which thanne hihte, acorded in hire fader sihte was, that he scholde his douhter wedde. bot er the cause fully spedde, hire fader, which in romanie the ledinge of chivalerie in governance hath undertake, upon a werre which was take goth out with al the strengthe he hadde of men of armes whiche he ladde: so was the mariage left, and stod upon acord til eft. the king, which herde telle of this, hou that this maide ordeigned is to mariage, thoghte an other. and hadde thilke time a brother, which marchus claudius was hote, and was a man of such riote riht as the king himselve was: thei tuo togedre upon this cas in conseil founden out this weie, that marchus claudius schal seie hou sche be weie of covenant to his service appourtenant was hol, and to non other man; and therupon he seith he can in every point witnesse take, so that sche schal it noght forsake. whan that thei hadden schape so, after the lawe which was tho, whil that hir fader was absent, sche was somouned and assent to come in presence of the king and stonde in ansuere of this thing. hire frendes wisten alle wel that it was falshed everydel, and comen to the king and seiden, upon the comun lawe and preiden, so as this noble worthi knyht hir fader for the comun riht in thilke time, as was befalle, lai for the profit of hem alle upon the wylde feldes armed, that he ne scholde noght ben harmed ne schamed, whil that he were oute; and thus thei preiden al aboute. for al the clamour that he herde, the king upon his lust ansuerde, and yaf hem only daies tuo of respit; for he wende tho, that in so schorte a time appiere hire fader mihte in no manere. bot as therof he was deceived; for livius hadde al conceived the pourpos of the king tofore, so that to rome ayein therfore in alle haste he cam ridende, and lefte upon the field liggende his host, til that he come ayein. and thus this worthi capitein appiereth redi at his day, wher al that evere reson may be lawe in audience he doth, so that his dowhter upon soth of that marchus hire hadde accused he hath tofore the court excused. the king, which sih his pourpos faile, and that no sleihte mihte availe, encombred of his lustes blinde the lawe torneth out of kinde, and half in wraththe as thogh it were, in presence of hem alle there deceived of concupiscence yaf for his brother the sentence, and bad him that he scholde sese this maide and make him wel at ese; bot al withinne his oghne entente he wiste hou that the cause wente, of that his brother hath the wyte he was himselven forto wyte. bot thus this maiden hadde wrong, which was upon the king along, bot ayein him was non appel, and that the fader wiste wel: wherof upon the tirannie, that for the lust of lecherie his douhter scholde be deceived, and that ilicius was weyved untrewly fro the mariage, riht as a leon in his rage, which of no drede set acompte and not what pite scholde amounte, a naked swerd he pulleth oute, the which amonges al the route he threste thurgh his dowhter side, and al alowd this word he cride: "lo, take hire ther, thou wrongfull king, for me is levere upon this thing to be the fader of a maide, thogh sche be ded, that if men saide that in hir lif sche were schamed and i therof were evele named." tho bad the king men scholde areste his bodi, bot of thilke heste, lich to the chaced wylde bor, the houndes whan he fieleth sor, tothroweth and goth forth his weie, in such a wise forto seie this worthi kniht with swerd on honde his weie made, and thei him wonde, that non of hem his strokes kepte; and thus upon his hors he lepte, and with his swerd droppende of blod, the which withinne his douhter stod, he cam ther as the pouer was of rome, and tolde hem al the cas, and seide hem that thei myhten liere upon the wrong of his matiere, that betre it were to redresce at hom the grete unrihtwisnesse, than forto werre in strange place and lese at hom here oghne grace. for thus stant every mannes lif in jeupartie for his wif or for his dowhter, if thei be passende an other of beaute. of this merveile which thei sihe so apparant tofore here yhe, of that the king him hath misbore, here othes thei have alle swore that thei wol stonde be the riht. and thus of on acord upriht to rome at ones hom ayein thei torne, and schortly forto sein, this tirannye cam to mouthe, and every man seith what he couthe, so that the prive tricherie, which set was upon lecherie, cam openly to mannes ere; and that broghte in the comun feere, that every man the peril dradde of him that so hem overladde. forthi, er that it worse falle, thurgh comun conseil of hem alle thei have here wrongfull king deposed, and hem in whom it was supposed the conseil stod of his ledinge be lawe unto the dom thei bringe, wher thei receiven the penance that longeth to such governance. and thus thunchaste was chastised, wherof thei myhte ben avised that scholden afterward governe, and be this evidence lerne, hou it is good a king eschuie the lust of vice and vertu suie. to make an ende in this partie, which toucheth to the policie of chastite in special, as for conclusion final that every lust is to eschue be gret ensample i mai argue: hou in rages a toun of mede ther was a mayde, and as i rede, sarra sche hihte, and raguel hir fader was; and so befell, of bodi bothe and of visage was non so fair of the lignage, to seche among hem alle, as sche; wherof the riche of the cite, of lusti folk that couden love, assoted were upon hire love, and asken hire forto wedde. on was which ate laste spedde, bot that was more for likinge, to have his lust, than for weddinge, as he withinne his herte caste, which him repenteth ate laste. for so it fell the ferste nyht, that whanne he was to bedde dyht, as he which nothing god besecheth bot al only hise lustes secheth, abedde er he was fully warm and wolde have take hire in his arm, asmod, which was a fend of helle, and serveth, as the bokes telle, to tempte a man of such a wise, was redy there, and thilke emprise, which he hath set upon delit, he vengeth thanne in such a plit, that he his necke hathe writhe atuo. this yonge wif was sory tho, which wiste nothing what it mente; and natheles yit thus it wente noght only of this ferste man, bot after, riht as he began, sexe othre of hire housebondes asmod hath take into hise bondes, so that thei alle abedde deiden, whan thei her hand toward hir leiden, noght for the lawe of mariage, bot for that ilke fyri rage in which that thei the lawe excede: for who that wolde taken hiede what after fell in this matiere, ther mihte he wel the sothe hiere. whan sche was wedded to thobie, and raphael in compainie hath tawht him hou to ben honeste, asmod wan noght at thilke feste, and yit thobie his wille hadde; for he his lust so goodly ladde, that bothe lawe and kinde is served, wherof he hath himself preserved, that he fell noght in the sentence. o which an open evidence of this ensample a man mai se, that whan likinge in the degre of mariage mai forsueie, wel oghte him thanne in other weie of lust to be the betre avised. for god the lawes hath assissed als wel to reson as to kinde, bot he the bestes wolde binde only to lawes of nature, bot to the mannes creature god yaf him reson forth withal, wherof that he nature schal upon the causes modefie, that he schal do no lecherie, and yit he schal hise lustes have. so ben the lawes bothe save and every thing put out of sclandre; as whilom to king alisandre the wise philosophre tawhte, whan he his ferste lore cawhte, noght only upon chastete, bot upon alle honestete; wherof a king himself mai taste, hou trewe, hou large, hou joust, hou chaste him oghte of reson forto be, forth with the vertu of pite, thurgh which he mai gret thonk deserve toward his godd, that he preserve him and his poeple in alle welthe of pes, richesse, honour and helthe hier in this world and elles eke. mi sone, as we tofore spieke in schrifte, so as thou me seidest, and for thin ese, as thou me preidest, thi love throghes forto lisse, that i thee wolde telle and wisse the forme of aristotles lore, i have it seid, and somdiel more of othre ensamples, to assaie if i thi peines myhte allaie thurgh eny thing that i can seie. do wey, mi fader, i you preie: of that ye have unto me told i thonke you a thousendfold. the tales sounen in myn ere, bot yit min herte is elleswhere, i mai miselve noght restreigne, that i nam evere in loves peine: such lore couthe i nevere gete, which myhte make me foryete o point, bot if so were i slepte, that i my tydes ay ne kepte to thenke of love and of his lawe; that herte can i noght withdrawe. forthi, my goode fader diere, lef al and speke of my matiere touchende of love, as we begonne: if that ther be oght overronne or oght foryete or left behinde which falleth unto loves kinde, wherof it nedeth to be schrive, nou axeth, so that whil i live i myhte amende that is mys. mi goode diere sone, yis. thi schrifte forto make plein, ther is yit more forto sein of love which is unavised. bot for thou schalt be wel avised unto thi schrifte as it belongeth, a point which upon love hongeth and is the laste of alle tho, i wol thee telle, and thanne ho. explicit liber septimus. incipit liber octavus que favet ad vicium vetus hec modo regula confert, nec novus e contra qui docet ordo placet. cecus amor dudum nondum sua lumina cepit, quo venus impositum devia fallit iter. the myhti god, which unbegunne stant of himself and hath begunne alle othre thinges at his wille, the hevene him liste to fulfille of alle joie, where as he sit inthronized in his see, and hath hise angles him to serve, suche as him liketh to preserve, so that thei mowe noght forsueie: bot lucifer he putte aweie, with al the route apostazied of hem that ben to him allied, whiche out of hevene into the helle from angles into fendes felle; wher that ther is no joie of lyht, bot more derk than eny nyht the peine schal ben endeles; and yit of fyres natheles ther is plente, bot thei ben blake, wherof no syhte mai be take. thus whan the thinges ben befalle, that luciferes court was falle wher dedly pride hem hath conveied, anon forthwith it was pourveied thurgh him which alle thinges may; he made adam the sexte day in paradis, and to his make him liketh eve also to make, and bad hem cresce and multiplie. for of the mannes progenie, which of the womman schal be bore, the nombre of angles which was lore, whan thei out fro the blisse felle, he thoghte to restore, and felle in hevene thilke holy place which stod tho voide upon his grace. bot as it is wel wiste and knowe, adam and eve bot a throwe, so as it scholde of hem betyde, in paradis at thilke tyde ne duelten, and the cause why, write in the bok of genesi, as who seith, alle men have herd, hou raphael the fyri swerd in honde tok and drof hem oute, to gete here lyves fode aboute upon this wofull erthe hiere. metodre seith to this matiere, as he be revelacion it hadde upon avision, hou that adam and eve also virgines comen bothe tuo into the world and were aschamed, til that nature hem hath reclamed to love, and tauht hem thilke lore, that ferst thei keste, and overmore thei don that is to kinde due, wherof thei hadden fair issue. a sone was the ferste of alle, and chain be name thei him calle; abel was after the secounde, and in the geste as it is founde, nature so the cause ladde, tuo douhtres ek dame eve hadde, the ferste cleped calmana was, and that other delbora. thus was mankinde to beginne; forthi that time it was no sinne the soster forto take hire brother, whan that ther was of chois non other: to chain was calmana betake, and delboram hath abel take, in whom was gete natheles of worldes folk the ferste encres. men sein that nede hath no lawe, and so it was be thilke dawe and laste into the secounde age, til that the grete water rage, of noeh which was seid the flod, the world, which thanne in senne stod, hath dreint, outake lyves eyhte. tho was mankinde of litel weyhte; sem, cham, japhet, of these thre, that ben the sones of noe , the world of mannes nacion into multiplicacion was tho restored newe ayein so ferforth, as the bokes sein, that of hem thre and here issue ther was so large a retenue, of naciouns seventy and tuo; in sondri place ech on of tho the wyde world have enhabited. bot as nature hem hath excited, thei token thanne litel hiede, the brother of the sosterhiede to wedde wyves, til it cam into the time of habraham. whan the thridde age was begunne, the nede tho was overrunne, for ther was poeple ynouh in londe: thanne ate ferste it cam to honde, that sosterhode of mariage was torned into cousinage, so that after the rihte lyne the cousin weddeth the cousine. for habraham, er that he deide, this charge upon his servant leide, to him and in this wise spak, that he his sone isaa c do wedde for no worldes good, bot only to his oghne blod: wherof this servant, as he bad, whan he was ded, his sone hath lad to bathuel, wher he rebecke hath wedded with the whyte necke; for sche, he wiste wel and syh, was to the child cousine nyh. and thus as habraham hath tawht, whan isaa c was god betawht, his sone jacob dede also, and of laban the dowhtres tuo, which was his em, he tok to wyve, and gat upon hem in his lyve, of hire ferst which hihte lie, sex sones of his progenie, and of rachel tuo sones eke: the remenant was forto seke, that is to sein of foure mo, wherof he gat on bala tuo, and of zelpha he hadde ek tweie. and these tuelve, as i thee seie, thurgh providence of god himselve ben seid the patriarkes tuelve; of whom, as afterward befell, the tribes tuelve of irahel engendred were, and ben the same that of hebreus tho hadden name, which of sibrede in alliance for evere kepten thilke usance most comunly, til crist was bore. bot afterward it was forbore amonges ous that ben baptized; for of the lawe canonized the pope hath bede to the men, that non schal wedden of his ken ne the seconde ne the thridde. bot thogh that holy cherche it bidde, so to restreigne mariage, ther ben yit upon loves rage full manye of suche nou aday that taken wher thei take may. for love, which is unbesein of alle reson, as men sein, thurgh sotie and thurgh nycete, of his voluptuosite he spareth no condicion of ken ne yit religion, bot as a cock among the hennes, or as a stalon in the fennes, which goth amonges al the stod, riht so can he nomore good, bot takth what thing comth next to honde. mi sone, thou schalt understonde, that such delit is forto blame. forthi if thou hast be the same to love in eny such manere, tell forth therof and schrif thee hiere. mi fader, nay, god wot the sothe, mi feire is noght of such a bothe, so wylde a man yit was i nevere, that of mi ken or lief or levere me liste love in such a wise: and ek i not for what emprise i scholde assote upon a nonne, for thogh i hadde hir love wonne, it myhte into no pris amonte, so therof sette i non acompte. ye mai wel axe of this and that, bot sothli forto telle plat, in al this world ther is bot on the which myn herte hath overgon; i am toward alle othre fre. full wel, mi sone, nou i see thi word stant evere upon o place, bot yit therof thou hast a grace, that thou thee myht so wel excuse of love such as som men use, so as i spak of now tofore. for al such time of love is lore, and lich unto the bitterswete; for thogh it thenke a man ferst swete, he schal wel fielen ate laste that it is sour and may noght laste. for as a morsell envenimed, so hath such love his lust mistimed, and grete ensamples manyon a man mai finde therupon. at rome ferst if we beginne, ther schal i finde hou of this sinne an emperour was forto blame, gayus caligula be name, which of his oghne sostres thre berefte the virginite: and whanne he hadde hem so forlein, as he the which was al vilein, he dede hem out of londe exile. bot afterward withinne a while god hath beraft him in his ire his lif and ek his large empire: and thus for likinge of a throwe for evere his lust was overthrowe. of this sotie also i finde, amon his soster ayein kinde, which hihte thamar, he forlay; bot he that lust an other day aboghte, whan that absolon his oghne brother therupon, of that he hadde his soster schent, tok of that senne vengement and slowh him with his oghne hond: and thus thunkinde unkinde fond. and forto se more of this thing, the bible makth a knowleching, wherof thou miht take evidence upon the sothe experience. whan lothes wif was overgon and schape into the salte ston, as it is spoke into this day, be bothe hise dowhtres thanne he lay, with childe and made hem bothe grete, til that nature hem wolde lete, and so the cause aboute ladde that ech of hem a sone hadde, moab the ferste, and the seconde amon, of whiche, as it is founde, cam afterward to gret encres tuo nacions: and natheles, for that the stockes were ungoode, the branches mihten noght be goode; for of the false moabites forth with the strengthe of amonites, of that thei weren ferst misgete, the poeple of god was ofte upsete in irahel and in judee, as in the bible a man mai se. lo thus, my sone, as i thee seie, thou miht thiselve be beseie of that thou hast of othre herd: for evere yit it hath so ferd, of loves lust if so befalle that it in other place falle than it is of the lawe set, he which his love hath so beset mote afterward repente him sore. and every man is othres lore; of that befell in time er this the present time which now is may ben enformed hou it stod, and take that him thenketh good, and leve that which is noght so. bot forto loke of time go, hou lust of love excedeth lawe, it oghte forto be withdrawe; for every man it scholde drede, and nameliche in his sibrede, which torneth ofte to vengance: wherof a tale in remembrance, which is a long process to hiere, i thenke forto tellen hiere. of a cronique in daies gon, the which is cleped pantheon, in loves cause i rede thus, hou that the grete antiochus, of whom that antioche tok his ferste name, as seith the bok, was coupled to a noble queene, and hadde a dowhter hem betwene: bot such fortune cam to honde, that deth, which no king mai withstonde, bot every lif it mote obeie, this worthi queene tok aweie. the king, which made mochel mone, tho stod, as who seith, al him one withoute wif, bot natheles his doghter, which was piereles of beaute, duelte aboute him stille. bot whanne a man hath welthe at wille, the fleissh is frele and falleth ofte, and that this maide tendre and softe, which in hire fadres chambres duelte, withinne a time wiste and felte: for likinge and concupiscence withoute insihte of conscience the fader so with lustes blente, that he caste al his hole entente his oghne doghter forto spille. this king hath leisir at his wille with strengthe, and whanne he time sih, this yonge maiden he forlih: and sche was tendre and full of drede, sche couthe noght hir maidenhede defende, and thus sche hath forlore the flour which she hath longe bore. it helpeth noght althogh sche wepe, for thei that scholde hir bodi kepe of wommen were absent as thanne; and thus this maiden goth to manne, the wylde fader thus devoureth his oghne fleissh, which non socoureth, and that was cause of mochel care. bot after this unkinde fare out of the chambre goth the king, and sche lay stille, and of this thing, withinne hirself such sorghe made, ther was no wiht that mihte hir glade, for feere of thilke horrible vice. with that cam inne the norrice which fro childhode hire hadde kept, and axeth if sche hadde slept, and why hire chiere was unglad. bot sche, which hath ben overlad of that sche myhte noght be wreke, for schame couthe unethes speke; and natheles mercy sche preide with wepende yhe and thus sche seide: "helas, mi soster, waileway, that evere i sih this ilke day! thing which mi bodi ferst begat into this world, onliche that mi worldes worschipe hath bereft." with that sche swouneth now and eft, and evere wissheth after deth, so that welnyh hire lacketh breth. that other, which hire wordes herde, in confortinge of hire ansuerde, to lette hire fadres fol desir sche wiste no recoverir: whan thing is do, ther is no bote, so suffren thei that suffre mote; ther was non other which it wiste. thus hath this king al that him liste of his likinge and his plesance, and laste in such continuance, and such delit he tok therinne, him thoghte that it was no sinne; and sche dorste him nothing withseie. bot fame, which goth every weie, to sondry regnes al aboute the grete beaute telleth oute of such a maide of hih parage: so that for love of mariage the worthi princes come and sende, as thei the whiche al honour wende, and knewe nothing hou it stod. the fader, whanne he understod, that thei his dowhter thus besoghte, with al his wit he caste and thoghte hou that he myhte finde a lette; and such a statut thanne he sette, and in this wise his lawe he taxeth, that what man that his doghter axeth, bot if he couthe his question assoile upon suggestion of certein thinges that befelle, the whiche he wolde unto him telle, he scholde in certein lese his hed. and thus ther weren manye ded, here hevedes stondende on the gate, till ate laste longe and late, for lacke of ansuere in the wise, the remenant that weren wise eschuieden to make assay. til it befell upon a day appolinus the prince of tyr, which hath to love a gret desir, as he which in his hihe mod was likende of his hote blod, a yong, a freissh, a lusti knyht, as he lai musende on a nyht of the tidinges whiche he herde, he thoghte assaie hou that it ferde. he was with worthi compainie arraied, and with good navie to schipe he goth, the wynd him dryveth, and seileth, til that he arryveth: sauf in the port of antioche he londeth, and goth to aproche the kinges court and his presence. of every naturel science, which eny clerk him couthe teche, he couthe ynowh, and in his speche of wordes he was eloquent; and whanne he sih the king present, he preith he moste his dowhter have. the king ayein began to crave, and tolde him the condicion, hou ferst unto his question he mote ansuere and faile noght, or with his heved it schal be boght: and he him axeth what it was. the king declareth him the cas with sturne lok and sturdi chiere, to him and seide in this manere: "with felonie i am upbore, i ete and have it noght forbore mi modres fleissh, whos housebonde mi fader forto seche i fonde, which is the sone ek of my wif. hierof i am inquisitif; and who that can mi tale save, al quyt he schal my doghter have; of his ansuere and if he faile, he schal be ded withoute faile. forthi my sone," quod the king, "be wel avised of this thing, which hath thi lif in jeupartie." appolinus for his partie, whan he this question hath herd, unto the king he hath ansuerd and hath rehersed on and on the pointz, and seide therupon: "the question which thou hast spoke, if thou wolt that it be unloke, it toucheth al the privete betwen thin oghne child and thee, and stant al hol upon you tuo." the king was wonder sory tho, and thoghte, if that he seide it oute, than were he schamed al aboute. with slihe wordes and with felle he seith, "mi sone, i schal thee telle, though that thou be of litel wit, it is no gret merveile as yit, thin age mai it noght suffise: bot loke wel thou noght despise thin oghne lif, for of my grace of thretty daies fulle a space i grante thee, to ben avised." and thus with leve and time assised this yonge prince forth he wente, and understod wel what it mente, withinne his herte as he was lered, that forto maken him afered the king his time hath so deslaied. wherof he dradde and was esmaied, of treson that he deie scholde, for he the king his sothe tolde; and sodeinly the nyhtes tyde, that more wolde he noght abide, al prively his barge he hente and hom ayein to tyr he wente: and in his oghne wit he seide for drede, if he the king bewreide, he knew so wel the kinges herte, that deth ne scholde he noght asterte, the king him wolde so poursuie. bot he, that wolde his deth eschuie, and knew al this tofor the hond, forsake he thoghte his oghne lond, that there wolde he noght abyde; for wel he knew that on som syde this tirant of his felonie be som manere of tricherie to grieve his bodi wol noght leve. forthi withoute take leve, als priveliche as evere he myhte, he goth him to the see be nyhte in schipes that be whete laden: here takel redy tho thei maden and hale up seil and forth thei fare. bot forto tellen of the care that thei of tyr begonne tho, whan that thei wiste he was ago, it is a pite forto hiere. they losten lust, they losten chiere, thei toke upon hem such penaunce, ther was no song, ther was no daunce, bot every merthe and melodie to hem was thanne a maladie; for unlust of that aventure ther was noman which tok tonsure, in doelful clothes thei hem clothe, the bathes and the stwes bothe thei schetten in be every weie; there was no lif which leste pleie ne take of eny joie kepe, bot for here liege lord to wepe; and every wyht seide as he couthe, "helas, the lusti flour of youthe, our prince, oure heved, our governour, thurgh whom we stoden in honour, withoute the comun assent thus sodeinliche is fro ous went!" such was the clamour of hem alle. bot se we now what is befalle upon the ferste tale plein, and torne we therto ayein. antiochus the grete sire, which full of rancour and of ire his herte berth, so as ye herde, of that this prince of tyr ansuerde, he hadde a feloun bacheler, which was his prive consailer, and taliart be name he hihte: the king a strong puison him dihte withinne a buiste and gold therto, in alle haste and bad him go strawht unto tyr, and for no cost ne spare he, til he hadde lost the prince which he wolde spille. and whan the king hath seid his wille, this taliart in a galeie with alle haste he tok his weie: the wynd was good, he saileth blyve, til he tok lond upon the ryve of tyr, and forth with al anon into the burgh he gan to gon, and tok his in and bod a throwe. bot for he wolde noght be knowe, desguised thanne he goth him oute; he sih the wepinge al aboute, and axeth what the cause was, and thei him tolden al the cas, how sodeinli the prince is go. and whan he sih that it was so, and that his labour was in vein, anon he torneth hom ayein, and to the king, whan he cam nyh, he tolde of that he herde and syh, hou that the prince of tyr is fled, so was he come ayein unsped. the king was sori for a while, bot whan he sih that with no wyle he myhte achieve his crualte, he stinte his wraththe and let him be. bot over this now forto telle of aventures that befelle unto this prince of whom i tolde, he hath his rihte cours forth holde be ston and nedle, til he cam to tharse, and there his lond he nam. a burgeis riche of gold and fee was thilke time in that cite, which cleped was strangulio, his wif was dionise also: this yonge prince, as seith the bok, with hem his herbergage tok; and it befell that cite so before time and thanne also, thurgh strong famyne which hem ladde was non that eny whete hadde. appolinus, whan that he herde the meschief, hou the cite ferde, al freliche of his oghne yifte his whete, among hem forto schifte, the which be schipe he hadde broght, he yaf, and tok of hem riht noght. bot sithen ferst this world began, was nevere yit to such a man mor joie mad than thei him made: for thei were alle of him so glade, that thei for evere in remembrance made a figure in resemblance of him, and in the comun place thei sette him up, so that his face mihte every maner man beholde, so as the cite was beholde; it was of latoun overgilt: thus hath he noght his yifte spilt. upon a time with his route this lord to pleie goth him oute, and in his weie of tyr he mette a man, the which on knees him grette, and hellican be name he hihte, which preide his lord to have insihte upon himself, and seide him thus, hou that the grete antiochus awaiteth if he mihte him spille. that other thoghte and hield him stille, and thonked him of his warnynge, and bad him telle no tidinge, whan he to tyr cam hom ayein, that he in tharse him hadde sein. fortune hath evere be muable and mai no while stonde stable: for now it hiheth, now it loweth, now stant upriht, now overthroweth, now full of blisse and now of bale, as in the tellinge of mi tale hierafterward a man mai liere, which is gret routhe forto hiere. this lord, which wolde don his beste, withinne himself hath litel reste, and thoghte he wolde his place change and seche a contre more strange. of tharsiens his leve anon he tok, and is to schipe gon: his cours he nam with seil updrawe, where as fortune doth the lawe, and scheweth, as i schal reherse, how sche was to this lord diverse, the which upon the see sche ferketh. the wynd aros, the weder derketh, it blew and made such tempeste, non ancher mai the schip areste, which hath tobroken al his gere; the schipmen stode in such a feere, was non that myhte himself bestere, bot evere awaite upon the lere, whan that thei scholde drenche at ones. ther was ynowh withinne wones of wepinge and of sorghe tho; this yonge king makth mochel wo so forto se the schip travaile: bot al that myhte him noght availe; the mast tobrak, the seil torof, the schip upon the wawes drof, til that thei sihe a londes cooste. tho made avou the leste and moste, be so thei myhten come alonde; bot he which hath the see on honde, neptunus, wolde noght acorde, bot altobroke cable and corde, er thei to londe myhte aproche, the schip toclef upon a roche, and al goth doun into the depe. bot he that alle thing mai kepe unto this lord was merciable, and broghte him sauf upon a table, which to the lond him hath upbore; the remenant was al forlore, wherof he made mochel mone. thus was this yonge lord him one, al naked in a povere plit: his colour, which whilom was whyt, was thanne of water fade and pale, and ek he was so sore acale that he wiste of himself no bote, it halp him nothing forto mote to gete ayein that he hath lore. bot sche which hath his deth forbore, fortune, thogh sche wol noght yelpe, al sodeinly hath sent him helpe, whanne him thoghte alle grace aweie; ther cam a fisshere in the weie, and sih a man ther naked stonde, and whan that he hath understonde the cause, he hath of him gret routhe, and onliche of his povere trouthe of suche clothes as he hadde with gret pite this lord he cladde. and he him thonketh as he scholde, and seith him that it schal be yolde, if evere he gete his stat ayein, and preide that he wolde him sein if nyh were eny toun for him. he seide, "yee, pentapolim, wher bothe king and queene duellen." whanne he this tale herde tellen, he gladeth him and gan beseche that he the weie him wolde teche: and he him taghte; and forth he wente and preide god with good entente to sende him joie after his sorwe. it was noght passed yit midmorwe, whan thiderward his weie he nam, wher sone upon the non he cam. he eet such as he myhte gete, and forth anon, whan he hadde ete, he goth to se the toun aboute, and cam ther as he fond a route of yonge lusti men withalle; and as it scholde tho befalle, that day was set of such assisse, that thei scholde in the londes guise, as he herde of the poeple seie, here comun game thanne pleie; and crid was that thei scholden come unto the gamen alle and some of hem that ben delivere and wyhte, to do such maistrie as thei myhte. thei made hem naked as thei scholde, for so that ilke game wolde, as it was tho custume and us, amonges hem was no refus: the flour of al the toun was there and of the court also ther were, and that was in a large place riht evene afore the kinges face, which artestrathes thanne hihte. the pley was pleid riht in his sihte, and who most worthi was of dede receive he scholde a certein mede and in the cite bere a pris. appolinus, which war and wys of every game couthe an ende, he thoghte assaie, hou so it wende, and fell among hem into game: and there he wan him such a name, so as the king himself acompteth that he alle othre men surmonteth, and bar the pris above hem alle. the king bad that into his halle at souper time he schal be broght; and he cam thanne and lefte it noght, withoute compaignie al one: was non so semlich of persone, of visage and of limes bothe, if that he hadde what to clothe. at soupertime natheles the king amiddes al the pres let clepe him up among hem alle, and bad his mareschall of halle to setten him in such degre that he upon him myhte se. the king was sone set and served, and he, which hath his pris deserved after the kinges oghne word, was mad beginne a middel bord, that bothe king and queene him sihe. he sat and caste aboute his yhe and sih the lordes in astat, and with himself wax in debat thenkende what he hadde lore, and such a sorwe he tok therfore, that he sat evere stille and thoghte, as he which of no mete roghte. the king behield his hevynesse, and of his grete gentillesse his doghter, which was fair and good and ate bord before him stod, as it was thilke time usage, he bad to gon on his message and fonde forto make him glad. and sche dede as hire fader bad, and goth to him the softe pas and axeth whenne and what he was, and preith he scholde his thoghtes leve. he seith, "ma dame, be your leve mi name is hote appolinus, and of mi richesse it is thus, upon the see i have it lore. the contre wher as i was bore, wher that my lond is and mi rente, i lefte at tyr, whan that i wente: the worschipe of this worldes aghte, unto the god ther i betaghte." and thus togedre as thei tuo speeke, the teres runne be his cheeke. the king, which therof tok good kepe, hath gret pite to sen him wepe, and for his doghter sende ayein, and preide hir faire and gan to sein that sche no lengere wolde drecche, bot that sche wolde anon forth fecche hire harpe and don al that sche can to glade with that sory man. and sche to don hir fader heste hir harpe fette, and in the feste upon a chaier which thei fette hirself next to this man sche sette: with harpe bothe and ek with mouthe to him sche dede al that sche couthe to make him chiere, and evere he siketh, and sche him axeth hou him liketh. "ma dame, certes wel," he seide, "bot if ye the mesure pleide which, if you list, i schal you liere, it were a glad thing forto hiere." "ha, lieve sire," tho quod sche, "now tak the harpe and let me se of what mesure that ye mene." tho preith the king, tho preith the queene, forth with the lordes alle arewe, that he som merthe wolde schewe; he takth the harpe and in his wise he tempreth, and of such assise singende he harpeth forth withal, that as a vois celestial hem thoghte it souneth in here ere, as thogh that he an angel were. thei gladen of his melodie, bot most of alle the compainie the kinges doghter, which it herde, and thoghte ek hou that he ansuerde, whan that he was of hire opposed, withinne hir herte hath wel supposed that he is of gret gentilesse. hise dedes ben therof witnesse forth with the wisdom of his lore; it nedeth noght to seche more, he myhte noght have such manere, of gentil blod bot if he were. whanne he hath harped al his fille, the kinges heste to fulfille, awey goth dissh, awey goth cuppe, doun goth the bord, the cloth was uppe, thei risen and gon out of halle. the king his chamberlein let calle, and bad that he be alle weie a chambre for this man pourveie, which nyh his oghne chambre be. "it schal be do, mi lord," quod he. appolinus of whom i mene tho tok his leve of king and queene and of the worthi maide also, which preide unto hir fader tho, that sche myhte of that yonge man of tho sciences whiche he can his lore have; and in this wise the king hir granteth his aprise, so that himself therto assente. thus was acorded er thei wente, that he with al that evere he may this yonge faire freisshe may of that he couthe scholde enforme; and full assented in this forme thei token leve as for that nyht. and whanne it was amorwe lyht, unto this yonge man of tyr of clothes and of good atir with gold and selver to despende this worthi yonge lady sende: and thus sche made him wel at ese, and he with al that he can plese hire serveth wel and faire ayein. he tawhte hir til sche was certein of harpe, of citole and of rote, with many a tun and many a note upon musique, upon mesure, and of hire harpe the temprure he tawhte hire ek, as he wel couthe. bot as men sein that frele is youthe, with leisir and continuance this mayde fell upon a chance, that love hath mad him a querele ayein hire youthe freissh and frele, that malgre wher sche wole or noght, sche mot with al hire hertes thoght to love and to his lawe obeie; and that sche schal ful sore abeie. for sche wot nevere what it is, bot evere among sche fieleth this: thenkende upon this man of tyr, hire herte is hot as eny fyr, and otherwhile it is acale; now is sche red, nou is sche pale riht after the condicion of hire ymaginacion; bot evere among hire thoghtes alle, sche thoghte, what so mai befalle, or that sche lawhe, or that sche wepe, sche wolde hire goode name kepe for feere of wommanysshe schame. bot what in ernest and in game, sche stant for love in such a plit, that sche hath lost al appetit of mete, of drinke, of nyhtes reste, as sche that not what is the beste; bot forto thenken al hir fille sche hield hire ofte times stille withinne hir chambre, and goth noght oute: the king was of hire lif in doute, which wiste nothing what it mente. bot fell a time, as he out wente to walke, of princes sones thre ther come and felle to his kne; and ech of hem in sondri wise besoghte and profreth his servise, so that he myhte his doghter have. the king, which wolde his honour save, seith sche is siek, and of that speche tho was no time to beseche; bot ech of hem do make a bille he bad, and wryte his oghne wille, his name, his fader and his good; and whan sche wiste hou that it stod, and hadde here billes oversein, thei scholden have ansuere ayein. of this conseil thei weren glad, and writen as the king hem bad, and every man his oghne bok into the kinges hond betok, and he it to his dowhter sende, and preide hir forto make an ende and wryte ayein hire oghne hond, riht as sche in hire herte fond. the billes weren wel received, bot sche hath alle here loves weyved, and thoghte tho was time and space to put hire in hir fader grace, and wrot ayein and thus sche saide: "the schame which is in a maide with speche dar noght ben unloke, bot in writinge it mai be spoke; so wryte i to you, fader, thus: bot if i have appolinus, of al this world, what so betyde, i wol non other man abide. and certes if i of him faile, i wot riht wel withoute faile ye schull for me be dowhterles." this lettre cam, and ther was press tofore the king, ther as he stod; and whan that he it understod, he yaf hem ansuer by and by, bot that was do so prively, that non of othres conseil wiste. thei toke her leve, and wher hem liste thei wente forth upon here weie. the king ne wolde noght bewreie the conseil for no maner hihe, bot soffreth til he time sihe: and whan that he to chambre is come, he hath unto his conseil nome this man of tyr, and let him se the lettre and al the privete, the which his dowhter to him sente: and he his kne to grounde bente and thonketh him and hire also, and er thei wenten thanne atuo, with good herte and with good corage of full love and full mariage the king and he ben hol acorded. and after, whanne it was recorded unto the dowhter hou it stod, the yifte of al this worldes good ne scholde have mad hir half so blythe: and forth withal the king als swithe, for he wol have hire good assent, hath for the queene hir moder sent. the queene is come, and whan sche herde of this matiere hou that it ferde, sche syh debat, sche syh desese, bot if sche wolde hir dowhter plese, and is therto assented full. which is a dede wonderfull, for noman knew the sothe cas bot he himself, what man he was; and natheles, so as hem thoghte, hise dedes to the sothe wroghte that he was come of gentil blod: him lacketh noght bot worldes good, and as therof is no despeir, for sche schal ben hire fader heir, and he was able to governe. thus wol thei noght the love werne of him and hire in none wise, bot ther acorded thei divise the day and time of mariage. wher love is lord of the corage, him thenketh longe er that he spede; bot ate laste unto the dede the time is come, and in her wise with gret offrende and sacrifise thei wedde and make a riche feste, and every thing which was honeste withinnen house and ek withoute it was so don, that al aboute of gret worschipe, of gret noblesse ther cride many a man largesse unto the lordes hihe and loude; the knyhtes that ben yonge and proude, thei jouste ferst and after daunce. the day is go, the nyhtes chaunce hath derked al the bryhte sonne; this lord, which hath his love wonne, is go to bedde with his wif, wher as thei ladde a lusti lif, and that was after somdel sene, for as thei pleiden hem betwene, thei gete a child betwen hem tuo, to whom fell after mochel wo. now have i told of the spousailes. bot forto speke of the mervailes whiche afterward to hem befelle, it is a wonder forto telle. it fell adai thei riden oute, the king and queene and al the route, to pleien hem upon the stronde, wher as thei sen toward the londe a schip sailende of gret array. to knowe what it mene may, til it be come thei abide; than sen thei stonde on every side, endlong the schipes bord to schewe, of penonceals a riche rewe. thei axen when the ship is come: fro tyr, anon ansuerde some, and over this thei seiden more the cause why thei comen fore was forto seche and forto finde appolinus, which was of kinde her liege lord: and he appiereth, and of the tale which he hiereth he was riht glad; for thei him tolde, that for vengance, as god it wolde, antiochus, as men mai wite, with thondre and lyhthnynge is forsmite; his doghter hath the same chaunce, so be thei bothe in o balance. "forthi, oure liege lord, we seie in name of al the lond, and preie, that left al other thing to done, it like you to come sone and se youre oghne liege men with othre that ben of youre ken, that live in longinge and desir til ye be come ayein to tyr." this tale after the king it hadde pentapolim al overspradde, ther was no joie forto seche; for every man it hadde in speche and seiden alle of on acord, "a worthi king schal ben oure lord: that thoghte ous ferst an hevinesse is schape ous now to gret gladnesse." thus goth the tidinge overal. bot nede he mot, that nede schal: appolinus his leve tok, to god and al the lond betok with al the poeple long and brod, that he no lenger there abod. the king and queene sorwe made, bot yit somdiel thei weren glade of such thing as thei herden tho: and thus betwen the wel and wo to schip he goth, his wif with childe, the which was evere meke and mylde and wolde noght departe him fro, such love was betwen hem tuo. lichorida for hire office was take, which was a norrice, to wende with this yonge wif, to whom was schape a woful lif. withinne a time, as it betidde, whan thei were in the see amidde, out of the north they sihe a cloude; the storm aros, the wyndes loude thei blewen many a dredful blast, the welkne was al overcast, the derke nyht the sonne hath under, ther was a gret tempeste of thunder: the mone and ek the sterres bothe in blake cloudes thei hem clothe, wherof here brihte lok thei hyde. this yonge ladi wepte and cride, to whom no confort myhte availe; of childe sche began travaile, wher sche lay in a caban clos: hire woful lord fro hire aros, and that was longe er eny morwe, so that in anguisse and in sorwe sche was delivered al be nyhte and ded in every mannes syhte; bot natheles for al this wo a maide child was bore tho. appolinus whan he this knew, for sorwe a swoune he overthrew, that noman wiste in him no lif. and whanne he wok, he seide, "ha, wif, mi lust, mi joie, my desir, mi welthe and my recoverir, why schal i live, and thou schalt dye? ha, thou fortune, i thee deffie, nou hast thou do to me thi werste. ha, herte, why ne wolt thou berste, that forth with hire i myhte passe? mi peines weren wel the lasse." in such wepinge and in such cry his dede wif, which lay him by, a thousend sithes he hire kiste; was nevere man that sih ne wiste a sorwe unto his sorwe lich; for evere among upon the lich he fell swounende, as he that soghte his oghne deth, which he besoghte unto the goddes alle above with many a pitous word of love; bot suche wordes as tho were yit herde nevere mannes ere, bot only thilke whiche he seide. the maister schipman cam and preide with othre suche as be therinne, and sein that he mai nothing winne ayein the deth, bot thei him rede, he be wel war and tak hiede, the see be weie of his nature receive mai no creature withinne himself as forto holde, the which is ded: forthi thei wolde, as thei conseilen al aboute, the dede body casten oute. for betre it is, thei seiden alle, that it of hire so befalle, than if thei scholden alle spille. the king, which understod here wille and knew here conseil that was trewe, began ayein his sorwe newe with pitous herte, and thus to seie: "it is al reson that ye preie. i am," quod he, "bot on al one, so wolde i noght for mi persone ther felle such adversite. bot whan it mai no betre be, doth thanne thus upon my word, let make a cofre strong of bord, that it be ferm with led and pich." anon was mad a cofre sich, al redy broght unto his hond; and whanne he sih and redy fond this cofre mad and wel enclowed, the dede bodi was besowed in cloth of gold and leid therinne. and for he wolde unto hire winne upon som cooste a sepulture, under hire heved in aventure of gold he leide sommes grete and of jeueals a strong beyete forth with a lettre, and seide thus: "i, king of tyr appollinus, do alle maner men to wite, that hiere and se this lettre write, that helpeles withoute red hier lith a kinges doghter ded: and who that happeth hir to finde, for charite tak in his mynde, and do so that sche be begrave with this tresor, which he schal have." thus whan the lettre was full spoke, thei haue anon the cofre stoke, and bounden it with yren faste, that it may with the wawes laste, and stoppen it be such a weie, that it schal be withinne dreie, so that no water myhte it grieve. and thus in hope and good believe of that the corps schal wel aryve, thei caste it over bord als blyve. the schip forth on the wawes wente; the prince hath changed his entente, and seith he wol noght come at tyr as thanne, bot al his desir is ferst to seilen unto tharse. the wyndy storm began to skarse, the sonne arist, the weder cliereth, the schipman which behinde stiereth, whan that he sih the wyndes saghte, towardes tharse his cours he straghte. bot now to mi matiere ayein, to telle as olde bokes sein, this dede corps of which ye knowe with wynd and water was forthrowe now hier, now ther, til ate laste at ephesim the see upcaste the cofre and al that was therinne. of gret merveile now beginne mai hiere who that sitteth stille; that god wol save mai noght spille. riht as the corps was throwe alonde, ther cam walkende upon the stronde a worthi clerc, a surgien, and ek a gret phisicien, of al that lond the wisest on, which hihte maister cerymon; ther were of his disciples some. this maister to the cofre is come, he peiseth ther was somwhat in, and bad hem bere it to his in, and goth himselve forth withal. al that schal falle, falle schal; thei comen hom and tarie noght; this cofre is into chambre broght, which that thei finde faste stoke, bot thei with craft it have unloke. thei loken in, where as thei founde a bodi ded, which was bewounde in cloth of gold, as i seide er, the tresor ek thei founden ther forth with the lettre, which thei rede. and tho thei token betre hiede; unsowed was the bodi sone, and he, which knew what is to done, this noble clerk, with alle haste began the veines forto taste, and sih hire age was of youthe, and with the craftes whiche he couthe he soghte and fond a signe of lif. with that this worthi kinges wif honestely thei token oute, and maden fyres al aboute; thei leide hire on a couche softe, and with a scheete warmed ofte hire colde brest began to hete, hire herte also to flacke and bete. this maister hath hire every joignt with certein oile and balsme enoignt, and putte a liquour in hire mouth, which is to fewe clerkes couth, so that sche coevereth ate laste; and ferst hire yhen up sche caste, and whan sche more of strengthe cawhte, hire armes bothe forth sche strawhte, hield up hire hond and pitously sche spak and seide, "ha, wher am i? where is my lord, what world is this?" as sche that wot noght hou it is. bot cerymon the worthi leche ansuerde anon upon hire speche and seith, "ma dame, yee ben hiere, where yee be sauf, as yee schal hiere hierafterward; forthi as nou mi conseil is, conforteth you: for trusteth wel withoute faile, ther is nothing which schal you faile, that oghte of reson to be do." thus passen thei a day or tuo; thei speke of noght as for an ende, til sche began somdiel amende, and wiste hireselven what sche mente. tho forto knowe hire hol entente, this maister axeth al the cas, hou sche cam there and what sche was. "hou i cam hiere wot i noght," quod sche, "bot wel i am bethoght of othre thinges al aboute": fro point to point and tolde him oute als ferforthli as sche it wiste. and he hire tolde hou in a kiste the see hire threw upon the lond, and what tresor with hire he fond, which was al redy at hire wille, as he that schop him to fulfille with al his myht what thing he scholde. sche thonketh him that he so wolde, and al hire herte sche discloseth, and seith him wel that sche supposeth hire lord be dreint, hir child also; so sih sche noght bot alle wo. wherof as to the world nomore ne wol sche torne, and preith therfore that in som temple of the cite, to kepe and holde hir chastete, sche mihte among the wommen duelle. whan he this tale hir herde telle, he was riht glad, and made hire knowen that he a dowhter of his owen hath, which he wol unto hir yive to serve, whil thei bothe live, in stede of that which sche hath lost; al only at his oghne cost sche schal be rendred forth with hire. she seith, "grant mercy, lieve sire, god quite it you, ther i ne may." and thus thei drive forth the day, til time com that sche was hol; and tho thei take her conseil hol, to schape upon good ordinance and make a worthi pourveance ayein the day whan thei be veiled. and thus, whan that thei be conseiled, in blake clothes thei hem clothe, this lady and the dowhter bothe, and yolde hem to religion. the feste and the profession after the reule of that degre was mad with gret solempnete, where as diane is seintefied; thus stant this lady justefied in ordre wher sche thenkth to duelle. bot now ayeinward forto telle in what plit that hire lord stod inne: he seileth, til that he may winne the havene of tharse, as i seide er; and whanne he was aryved ther, and it was thurgh the cite knowe, men myhte se withinne a throwe, as who seith, al the toun at ones, that come ayein him for the nones, to yiven him the reverence, so glad thei were of his presence: and thogh he were in his corage desesed, yit with glad visage he made hem chiere, and to his in, wher he whilom sojourned in, he goth him straght and was resceived. and whan the presse of poeple is weived, he takth his hoste unto him tho, and seith, "mi frend strangulio, lo, thus and thus it is befalle, and thou thiself art on of alle, forth with thi wif, whiche i most triste. forthi, if it you bothe liste, my doghter thaise be youre leve i thenke schal with you beleve as for a time; and thus i preie, that sche be kept be alle weie, and whan sche hath of age more, that sche be set to bokes lore. and this avou to god i make, that i schal nevere for hir sake mi berd for no likinge schave, til it befalle that i have in covenable time of age beset hire unto mariage." thus thei acorde, and al is wel, and forto resten him somdel, as for a while he ther sojorneth, and thanne he takth his leve and torneth to schipe, and goth him hom to tyr, wher every man with gret desir awaiteth upon his comynge. bot whan the schip com in seilinge, and thei perceiven it is he, was nevere yit in no cite such joie mad as thei tho made; his herte also began to glade of that he sih the poeple glad. lo, thus fortune his hap hath lad; in sondri wise he was travailed, bot hou so evere he be assailed, his latere ende schal be good. and forto speke hou that it stod of thaise his doghter, wher sche duelleth, in tharse, as the cronique telleth, sche was wel kept, sche was wel loked, sche was wel tawht, sche was wel boked, so wel sche spedde hir in hire youthe that sche of every wisdom couthe, that forto seche in every lond so wys an other noman fond, ne so wel tawht at mannes yhe. bot wo worthe evere fals envie! for it befell that time so, a dowhter hath strangulio, the which was cleped philotenne: bot fame, which wole evere renne, cam al day to hir moder ere, and seith, wher evere hir doghter were with thayse set in eny place, the comun vois, the comun grace was al upon that other maide, and of hir doghter noman saide. who wroth but dionise thanne? hire thoghte a thousend yer til whanne sche myhte ben of thaise wreke of that sche herde folk so speke. and fell that ilke same tyde, that ded was trewe lychoride, which hadde be servant to thaise, so that sche was the worse at aise, for sche hath thanne no servise bot only thurgh this dionise, which was hire dedlich anemie thurgh pure treson and envie. sche, that of alle sorwe can, tho spak unto hire bondeman, which cleped was theophilus, and made him swere in conseil thus, that he such time as sche him sette schal come thaise forto fette, and lede hire oute of alle sihte, wher as noman hire helpe myhte, upon the stronde nyh the see, and there he schal this maiden sle. this cherles herte is in a traunce, as he which drad him of vengance whan time comth an other day; bot yit dorste he noght seie nay, bot swor and seide he schal fulfille hire hestes at hire oghne wille. the treson and the time is schape, so fell it that this cherles knape hath lad this maiden ther he wolde upon the stronde, and what sche scholde sche was adrad; and he out breide a rusti swerd and to hir seide, "thou schalt be ded." "helas!" quod sche, "why schal i so?" "lo thus," quod he, "mi ladi dionise hath bede, thou schalt be moerdred in this stede." this maiden tho for feere schryhte, and for the love of god almyhte sche preith that for a litel stounde sche myhte knele upon the grounde, toward the hevene forto crave, hire wofull soule if sche mai save: and with this noise and with this cry, out of a barge faste by, which hidd was ther on scomerfare, men sterten out and weren ware of this feloun,and he to go, and sche began to crie tho, "ha, mercy, help for goddes sake! into the barge thei hire take, as thieves scholde, and forth thei wente. upon the see the wynd hem hente, and malgre wher thei wolde or non, tofor the weder forth thei gon, ther halp no seil, ther halp non ore, forstormed and forblowen sore in gret peril so forth thei dryve, til ate laste thei aryve at mitelene the cite. in havene sauf and whan thei be, the maister schipman made him boun, and goth him out into the toun, and profreth thaise forto selle. on leonin it herde telle, which maister of the bordel was, and bad him gon a redy pas to fetten hire, and forth he wente, and thaise out of his barge he hente, and to this bordeller hir solde. and he, that be hire body wolde take avantage, let do crye, that what man wolde his lecherie attempte upon hire maidenhede, lei doun the gold and he schal spede. and thus whan he hath crid it oute in syhte of al the poeple aboute, he ladde hire to the bordel tho. no wonder is thogh sche be wo: clos in a chambre be hireselve, ech after other ten or tuelve of yonge men to hire in wente; bot such a grace god hire sente, that for the sorwe which sche made was non of hem which pouer hade to don hire eny vileinie. this leonin let evere aspie, and waiteth after gret beyete; bot al for noght, sche was forlete, that mo men wolde ther noght come. whan he therof hath hiede nome, and knew that sche was yit a maide, unto his oghne man he saide, that he with strengthe ayein hire leve tho scholde hir maidenhod bereve. this man goth in, bot so it ferde, whan he hire wofull pleintes herde and he therof hath take kepe, him liste betre forto wepe than don oght elles to the game. and thus sche kepte hirself fro schame, and kneleth doun to therthe and preide unto this man, and thus sche seide: "if so be that thi maister wolde that i his gold encresce scholde, it mai noght falle be this weie: bot soffre me to go mi weie out of this hous wher i am inne, and i schal make him forto winne in som place elles of the toun, be so it be religioun, wher that honeste wommen duelle. and thus thou myht thi maister telle, that whanne i have a chambre there, let him do crie ay wyde where, what lord that hath his doghter diere, and is in will that sche schal liere of such a scole that is trewe, i schal hire teche of thinges newe, which as non other womman can in al this lond." and tho this man hire tale hath herd, he goth ayein, and tolde unto his maister plein that sche hath seid; and therupon, whan than he sih beyete non at the bordel be cause of hire, he bad his man to gon and spire a place wher sche myhte abyde, that he mai winne upon som side be that sche can: bot ate leste thus was sche sauf fro this tempeste. he hath hire fro the bordel take, bot that was noght for goddes sake, bot for the lucre, as sche him tolde. now comen tho that comen wolde of wommen in her lusty youthe, to hiere and se what thing sche couthe: sche can the wisdom of a clerk, sche can of every lusti werk which to a gentil womman longeth, and some of hem sche underfongeth to the citole and to the harpe, and whom it liketh forto carpe proverbes and demandes slyhe, an other such thei nevere syhe, which that science so wel tawhte: wherof sche grete yiftes cawhte, that sche to leonin hath wonne; and thus hire name is so begonne of sondri thinges that sche techeth, that al the lond unto hir secheth of yonge wommen forto liere. nou lete we this maiden hiere, and speke of dionise ayein and of theophile the vilein, of whiche i spak of nou tofore. whan thaise scholde have be forlore, this false cherl to his lady whan he cam hom, al prively he seith, "ma dame, slain i have this maide thaise, and is begrave in prive place, as ye me biede. forthi, ma dame, taketh hiede and kep conseil, hou so it stonde." this fend, which this hath understonde, was glad, and weneth it be soth: now herkne, hierafter hou sche doth. sche wepth, sche sorweth, sche compleigneth, and of sieknesse which sche feigneth sche seith that taise sodeinly be nyhte is ded, "as sche and i togedre lyhen nyh my lord." sche was a womman of record, and al is lieved that sche seith; and forto yive a more feith, hire housebonde and ek sche bothe in blake clothes thei hem clothe, and made a gret enterrement; and for the poeple schal be blent, of thaise as for the remembrance, after the real olde usance a tumbe of latoun noble and riche with an ymage unto hir liche liggende above therupon thei made and sette it up anon. hire epitaffe of good assisse was write aboute, and in this wise it spak: "o yee that this beholde, lo, hier lith sche, the which was holde the faireste and the flour of alle, whos name thai sis men calle. the king of tyr appolinus hire fader was: now lith sche thus. fourtiene yer sche was of age, whan deth hir tok to his viage." thus was this false treson hidd, which afterward was wyde kidd, as be the tale a man schal hiere. bot forto clare mi matiere, to tyr i thenke torne ayein, and telle as the croniqes sein. whan that the king was comen hom, and hath left in the salte fom his wif, which he mai noght foryete, for he som confort wolde gete, he let somoune a parlement, to which the lordes were asent; and of the time he hath ben oute, he seth the thinges al aboute, and told hem ek hou he hath fare, whil he was out of londe fare; and preide hem alle to abyde, for he wolde at the same tyde do schape for his wyves mynde, as he that wol noght ben unkinde. solempne was that ilke office, and riche was the sacrifice, the feste reali was holde: and therto was he wel beholde; for such a wif as he hadde on in thilke daies was ther non. whan this was do, thanne he him thoghte upon his doghter, and besoghte suche of his lordes as he wolde, that thei with him to tharse scholde, to fette his doghter taise there: and thei anon al redy were, to schip they gon and forth thei wente, til thei the havene of tharse hente. they londe and faile of that thei seche be coverture and sleyhte of speche: this false man strangulio, and dionise his wif also, that he the betre trowe myhte, thei ladden him to have a sihte wher that hir tombe was arraied. the lasse yit he was mispaied, and natheles, so as he dorste, he curseth and seith al the worste unto fortune, as to the blinde, which can no seker weie finde; for sche him neweth evere among, and medleth sorwe with his song. bot sithe it mai no betre be, he thonketh god and forth goth he seilende toward tyr ayein. bot sodeinly the wynd and reyn begonne upon the see debate, so that he soffre mot algate the lawe which neptune ordeigneth; wherof fulofte time he pleigneth, and hield him wel the more esmaied of that he hath tofore assaied. so that for pure sorwe and care, of that he seth his world so fare, the reste he lefte of his caban, that for the conseil of noman ayein therinne he nolde come, bot hath benethe his place nome, wher he wepende al one lay, ther as he sih no lyht of day. and thus tofor the wynd thei dryve, til longe and late thei aryve with gret distresce, as it was sene, upon this toun of mitelene, which was a noble cite tho. and hapneth thilke time so, the lordes bothe and the comune the hihe festes of neptune upon the stronde at the rivage, as it was custumme and usage, sollempneliche thei besihe. whan thei this strange vessel syhe come in, and hath his seil avaled, the toun therof hath spoke and taled. the lord which of the cite was, whos name is athenagoras, was there, and seide he wolde se what schip it is, and who thei be that ben therinne: and after sone, whan that he sih it was to done, his barge was for him arraied, and he goth forth and hath assaied. he fond the schip of gret array, bot what thing it amonte may, he seth thei maden hevy chiere, bot wel him thenkth be the manere that thei be worthi men of blod, and axeth of hem hou it stod; and thei him tellen al the cas, hou that here lord fordrive was, and what a sorwe that he made, of which ther mai noman him glade. he preith that he here lord mai se, bot thei him tolde it mai noght be, for he lith in so derk a place, that ther may no wiht sen his face: bot for al that, thogh hem be loth, he fond the ladre and doun he goth, and to him spak, bot non ansuere ayein of him ne mihte he bere for oght that he can don or sein; and thus he goth him up ayein. tho was ther spoke in many wise amonges hem that weren wise, now this, now that, bot ate laste the wisdom of the toun this caste, that yonge taise were asent. for if ther be amendement to glade with this woful king, sche can so moche of every thing, that sche schal gladen him anon. a messager for hire is gon, and sche cam with hire harpe on honde, and seide hem that sche wolde fonde be alle weies that sche can, to glade with this sory man. bot what he was sche wiste noght, bot al the schip hire hath besoght that sche hire wit on him despende, in aunter if he myhte amende, and sein it schal be wel aquit. whan sche hath understonden it, sche goth hir doun, ther as he lay, wher that sche harpeth many a lay and lich an angel sang withal; bot he nomore than the wal tok hiede of eny thing he herde. and whan sche sih that he so ferde, sche falleth with him into wordes, and telleth him of sondri bordes, and axeth him demandes strange, wherof sche made his herte change, and to hire speche his ere he leide and hath merveile of that sche seide. for in proverbe and in probleme sche spak, and bad he scholde deme in many soubtil question: bot he for no suggestioun which toward him sche couthe stere, he wolde noght o word ansuere, bot as a madd man ate laste his heved wepende awey he caste, and half in wraththe he bad hire go. bot yit sche wolde noght do so, and in the derke forth sche goth, til sche him toucheth, and he wroth, and after hire with his hond he smot: and thus whan sche him fond desesed, courtaisly sche saide, "avoi, mi lord, i am a maide; and if ye wiste what i am, and out of what lignage i cam, ye wolde noght be so salvage." with that he sobreth his corage and put awey his hevy chiere. bot of hem tuo a man mai liere what is to be so sibb of blod: non wiste of other hou it stod, and yit the fader ate laste his herte upon this maide caste, that he hire loveth kindely, and yit he wiste nevere why. bot al was knowe er that thei wente; for god, which wot here hol entente, here hertes bothe anon descloseth. this king unto this maide opposeth, and axeth ferst what was hire name, and wher sche lerned al this game, and of what ken that sche was come. and sche, that hath hise wordes nome, ansuerth and seith, "my name is thaise, that was som time wel at aise: in tharse i was forthdrawe and fed, ther lerned i, til i was sped, of that i can. mi fader eke i not wher that i scholde him seke; he was a king, men tolde me: mi moder dreint was in the see." fro point to point al sche him tolde, that sche hath longe in herte holde, and nevere dorste make hir mone bot only to this lord al one, to whom hire herte can noght hele, torne it to wo, torne it to wele, torne it to good, torne it to harm. and he tho toke hire in his arm, bot such a joie as he tho made was nevere sen; thus be thei glade, that sory hadden be toforn. fro this day forth fortune hath sworn to sette him upward on the whiel; so goth the world, now wo, now wel: this king hath founde newe grace, so that out of his derke place he goth him up into the liht, and with him cam that swete wiht, his doghter thaise, and forth anon thei bothe into the caban gon which was ordeigned for the king, and ther he dede of al his thing, and was arraied realy. and out he cam al openly, wher athenagoras he fond, the which was lord of al the lond: he preith the king to come and se his castell bothe and his cite, and thus thei gon forth alle in fiere, this king, this lord, this maiden diere. this lord tho made hem riche feste with every thing which was honeste, to plese with this worthi king, ther lacketh him no maner thing: bot yit for al his noble array wifles he was into that day, as he that yit was of yong age; so fell ther into his corage the lusti wo, the glade peine of love, which noman restreigne yit nevere myhte as nou tofore. this lord thenkth al his world forlore, bot if the king wol don him grace; he waiteth time, he waiteth place, him thoghte his herte wol tobreke, til he mai to this maide speke and to hir fader ek also for mariage: and it fell so, that al was do riht as he thoghte, his pourpos to an ende he broghte, sche weddeth him as for hire lord; thus be thei alle of on acord. whan al was do riht as thei wolde, the king unto his sone tolde of tharse thilke traiterie, and seide hou in his compaignie his doghter and himselven eke schull go vengance forto seke. the schipes were redy sone, and whan thei sihe it was to done, withoute lette of eny wente with seil updrawe forth thei wente towardes tharse upon the tyde. bot he that wot what schal betide, the hihe god, which wolde him kepe, whan that this king was faste aslepe, be nyhtes time he hath him bede to seile into an other stede: to ephesim he bad him drawe, and as it was that time lawe, he schal do there his sacrifise; and ek he bad in alle wise that in the temple amonges alle his fortune, as it is befalle, touchende his doghter and his wif he schal beknowe upon his lif. the king of this avisioun hath gret ymaginacioun, what thing it signefie may; and natheles, whan it was day, he bad caste ancher and abod; and whil that he on ancher rod, the wynd, which was tofore strange, upon the point began to change, and torneth thider as it scholde. tho knew he wel that god it wolde, and bad the maister make him yare, tofor the wynd for he wol fare to ephesim, and so he dede. and whanne he cam unto the stede where as he scholde londe, he londeth with al the haste he may, and fondeth to schapen him be such a wise, that he may be the morwe arise and don after the mandement of him which hath him thider sent. and in the wise that he thoghte, upon the morwe so he wroghte; his doghter and his sone he nom, and forth unto the temple he com with a gret route in compaignie, hise yiftes forto sacrifie. the citezeins tho herden seie of such a king that cam to preie unto diane the godesse, and left al other besinesse, thei comen thider forto se the king and the solempnete. with worthi knyhtes environed the king himself hath abandoned into the temple in good entente. the dore is up, and he in wente, wher as with gret devocioun of holi contemplacioun withinne his herte he made his schrifte; and after that a riche yifte he offreth with gret reverence, and there in open audience of hem that stoden thanne aboute, he tolde hem and declareth oute his hap, such as him is befalle, ther was nothing foryete of alle. his wif, as it was goddes grace, which was professed in the place, as sche that was abbesse there, unto his tale hath leid hire ere: sche knew the vois and the visage, for pure joie as in a rage sche strawhte unto him al at ones, and fell aswoune upon the stones, wherof the temple flor was paved. sche was anon with water laved, til sche cam to hirself ayein, and thanne sche began to sein: "ha, blessed be the hihe sonde, that i mai se myn housebonde, that whilom he and i were on!" the king with that knew hire anon, and tok hire in his arm and kiste; and al the toun thus sone it wiste. tho was ther joie manyfold, for every man this tale hath told as for miracle, and were glade, bot nevere man such joie made as doth the king, which hath his wif. and whan men herde hou that hir lif was saved, and be whom it was, thei wondren alle of such a cas: thurgh al the lond aros the speche of maister cerymon the leche and of the cure which he dede. the king himself tho hath him bede, and ek this queene forth with him, that he the toun of ephesim wol leve and go wher as thei be, for nevere man of his degre hath do to hem so mochel good; and he his profit understod, and granteth with hem forto wende. and thus thei maden there an ende, and token leve and gon to schipe with al the hole felaschipe. this king, which nou hath his desir, seith he wol holde his cours to tyr. thei hadden wynd at wille tho, with topseilcole and forth they go, and striken nevere, til thei come to tyr, where as thei havene nome, and londen hem with mochel blisse. tho was ther many a mowth to kisse, echon welcometh other hom, bot whan the queen to londe com, and thaise hir doghter be hir side, the joie which was thilke tyde ther mai no mannes tunge telle: thei seiden alle, "hier comth the welle of alle wommannysshe grace." the king hath take his real place, the queene is into chambre go: ther was gret feste arraied tho; whan time was, thei gon to mete, alle olde sorwes ben foryete, and gladen hem with joies newe: the descoloured pale hewe is now become a rody cheke, ther was no merthe forto seke, bot every man hath that he wolde. the king, as he wel couthe and scholde, makth to his poeple riht good chiere; and after sone, as thou schalt hiere, a parlement he hath sommoned, wher he his doghter hath coroned forth with the lord of mitelene, that on is king, that other queene: and thus the fadres ordinance this lond hath set in governance, and seide thanne he wolde wende to tharse, forto make an ende of that his doghter was betraied. therof were alle men wel paied, and seide hou it was forto done: the schipes weren redi sone, and strong pouer with him he tok; up to the sky he caste his lok, and syh the wynd was covenable. thei hale up ancher with the cable, the seil on hih, the stiere in honde, and seilen, til thei come alonde at tharse nyh to the cite; and whan thei wisten it was he, the toun hath don him reverence. he telleth hem the violence, which the tretour strangulio and dionise him hadde do touchende his dowhter, as yee herde; and whan thei wiste hou that it ferde, as he which pes and love soghte, unto the toun this he besoghte, to don him riht in juggement. anon thei were bothe asent with strengthe of men, and comen sone, and as hem thoghte it was to done, atteint thei were be the lawe and diemed forto honge and drawe, and brent and with the wynd toblowe, that al the world it myhte knowe: and upon this condicion the dom in execucion was put anon withoute faile. and every man hath gret mervaile, which herde tellen of this chance, and thonketh goddes pourveance, which doth mercy forth with justice. slain is the moerdrer and moerdrice thurgh verray trowthe of rihtwisnesse, and thurgh mercy sauf is simplesse of hire whom mercy preserveth; thus hath he wel that wel deserveth. whan al this thing is don and ended, this king, which loved was and frended, a lettre hath, which cam to him be schipe fro pentapolim, be which the lond hath to him write, that he wolde understonde and wite hou in good mynde and in good pes ded is the king artestrates, wherof thei alle of on acord him preiden, as here liege lord, that he the lettre wel conceive and come his regne to receive, which god hath yove him and fortune; and thus besoghte the commune forth with the grete lordes alle. this king sih how it was befalle, fro tharse and in prosperite he tok his leve of that cite and goth him into schipe ayein: the wynd was good, the see was plein, hem nedeth noght a riff to slake, til thei pentapolim have take. the lond, which herde of that tidinge, was wonder glad of his cominge; he resteth him a day or tuo and tok his conseil to him tho, and sette a time of parlement, wher al the lond of on assent forth with his wif hath him corouned, wher alle goode him was fuisouned. lo, what it is to be wel grounded: for he hath ferst his love founded honesteliche as forto wedde, honesteliche his love he spedde and hadde children with his wif, and as him liste he ladde his lif; and in ensample his lif was write, that alle lovers myhten wite how ate laste it schal be sene of love what thei wolden mene. for se now on that other side, antiochus with al his pride, which sette his love unkindely, his ende he hadde al sodeinly, set ayein kinde upon vengance, and for his lust hath his penance. lo thus, mi sone, myht thou liere what is to love in good manere, and what to love in other wise: the mede arist of the servise; fortune, thogh sche be noght stable, yit at som time is favorable to hem that ben of love trewe. bot certes it is forto rewe to se love ayein kinde falle, for that makth sore a man to falle, as thou myht of tofore rede. forthi, my sone, i wolde rede to lete al other love aweie, bot if it be thurgh such a weie as love and reson wolde acorde. for elles, if that thou descorde, and take lust as doth a beste, thi love mai noght ben honeste; for be no skile that i finde such lust is noght of loves kinde. mi fader, hou so that it stonde, youre tale is herd and understonde, as thing which worthi is to hiere, of gret ensample and gret matiere, wherof, my fader, god you quyte. bot in this point miself aquite i mai riht wel, that nevere yit i was assoted in my wit, bot only in that worthi place wher alle lust and alle grace is set, if that danger ne were. bot that is al my moste fere: i not what ye fortune acompte, bot what thing danger mai amonte i wot wel, for i have assaied; for whan myn herte is best arraied and i have al my wit thurghsoght of love to beseche hire oght, for al that evere i skile may, i am concluded with a nay: that o sillable hath overthrowe a thousend wordes on a rowe of suche as i best speke can; thus am i bot a lewed man. bot, fader, for ye ben a clerk of love, and this matiere is derk, and i can evere leng the lasse, bot yit i mai noght let it passe, youre hole conseil i beseche, that ye me be som weie teche what is my beste, as for an ende. mi sone, unto the trouthe wende now wol i for the love of thee, and lete alle othre truffles be. the more that the nede is hyh, the more it nedeth to be slyh to him which hath the nede on honde. i have wel herd and understonde, mi sone, al that thou hast me seid, and ek of that thou hast me preid, nou at this time that i schal as for conclusioun final conseile upon thi nede sette: so thenke i finaly to knette this cause, where it is tobroke, and make an ende of that is spoke. for i behihte thee that yifte ferst whan thou come under my schrifte, that thogh i toward venus were, yit spak i suche wordes there, that for the presthod which i have, min ordre and min astat to save, i seide i wolde of myn office to vertu more than to vice encline, and teche thee mi lore. forthi to speken overmore of love, which thee mai availe, tak love where it mai noght faile: for as of this which thou art inne, be that thou seist it is a sinne, and sinne mai no pris deserve, withoute pris and who schal serve, i not what profit myhte availe. thus folweth it, if thou travaile, wher thou no profit hast ne pris, thou art toward thiself unwis: and sett thou myhtest lust atteigne, of every lust thende is a peine, and every peine is good to fle; so it is wonder thing to se, why such a thing schal be desired. the more that a stock is fyred, the rathere into aisshe it torneth; the fot which in the weie sporneth fulofte his heved hath overthrowe; thus love is blind and can noght knowe wher that he goth, til he be falle: forthi, bot if it so befalle with good conseil that he be lad, him oghte forto ben adrad. for conseil passeth alle thing to him which thenkth to ben a king; and every man for his partie a kingdom hath to justefie, that is to sein his oghne dom. if he misreule that kingdom, he lest himself, and that is more than if he loste schip and ore and al the worldes good withal: for what man that in special hath noght himself, he hath noght elles, nomor the perles than the schelles; al is to him of o value: thogh he hadde at his retenue the wyde world ryht as he wolde, whan he his herte hath noght withholde toward himself, al is in vein. and thus, my sone, i wolde sein, as i seide er, that thou aryse, er that thou falle in such a wise that thou ne myht thiself rekevere; for love, which that blind was evere, makth alle his servantz blinde also. my sone, and if thou have be so, yit is it time to withdrawe, and set thin herte under that lawe, the which of reson is governed and noght of will. and to be lerned, ensamples thou hast many on of now and ek of time gon, that every lust is bot a while; and who that wole himself beguile, he may the rathere be deceived. mi sone, now thou hast conceived somwhat of that i wolde mene; hierafterward it schal be sene if that thou lieve upon mi lore; for i can do to thee nomore bot teche thee the rihte weie: now ches if thou wolt live or deie. mi fader, so as i have herd your tale, bot it were ansuerd, i were mochel forto blame. mi wo to you is bot a game, that fielen noght of that i fiele; the fielinge of a mannes hiele mai noght be likned to the herte: i mai noght, thogh i wolde, asterte, and ye be fre from al the peine of love, wherof i me pleigne. it is riht esi to comaunde; the hert which fre goth on the launde not of an oxe what him eileth; it falleth ofte a man merveileth of that he seth an other fare, bot if he knewe himself the fare, and felt it as it is in soth, he scholde don riht as he doth, or elles werse in his degre: for wel i wot, and so do ye, that love hath evere yit ben used, so mot i nedes ben excused. bot, fader, if ye wolde thus unto cupide and to venus be frendlich toward mi querele, so that myn herte were in hele of love which is in mi briest, i wot wel thanne a betre prest was nevere mad to my behove. bot al the whiles that i hove in noncertein betwen the tuo, and not if i to wel or wo schal torne, that is al my drede, so that i not what is to rede. bot for final conclusion i thenke a supplicacion with pleine wordes and expresse wryte unto venus the goddesse, the which i preie you to bere and bringe ayein a good ansuere. tho was betwen mi prest and me debat and gret perplexete: mi resoun understod him wel, and knew it was sothe everydel that he hath seid, bot noght forthi mi will hath nothing set therby. for techinge of so wis a port is unto love of no desport; yit myhte nevere man beholde reson, wher love was withholde, thei be noght of o governance. and thus we fellen in distance, mi prest and i, bot i spak faire, and thurgh mi wordes debonaire thanne ate laste we acorden, so that he seith he wol recorden to speke and stonde upon mi syde to venus bothe and to cupide; and bad me wryte what i wolde, and seith me trewly that he scholde mi lettre bere unto the queene. and i sat doun upon the grene fulfilt of loves fantasie, and with the teres of myn ije in stede of enke i gan to wryte the wordes whiche i wolde endite unto cupide and to venus, and in mi lettre i seide thus. the wofull peine of loves maladie, ayein the which mai no phisique availe, min herte hath so bewhaped with sotie, that wher so that i reste or i travaile, i finde it evere redy to assaile mi resoun, which that can him noght defende: thus seche i help, wherof i mihte amende. ferst to nature if that i me compleigne, ther finde i hou that every creature som time ayer hath love in his demeine, so that the litel wrenne in his mesure hath yit of kinde a love under his cure; and i bot on desire, of which i misse: and thus, bot i, hath every kinde his blisse. the resoun of my wit it overpasseth, of that nature techeth me the weie to love, and yit no certein sche compasseth hou i schal spede, and thus betwen the tweie i stonde, and not if i schal live or deie. for thogh reson ayein my will debate, i mai noght fle, that i ne love algate. upon miself is thilke tale come, hou whilom pan, which is the god of kinde, with love wrastlede and was overcome: for evere i wrastle and evere i am behinde, that i no strengthe in al min herte finde, wherof that i mai stonden eny throwe; so fer mi wit with love is overthrowe. whom nedeth help, he mot his helpe crave, or helpeles he schal his nede spille: pleinly thurghsoght my wittes alle i have, bot non of hem can helpe after mi wille; and als so wel i mihte sitte stille, as preie unto mi lady eny helpe: thus wot i noght wherof miself to helpe. unto the grete jove and if i bidde, to do me grace of thilke swete tunne, which under keie in his celier amidde lith couched, that fortune is overrunne, bot of the bitter cuppe i have begunne, i not hou ofte, and thus finde i no game; for evere i axe and evere it is the same. i se the world stonde evere upon eschange, nou wyndes loude, and nou the weder softe; i mai sen ek the grete mone change, and thing which nou is lowe is eft alofte; the dredfull werres into pes fulofte thei torne; and evere is danger in o place, which wol noght change his will to do me grace. bot upon this the grete clerc ovide, of love whan he makth his remembrance, he seith ther is the blinde god cupide, the which hath love under his governance, and in his hond with many a fyri lance he woundeth ofte, ther he wol noght hele; and that somdiel is cause of mi querele. ovide ek seith that love to parforne stant in the hond of venus the goddesse, bot whan sche takth hir conseil with satorne, ther is no grace, and in that time, i gesse, began mi love, of which myn hevynesse is now and evere schal, bot if i spede: so wot i noght miself what is to rede. forthi to you, cupide and venus bothe, with al myn hertes obeissance i preie, if ye were ate ferste time wrothe, whan i began to love, as i you seie, nou stynt, and do thilke infortune aweie, so that danger, which stant of retenue with my ladi, his place mai remue. o thou cupide, god of loves lawe, that with thi dart brennende hast set afyre min herte, do that wounde be withdrawe, or yif me salve such as i desire: for service in thi court withouten hyre to me, which evere yit have kept thin heste, mai nevere be to loves lawe honeste. o thou, gentile venus, loves queene, withoute gult thou dost on me thi wreche; thou wost my peine is evere aliche grene for love, and yit i mai it noght areche: this wold i for my laste word beseche, that thou mi love aquite as i deserve, or elles do me pleinly forto sterve. whanne i this supplicacioun with good deliberacioun, in such a wise as ye nou wite, hadde after min entente write unto cupide and to venus, this prest which hihte genius it tok on honde to presente, on my message and forth he wente to venus, forto wite hire wille. and i bod in the place stille, and was there bot a litel while, noght full the montance of a mile, whan i behield and sodeinly i sih wher venus stod me by. so as i myhte, under a tre to grounde i fell upon mi kne, and preide hire forto do me grace: sche caste hire chiere upon mi face, and as it were halvinge a game sche axeth me what is mi name. "ma dame," i seide, "john gower." "now john," quod sche, "in my pouer thou most as of thi love stonde; for i thi bille have understonde, in which to cupide and to me somdiel thou hast compleigned thee, and somdiel to nature also. bot that schal stonde among you tuo, for therof have i noght to done; for nature is under the mone maistresse of every lives kinde, bot if so be that sche mai finde som holy man that wol withdrawe his kindly lust ayein hir lawe; bot sielde whanne it falleth so, for fewe men ther ben of tho, bot of these othre ynowe be, whiche of here oghne nycete ayein nature and hire office deliten hem in sondri vice, wherof that sche fulofte hath pleigned, and ek my court it hath desdeigned and evere schal; for it receiveth non such that kinde so deceiveth. for al onliche of gentil love mi court stant alle courtz above and takth noght into retenue bot thing which is to kinde due, for elles it schal be refused. wherof i holde thee excused, for it is manye daies gon, that thou amonges hem were on which of my court hast ben withholde; so that the more i am beholde of thi desese to commune, and to remue that fortune, which manye daies hath the grieved. bot if my conseil mai be lieved, thou schalt ben esed er thou go of thilke unsely jolif wo, wherof thou seist thin herte is fyred: bot as of that thou hast desired after the sentence of thi bille, thou most therof don at my wille, and i therof me wole avise. for be thou hol, it schal suffise: mi medicine is noght to sieke for thee and for suche olde sieke, noght al per chance as ye it wolden, bot so as ye be reson scholden, acordant unto loves kinde. for in the plit which i thee finde, so as mi court it hath awarded, thou schalt be duely rewarded; and if thou woldest more crave, it is no riht that thou it have." venus, which stant withoute lawe in noncertein, bot as men drawe of rageman upon the chance, sche leith no peis in the balance, bot as hir lyketh forto weie; the trewe man fulofte aweie sche put, which hath hir grace bede, and set an untrewe in his stede. lo, thus blindly the world sche diemeth in loves cause, as tome siemeth: i not what othre men wol sein, bot i algate am so besein, and stonde as on amonges alle which am out of hir grace falle: it nedeth take no witnesse, for sche which seid is the goddesse, to whether part of love it wende, hath sett me for a final ende the point wherto that i schal holde. for whan sche hath me wel beholde, halvynge of scorn, sche seide thus: "thou wost wel that i am venus, which al only my lustes seche; and wel i wot, thogh thou beseche mi love, lustes ben ther none, whiche i mai take in thi persone; for loves lust and lockes hore in chambre acorden neveremore, and thogh thou feigne a yong corage, it scheweth wel be the visage that olde grisel is no fole: there ben fulmanye yeres stole with thee and with suche othre mo, that outward feignen youthe so and ben withinne of pore assay. min herte wolde and i ne may is noght beloved nou adayes; er thou make eny suche assaies to love, and faile upon the fet, betre is to make a beau retret; for thogh thou myhtest love atteigne, yit were it bot an ydel peine, whan that thou art noght sufficant to holde love his covenant. forthi tak hom thin herte ayein, that thou travaile noght in vein, wherof my court may be deceived. i wot and have it wel conceived, hou that thi will is good ynowh; bot mor behoveth to the plowh, wherof the lacketh, as i trowe: so sitte it wel that thou beknowe thi fieble astat, er thou beginne thing wher thou miht non ende winne. what bargain scholde a man assaie, whan that him lacketh forto paie? mi sone, if thou be wel bethoght, this toucheth thee; foryet it noght: the thing is torned into was; that which was whilom grene gras, is welked hey at time now. forthi mi conseil is that thou remembre wel hou thou art old." whan venus hath hir tale told, and i bethoght was al aboute, tho wiste i wel withoute doute, that ther was no recoverir; and as a man the blase of fyr with water quencheth, so ferd i; a cold me cawhte sodeinly, for sorwe that myn herte made mi dedly face pale and fade becam, and swoune i fell to grounde. and as i lay the same stounde, ne fully quik ne fully ded, me thoghte i sih tofor myn hed cupide with his bowe bent, and lich unto a parlement, which were ordeigned for the nones, with him cam al the world at ones of gentil folk that whilom were lovers, i sih hem alle there forth with cupide in sondri routes. min yhe and as i caste aboutes, to knowe among hem who was who, i sih wher lusty youthe tho, as he which was a capitein, tofore alle othre upon the plein stod with his route wel begon, here hevedes kempt, and therupon garlandes noght of o colour, some of the lef, some of the flour, and some of grete perles were; the newe guise of beawme there, with sondri thinges wel devised, i sih, wherof thei ben queintised. it was al lust that thei with ferde, ther was no song that i ne herde, which unto love was touchende; of pan and al that was likende as in pipinge of melodie was herd in thilke compaignie so lowde, that on every side it thoghte as al the hevene cride in such acord and such a soun of bombard and of clarion with cornemuse and schallemele, that it was half a mannes hele so glad a noise forto hiere. and as me thoghte, in this manere al freissh i syh hem springe and dance, and do to love her entendance after the lust of youthes heste. ther was ynowh of joie and feste, for evere among thei laghe and pleie, and putten care out of the weie, that he with hem ne sat ne stod. and overthis i understod, so as myn ere it myhte areche, the moste matiere of her speche was al of knyhthod and of armes, and what it is to ligge in armes with love, whanne it is achieved. ther was tristram, which was believed with bele ysolde, and lancelot stod with gunnore, and galahot with his ladi, and as me thoghte, i syh wher jason with him broghte his love, which that creusa hihte, and hercules, which mochel myhte, was ther berende his grete mace, and most of alle in thilke place he peyneth him to make chiere with eolen, which was him diere. these�s, thogh he were untrewe to love, as alle wommen knewe, yit was he there natheles with phedra, whom to love he ches: of grece ek ther was thelamon, which fro the king lamenedon at troie his doghter refte aweie, eseonen, as for his preie, which take was whan jason cam fro colchos, and the cite nam in vengance of the ferste hate; that made hem after to debate, whan priamus the newe toun hath mad. and in avisioun me thoghte that i sih also ector forth with his brethren tuo; himself stod with pantaselee, and next to him i myhte se, wher paris stod with faire eleine, which was his joie sovereine; and troilus stod with criseide, bot evere among, althogh he pleide, be semblant he was hevy chiered, for diomede, as him was liered, cleymeth to ben his parconner. and thus full many a bacheler, a thousend mo than i can sein, with yowthe i sih ther wel besein forth with here loves glade and blithe. and some i sih whiche ofte sithe compleignen hem in other wise; among the whiche i syh narcise and piramus, that sory were. the worthy grek also was there, achilles, which for love deide: agamenon ek, as men seide, and menelay the king also i syh, with many an other mo, which hadden be fortuned sore in loves cause. and overmore of wommen in the same cas, with hem i sih wher dido was, forsake which was with enee; and phillis ek i myhte see, whom demephon deceived hadde; and adriagne hir sorwe ladde, for these�s hir soster tok and hire unkindely forsok. i sih ther ek among the press compleignende upon hercules his ferste love deyanire, which sette him afterward afyre: medea was there ek and pleigneth upon jason, for that he feigneth, withoute cause and tok a newe; sche seide, "fy on alle untrewe!" i sih there ek deijdamie, which hadde lost the compaignie of achilles, whan diomede to troie him fette upon the nede. among these othre upon the grene i syh also the wofull queene cleopatras, which in a cave with serpentz hath hirself begrave alquik, and so sche was totore, for sorwe of that sche hadde lore antonye, which hir love hath be: and forth with hire i sih tisbee, which on the scharpe swerdes point for love deide in sory point; and as myn ere it myhte knowe, sche seide, "wo worthe alle slowe!" the pleignte of progne and philomene ther herde i what it wolde mene, how tere�s of his untrouthe undede hem bothe, and that was routhe; and next to hem i sih canace, which for machaire hir fader grace hath lost, and deide in wofull plit. and as i sih in my spirit, me thoghte amonges othre thus the doghter of king priamus, polixena, whom pirrus slowh, was there and made sorwe ynowh, as sche which deide gulteles for love, and yit was loveles. and forto take the desport, i sih there some of other port, and that was circes and calipse, that cowthen do the mone eclipse, of men and change the liknesses, of artmagique sorceresses; thei hielde in honde manyon, to love wher thei wolde or non. bot above alle that ther were of wommen i sih foure there, whos name i herde most comended: be hem the court stod al amended; for wher thei comen in presence, men deden hem the reverence, as thogh they hadden be goddesses, of al this world or emperesses. and as me thoghte, an ere i leide, and herde hou that these othre seide, "lo, these ben the foure wyves, whos feith was proeved in her lyves: for in essample of alle goode with mariage so thei stode, that fame, which no gret thing hydeth, yit in cronique of hem abydeth." penolope that on was hote, whom many a knyht hath loved hote, whil that hire lord ulixes lay full many a yer and many a day upon the grete siege of troie: bot sche, which hath no worldes joie bot only of hire housebonde, whil that hir lord was out of londe, so wel hath kept hir wommanhiede, that al the world therof tok hiede, and nameliche of hem in grece. that other womman was lucrece, wif to the romain collatin; and sche constreigned of tarquin to thing which was ayein hir wille, sche wolde noght hirselven stille, bot deide only for drede of schame in keping of hire goode name, as sche which was on of the beste. the thridde wif was hote alceste, which whanne ametus scholde dye upon his grete maladye, sche preide unto the goddes so, that sche receyveth al the wo and deide hirself to yive him lif: lo, if this were a noble wif. the ferthe wif which i ther sih, i herde of hem that were nyh hou sche was cleped alcione, which to seyix hir lord al one and to nomo hire body kepte; and whan sche sih him dreynt, sche lepte into the wawes where he swam, and there a sefoul sche becam, and with hire wenges him bespradde for love which to him sche hadde. lo, these foure were tho whiche i sih, as me thoghte tho, among the grete compaignie which love hadde forto guye: bot youthe, which in special of loves court was mareschal, so besy was upon his lay, that he non hiede where i lay hath take. and thanne, as i behield, me thoghte i sih upon the field, where elde cam a softe pas toward venus, ther as sche was. with him gret compaignie he ladde, bot noght so manye as youthe hadde: the moste part were of gret age, and that was sene in the visage, and noght forthi, so as thei myhte, thei made hem yongly to the sihte: bot yit herde i no pipe there to make noise in mannes ere, bot the musette i myhte knowe, for olde men which souneth lowe, with harpe and lute and with citole. the hovedance and the carole, in such a wise as love hath bede, a softe pas thei dance and trede; and with the wommen otherwhile with sobre chier among thei smyle, for laghtre was ther non on hyh. and natheles full wel i syh that thei the more queinte it made for love, in whom thei weren glade. and there me thoghte i myhte se the king david with bersabee, and salomon was noght withoute; passende an hundred on a route of wyves and of concubines, juesses bothe and sarazines, to him i sih alle entendant: i not if he was sufficant, bot natheles for al his wit he was attached with that writ which love with his hond enseleth, fro whom non erthly man appeleth. and overthis, as for a wonder, with his leon which he put under, with dalida sampson i knew, whos love his strengthe al overthrew. i syh there aristotle also, whom that the queene of grece so hath bridled, that in thilke time sche made him such a silogime, that he foryat al his logique; ther was non art of his practique, thurgh which it mihte ben excluded that he ne was fully concluded to love, and dede his obeissance. and ek virgile of aqueintance i sih, wher he the maiden preide, which was the doghter, as men seide, of themperour whilom of rome; sortes and plato with him come, so dede ovide the poete. i thoghte thanne how love is swete, which hath so wise men reclamed, and was miself the lasse aschamed, or forto lese or forto winne in the meschief that i was inne: and thus i lay in hope of grace. and whan thei comen to the place wher venus stod and i was falle, these olde men with o vois alle to venus preiden for my sake. and sche, that myhte noght forsake so gret a clamour as was there, let pite come into hire ere; and forth withal unto cupide sche preith that he upon his side me wolde thurgh his grace sende som confort, that i myhte amende, upon the cas which is befalle. and thus for me thei preiden alle of hem that weren olde aboute, and ek some of the yonge route, of gentilesse and pure trouthe i herde hem telle it was gret routhe, that i withouten help so ferde. and thus me thoghte i lay and herde. cupido, which may hurte and hele in loves cause, as for myn hele upon the point which him was preid cam with venus, wher i was leid swounende upon the grene gras. and, as me thoghte , anon ther was on every side so gret presse, that every lif began to presse, i wot noght wel hou many score, suche as i spak of now tofore, lovers, that comen to beholde, bot most of hem that weren olde: thei stoden there at thilke tyde, to se what ende schal betyde upon the cure of my sotie. tho myhte i hiere gret partie spekende, and ech his oghne avis hath told, on that, an other this: bot among alle this i herde, thei weren wo that i so ferde, and seiden that for no riote an old man scholde noght assote; for as thei tolden redely, ther is in him no cause why, bot if he wolde himself benyce; so were he wel the more nyce. and thus desputen some of tho, and some seiden nothing so, bot that the wylde loves rage in mannes lif forberth non age; whil ther is oyle forto fyre, the lampe is lyhtly set afyre, and is fulhard er it be queynt, bot only if it be som seint, which god preserveth of his grace. and thus me thoghte, in sondri place of hem that walken up and doun ther was diverse opinioun: and for a while so it laste, til that cupide to the laste, forth with his moder full avised, hath determined and devised unto what point he wol descende. and al this time i was liggende upon the ground tofore his yhen, and thei that my desese syhen supposen noght i scholde live; bot he, which wolde thanne yive his grace, so as it mai be, this blinde god which mai noght se, hath groped til that he me fond; and as he pitte forth his hond upon my body, wher i lay, me thoghte a fyri lancegay, which whilom thurgh myn herte he caste, he pulleth oute, and also faste as this was do, cupide nam his weie, i not where he becam, and so dede al the remenant which unto him was entendant, of hem that in avision i hadde a revelacion, so as i tolde now tofore. bot venus wente noght therfore, ne genius, whiche thilke time abiden bothe faste byme. and sche which mai the hertes bynde in loves cause and ek unbinde, er i out of mi trance aros, venus, which hield a boiste clos, and wolde noght i scholde deie, tok out mor cold than eny keie an oignement, and in such point sche hath my wounded herte enoignt, my temples and my reins also. and forth withal sche tok me tho a wonder mirour forto holde, in which sche bad me to beholde and taken hiede of that i syhe; wherinne anon myn hertes yhe i caste, and sih my colour fade, myn yhen dymme and al unglade, mi chiekes thinne, and al my face with elde i myhte se deface, so riveled and so wo besein, that ther was nothing full ne plein, i syh also myn heres hore. mi will was tho to se nomore outwith, for ther was no plesance; and thanne into my remembrance i drowh myn olde daies passed, and as reson it hath compassed, i made a liknesse of miselve unto the sondri monthes twelve, wherof the yeer in his astat is mad, and stant upon debat, that lich til other non acordeth. for who the times wel recordeth, and thanne at marche if he beginne, whan that the lusti yeer comth inne, til augst be passed and septembre, the myhty youthe he may remembre in which the yeer hath his deduit of gras, of lef, of flour, of fruit, of corn and of the wyny grape. and afterward the time is schape to frost, to snow, to wind, to rein, til eft that mars be come ayein: the wynter wol no somer knowe, the grene lef is overthrowe, the clothed erthe is thanne bare, despuiled is the somerfare, that erst was hete is thanne chele. and thus thenkende thoghtes fele, i was out of mi swoune affraied, wherof i sih my wittes straied, and gan to clepe hem hom ayein. and whan resoun it herde sein that loves rage was aweie, he cam to me the rihte weie, and hath remued the sotie of thilke unwise fantasie, wherof that i was wont to pleigne, so that of thilke fyri peine i was mad sobre and hol ynowh. venus behield me than and lowh, and axeth, as it were in game, what love was. and i for schame ne wiste what i scholde ansuere; and natheles i gan to swere that be my trouthe i knew him noght; so ferr it was out of mi thoght, riht as it hadde nevere be. "mi goode sone," tho quod sche, "now at this time i lieve it wel, so goth the fortune of my whiel; forthi mi conseil is thou leve." "ma dame," i seide, "be your leve, ye witen wel, and so wot i, that i am unbehovely your court fro this day forth to serve: and for i may no thonk deserve, and also for i am refused, i preie you to ben excused. and natheles as for the laste, whil that my wittes with me laste, touchende mi confession i axe an absolucion of genius, er that i go." the prest anon was redy tho, and seide, "sone, as of thi schrifte thou hast ful pardoun and foryifte; foryet it thou, and so wol i." "min holi fader, grant mercy," quod i to him, and to the queene i fell on knes upon the grene, and tok my leve forto wende. bot sche, that wolde make an ende, as therto which i was most able, a peire of bedes blak as sable sche tok and heng my necke aboute; upon the gaudes al withoute was write of gold, por reposer. "lo," thus sche seide, "john gower, now thou art ate laste cast, this have i for thin ese cast, that thou nomore of love sieche. bot my will is that thou besieche and preie hierafter for the pes, and that thou make a plein reles to love, which takth litel hiede of olde men upon the nede, whan that the lustes ben aweie: forthi to thee nys bot o weie, in which let reson be thi guide; for he may sone himself misguide, that seth noght the peril tofore. mi sone, be wel war therfore, and kep the sentence of my lore and tarie thou mi court nomore, bot go ther vertu moral duelleth, wher ben thi bokes, as men telleth, whiche of long time thou hast write. for this i do thee wel to wite, if thou thin hele wolt pourchace, thou miht noght make suite and chace, wher that the game is nought pernable; it were a thing unresonable, a man to be so overseie. forthi tak hiede of that i seie; for in the lawe of my comune we be noght schape to comune, thiself and i, nevere after this. now have y seid al that ther is of love as for thi final ende: adieu, for y mot fro the wende." and with that word al sodeinly, enclosid in a sterred sky, venus, which is the qweene of love, was take in to hire place above, more wiste y nought wher sche becam. and thus my leve of hire y nam, and forth with al the same tide hire prest, which wolde nought abide, or be me lief or be me loth, out of my sighte forth he goth, and y was left with outen helpe. so wiste i nought wher of to yelpe, bot only that y hadde lore my time, and was sori ther fore. and thus bewhapid in my thought, whan al was turnyd in to nought, i stod amasid for a while, and in my self y gan to smyle thenkende uppon the bedis blake, and how they weren me betake, for that y schulde bidde and preie. and whanne y sigh non othre weie bot only that y was refusid, unto the lif which y hadde usid i thoughte nevere torne ayein: and in this wise, soth to seyn, homward a softe pas y wente, wher that with al myn hol entente uppon the point that y am schryve i thenke bidde whil y live. he which withinne daies sevene this large world forth with the hevene of his eternal providence hath mad, and thilke intelligence in mannys soule resonable hath schape to be perdurable, wherof the man of his feture above alle erthli creature aftir the soule is immortal, to thilke lord in special, as he which is of alle thinges the creatour, and of the kynges hath the fortunes uppon honde, his grace and mercy forto fonde uppon my bare knes y preie, that he this lond in siker weie wol sette uppon good governance. for if men takyn remembrance what is to live in unite, ther ys no staat in his degree that noughte to desire pes, with outen which, it is no les, to seche and loke in to the laste, ther may no worldes joye laste. ferst forto loke the clergie, hem oughte wel to justefie thing which belongith to here cure, as forto praie and to procure oure pes toward the hevene above, and ek to sette reste and love among ous on this erthe hiere. for if they wroughte in this manere aftir the reule of charite, i hope that men schuldyn se this lond amende. and ovyr this, to seche and loke how that it is touchende of the chevalerie, which forto loke, in som partie is worthi forto be comendid, and in som part to ben amendid, that of here large retenue the lond is ful of maintenue, which causith that the comune right in fewe contrees stant upright. extorcioun, contekt, ravine withholde ben of that covyne, aldai men hierin gret compleignte of the desease, of the constreignte, wher of the poeple is sore oppressid: god graunte it mote be redressid. for of knyghthode thordre wolde that thei defende and kepe scholde the comun right and the fraunchise of holy cherche in alle wise, so that no wikke man it dere, and ther fore servith scheld and spere: bot for it goth now other weie, oure grace goth the more aweie. and forto lokyn ovyrmore, wher of the poeple pleigneth sore, toward the lawis of oure lond, men sein that trouthe hath broke his bond and with brocage is goon aweie, so that no man can se the weie wher forto fynde rightwisnesse. and if men sechin sikernesse uppon the lucre of marchandie, compassement and tricherie of singuler profit to wynne, men seyn, is cause of mochil synne, and namely of divisioun, which many a noble worthi toun fro welthe and fro prosperite hath brought to gret adversite. so were it good to ben al on, for mechil grace ther uppon unto the citees schulde falle, which myghte availle to ous alle, if these astatz amendid were, so that the vertus stodyn there and that the vices were aweie: me thenkth y dorste thanne seie, this londis grace schulde arise. bot yit to loke in othre wise, ther is a stat, as ye schul hiere, above alle othre on erthe hiere, which hath the lond in his balance: to him belongith the leiance of clerk, of knyght, of man of lawe; undir his hond al is forth drawe the marchant and the laborer; so stant it al in his power or forto spille or forto save. bot though that he such power have, and that his myghtes ben so large, he hath hem nought withouten charge, to which that every kyng ys swore: so were it good that he ther fore first un to rightwisnesse entende, wherof that he hym self amende toward his god and leve vice, which is the chief of his office; and aftir al the remenant he schal uppon his covenant governe and lede in such a wise, so that ther be no tirandise, wherof that he his poeple grieve, or ellis may he nought achieve that longith to his regalie. for if a kyng wol justifie his lond and hem that beth withynne, first at hym self he mot begynne, to kepe and reule his owne astat, that in hym self be no debat toward his god: for othre wise ther may non erthly kyng suffise of his kyngdom the folk to lede, bot he the kyng of hevene drede. for what kyng sett hym uppon pride and takth his lust on every side and wil nought go the righte weie, though god his grace caste aweie no wondir is, for ate laste he schal wel wite it mai nought laste, the pompe which he secheth here. bot what kyng that with humble chere aftir the lawe of god eschuieth the vices, and the vertus suieth, his grace schal be suffisant to governe al the remenant which longith to his duite; so that in his prosperite the poeple schal nought ben oppressid, wherof his name schal be blessid, for evere and be memorial. and now to speke as in final, touchende that y undirtok in englesch forto make a book which stant betwene ernest and game, i have it maad as thilke same which axe forto ben excusid, and that my bok be nought refusid of lered men, whan thei it se, for lak of curiosite: for thilke scole of eloquence belongith nought to my science, uppon the forme of rethoriqe my wordis forto peinte and pike, as tullius som tyme wrot. bot this y knowe and this y wot, that y have do my trewe peyne with rude wordis and with pleyne, in al that evere y couthe and myghte, this bok to write as y behighte, so as siknesse it soffre wolde; and also for my daies olde, that y am feble and impotent, i wot nought how the world ys went. so preye y to my lordis alle now in myn age, how so befalle, that y mot stonden in here grace: for though me lacke to purchace here worthi thonk as by decerte, yit the symplesse of my poverte desireth forto do plesance to hem undir whos governance i hope siker to abide. but now uppon my laste tide that y this book have maad and write, my muse doth me forto wite, and seith it schal be for my beste fro this day forth to take reste, that y nomore of love make, which many an herte hath overtake, and ovyrturnyd as the blynde fro reson in to lawe of kynde; wher as the wisdom goth aweie and can nought se the ryhte weie how to governe his oghne estat, bot everydai stant in debat withinne him self, and can nought leve. and thus forthy my final leve i take now for evere more, withoute makynge any more, of love and of his dedly hele, which no phisicien can hele. for his nature is so divers, that it hath evere som travers or of to moche or of to lite, that pleinly mai noman delite, bot if him faile or that or this. bot thilke love which that is withinne a mannes herte affermed, and stant of charite confermed, such love is goodly forto have, such love mai the bodi save, such love mai the soule amende, the hyhe god such love ous sende forthwith the remenant of grace; so that above in thilke place wher resteth love and alle pes, oure joie mai ben endeles. explicit iste liber, qui transeat, obsecro liber, vt sine liuore vigeat lectoris in ore. qui sedet in scannis celi det vt ista lohannis perpetuis annis stet pagina grata britannis, derbeie comiti, recolunt quem laude periti, vade liber purus, sub eo requiesce futurus. [end of confessio amantis] the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xx. the arraignment xxi. alison goes to church xxii. which say to the seers, see not! chapter xx the arraignment i looking backward, hodder perceived that he had really come to the momentous decision of remaining at st. john's in the twilight of an evening when, on returning home from seeing kate marcy at mr. bentley's he had entered the darkening church. it was then that his mission had appeared to him as a vision. every day, afterward, his sense and knowledge of this mission had grown stronger. to his mind, not the least of the trials it was to impose upon him, and one which would have to be dealt with shortly, was a necessary talk with his assistant, mccrae. if their relationship had from the beginning been unusual and unsatisfactory, adjectives would seem to defy what it had become during the summer. what did mccrae think of him? for hodder had, it will be recalled, bidden his assistant good-by--and then had remained. at another brief interview, during which mccrae had betrayed no surprise, uttered no censure or comment, hodder had announced his determination to remain in the city, and to take no part in the services. an announcement sufficiently astounding. during the months that followed, they had met, at rare intervals, exchanged casual greetings, and passed on. and yet hodder had the feeling, more firmly planted than ever, that mccrae was awaiting, with an interest which might be called suspense, the culmination of the process going on within him. well, now that he had worked it out, now that he had reached his decision, it was incumbent upon him to tell his assistant what that decision was. hodder shrank from it as from an ordeal. his affection for the man, his admiration for mccrae's faithful, untiring, and unrecognized services had deepened. he had a theory that mccrae really liked him--would even sympathize with his solution; yet he procrastinated. he was afraid to put his theory to the test. it was not that hodder feared that his own solution was not the right one, but that mccrae might not find it so: he was intensely concerned that it should also be mccrae's solution--the answer, if one liked, to mccrae's mute and eternal questionings. he wished to have it a fruition for mccrae as well as for himself; since theoretically, at least, he had pierced the hard crust of his assistant's exterior, and conceived him beneath to be all suppressed fire. in short, hodder wished to go into battle side by side with mccrae. therein lay his anxiety. another consideration troubled him--mccrae's family, dependent on a rather meagre salary. his assistant, in sustaining him in the struggle he meant to enter, would be making even a greater sacrifice than himself. for hodder had no illusions, and knew that the odds against him were incalculable. whatever, if defeated, his own future might be, mccrae's was still more problematical and tragic. the situation, when it came, was even more difficult than hodder had imagined it, since mccrae was not a man to oil the wheels of conversation. in silence he followed the rector up the stairs and into his study, in silence he took the seat at the opposite side of the table. and hodder, as he hesitated over his opening, contemplated in no little perplexity and travail the gaunt and non-committal face before him: "mccrae," he began at length, "you must have thought my conduct this summer most peculiar. i wish to thank you, first of all, for the consideration you have shown me, and to tell you how deeply i appreciate your taking the entire burden of the work of the parish." mccrae shook his head vigorously, but did not speak. "i owe it to you to give you some clew to what happened to me," the rector continued, "although i have an idea that you do not need much enlightenment on this matter. i have a feeling that you have somehow been aware of my discouragement during the past year or so, and of the causes of it. you yourself hold ideals concerning the church which you have not confided to me. of this i am sure. i came here to st. john's full of hope and confidence, gradually to lose both, gradually to realise that there was something wrong with me, that in spite of all my efforts i was unable to make any headway in the right direction. i became perplexed, dissatisfied--the results were so meagre, so out of proportion to the labour. and the very fact that those who may be called our chief parishioners had no complaint merely added to my uneasiness. that kind of success didn't satisfy me, and i venture to assume it didn't satisfy you." still mccrae made no sign. "finally i came to what may be termed a double conclusion. in the first place, i began to see more and more clearly that our modern civilization is at fault, to perceive how completely it is conducted on the materialistic theory of the survival of the fittest rather than that of the brotherhood of man, and that those who mainly support this church are, consciously or not, using it as a bulwark for the privilege they have gained at the expense of their fellow-citizens. and my conclusion was that christianity must contain some vital germ which i had somehow missed, and which i must find if i could, and preach and release it. that it was the release of this germ these people feared unconsciously. i say to you, at the risk of the accusation of conceit, that i believed myself to have a power in the pulpit if i could only discover the truth." hodder thought he detected, as he spoke these words, a certain relaxation of the tension. "for a while, as the result of discouragement, of cowardice, i may say, of the tearing-down process of the theological structure--built of debris from many ruins on which my conception of christianity rested, i lost all faith. for many weeks i did not enter the church, as you yourself must know. then, when i had given up all hope, through certain incidents and certain persona, a process of reconstruction began. in short, through no virtue which i can claim as my own, i believe i have arrived at the threshold of an understanding of christianity as our lord taught it and lived it. and i intend to take the pulpit and begin to preach it. "i am deeply concerned in regard to yourself as to what effect my course may have on you. and i am not you to listen to me with a view that you should see your way clear to support me mccrae, but rather that you should be fully apprised of my new belief and intentions. i owe this to you, for your loyal support in the pest. i shall go over with you, later, if you care to listen, my whole position. it may be called the extreme protestant position, and i use protestant, for want of a better word, to express what i believe is paul's true as distinguished from the false of his two inconsistent theologies. it was this doctrine of paul's of redemption by faith, of reacting grace by an inevitable spiritual law --of rebirth, if you will--that luther and the protestant reformers revived and recognized, rightly, as the vital element of christ's teachings, although they did not succeed in separating it wholly from the dross which clung to it. it is the leaven which has changed governments, and which in the end, i am firmly convinced, will make true democracy inevitable. and those who oppose democracy inherently dread its workings. "i do not know your views, but it is only fair to add at this time that i no longer believe in the external and imposed authority of the church in the sense in which i formerly accepted it, nor in the virgin birth, nor in certain other dogmas in which i once acquiesced. other clergymen of our communion have proclaimed, in speech and writing, their disbelief in these things. i have satisfied my conscience as they have, and i mean to make no secret of my change. i am convinced that not one man or woman in ten thousand to-day who has rejected christianity ever knew what christianity is. the science and archaic philosophy in which christianity has been swaddled and hampered is discredited, and the conclusion is drawn that christianity itself must be discredited." "ye're going to preach all this?" mccrae demanded, almost fiercely. "yes," hodder replied, still uncertain as to his assistant's attitude, "and more. i have fully reflected, and i am willing to accept all the consequences. i understand perfectly, mccrae, that the promulgation alone of the liberal orthodoxy of which i have spoken will bring me into conflict with the majority of the vestry and the congregation, and that the bishop will be appealed to. they will say, in effect, that i have cheated them, that they hired one man and that another has turned up, whom they never would have hired. but that won't be the whole story. if it were merely a question of doctrine, i should resign. it's deeper than that, more sinister." hodder doubled up his hand, and laid it on the table. "it's a matter," he said, looking into mccrae's eyes, "of freeing this church from those who now hold it in chains. and the two questions, i see clearly now, the doctrinal and the economic, are so interwoven as to be inseparable. my former, ancient presentation of christianity left men and women cold. it did not draw them into this church and send them out again fired with the determination to bring religion into everyday life, resolved to do their part in the removal of the injustices and cruelties with which we are surrounded, to bring christianity into government, where it belongs. don't misunderstand me i'm not going to preach politics, but religion." "i don't misunderstand ye," answered mccrae. he leaned a little forward, staring at the rector from behind his steel spectacles with a glance which had become piercing. "and i am going to discourage a charity which is a mockery of christianity," hodder went on, "the spectacle of which turns thousands of men and women in sickening revolt against the church of christ to-day. i have discovered, at last, how some of these persons have made their money, and are making it. and i am going to let them know, since they have repudiated god in their own souls, since they have denied the christian principle of individual responsibility, that i, as the vicar of god, will not be a party to the transaction of using the church as a means of doling out ill-gotten gains to the poor." "mr. parr!" mccrae exclaimed. "yes," said the rector, slowly, and with a touch of sadness, "since you have mentioned him, mr. parr. but i need not say that this must go no farther. i am in possession of definite facts in regard to mr. parr which i shall present to him when he returns." "ye'll tell him to his face?" "it is the only way." mccrae had risen. a remarkable transformation had come over the man, --he was reminiscent, at that moment, of some covenanter ancestor going into battle. and his voice shook with excitement. "ye may count on me, mr. hodder," he cried. "these many years i've waited, these many years i've seen what ye see now, but i was not the man. aye, i've watched ye, since the day ye first set foot in this church. i knew what was going on inside of ye, because it was just that i felt myself. i hoped--i prayed ye might come to it." the sight of this taciturn scotchman, moved in this way, had an extraordinary effect on hodder himself, and his own emotion was so inexpressibly stirred that he kept silence a moment to control it. this proof of the truth of his theory in regard to mccrae he found overwhelming. "but you said nothing, mccrae," he began presently. "i felt all along that you knew what was wrong--if you had only spoken." "i could not," said mccrae. "i give ye my word i tried, but i just could not. many's the time i wanted to--but i said to myself, when i looked at you, 'wait, it will come, much better than ye can say it.' and ye have made me see more than i saw, mr. hodder,--already ye have. ye've got the whole thing in ye're eye, and i only had a part of it. it's because ye're the bigger man of the two." "you thought i'd come to it?" demanded hodder, as though the full force of this insight had just struck him. "well," said mccrae, "i hoped. it seemed, to look at ye, ye'r true nature--what was by rights inside of ye. that's the best explaining i can do. and i call to mind that time ye spoke about not making the men in the classes christians--that was what started me to thinking." "and you asked me," returned the rector, "how welcome some of them would be in mr. parr's pew." "ah, it worried me," declared the assistant, with characteristic frankness, "to see how deep ye were getting in with him." hodder did not reply to this. he had himself risen, and stood looking at mccrae, filled with a new thought. "there is one thing i should like to say to you--which is very difficult, mccrae, but i have no doubt you see the matter as clearly as i do. in making this fight, i have no one but myself to consider. i am a single man--" "yell not need to go on," answered mccrae, with an odd mixture of sternness and gentleness in his voice. "i'll stand and fall with ye, mr. hodder. before i ever thought of the church i learned a trade, as a boy in scotland. i'm not a bad carpenter. and if worse comes to worse, i've an idea i can make as much with my hands as i make in the ministry." the smile they exchanged across the table sealed the compact between them. ii the electric car which carried him to his appointment with the financier shot westward like a meteor through the night. and now that the hour was actually at hand, it seemed to hodder that he was absurdly unprepared to meet it. new and formidable aspects, hitherto unthought of, rose in his mind, and the figure of eldon parr loomed to brobdingnagian proportions as he approached it. in spite of his determination, the life-blood of his confidence ebbed, a sense of the power and might of the man who had now become his adversary increased; and that apprehension of the impact of the great banker's personality, the cutting edge with the vast achievements wedged in behind it, each adding weight and impetus to its momentum the apprehension he had felt in less degree on the day of the first meeting, and which had almost immediately evaporated--surged up in him now. his fear was lest the charged atmosphere of the banker's presence might deflect his own hitherto clear perception of true worth. he dreaded, once in the midst of those disturbing currents, a bungling presentation of the cause which inspired him, and which he knew to be righteousness itself. suddenly his mood shifted, betraying still another weakness, and he saw eldon parr, suddenly, vividly--more vividly, indeed, than ever before--in the shades of the hell of his loneliness. and pity welled up, drowning the image of incarnate greed and selfishness and lust for wealth and power: the unique pathos of his former relationship with the man reasserted itself, and hodder was conscious once more of the dependence which eldon parr had had on his friendship. during that friendship he, hodder, had never lost the sense of being the stronger of the two, of being leaned upon: leaned upon by a man whom the world feared and hated, and whom he had been enable to regard with anything but compassion and the unquestionable affection which sprang from it. appalled by this transition, he alighted from the car, and stood for a moment alone in the darkness gazing at the great white houses that rose above the dusky outline of shrubbery and trees. at any rate, he wouldn't find that sense of dependence to-night. and it steeled him somewhat to think, as he resumed his steps, that he would meet now the other side, the hard side hitherto always turned away. had he needed no other warning of this, the answer to his note asking for an appointment would have been enough,--a brief and formal communication signed by the banker's secretary. . . "mr. parr is engaged just at present, sir," said the servant who opened the door. "would you be good enough to step into the library?" hardly had he entered the room when he heard a sound behind him, and turned to confront alison. the thought of her, too, had complicated infinitely his emotions concerning the interview before him, and the sight of her now, of her mature beauty displayed in evening dress, of her white throat gleaming whiter against the severe black of her gown, made him literally speechless. never had he accused her of boldness, and now least of all. it was the quality of her splendid courage that was borne in upon him once more above the host of other feelings and impressions, for he read in her eyes a knowledge of the meaning of his visit. they stood facing each other an appreciable moment. "mr. langmaid is with him now," she said, in a low voice. "yes," he answered. her eyes still rested on his face, questioningly, appraisingly, as though she were seeking to estimate his preparedness for the ordeal before him, his ability to go through with it successfully, triumphantly. and in her mention of langmaid he recognized that she had meant to sound a note of warning. she had intimated a consultation of the captains, a council of war. and yet he had never spoken to her of this visit. this proof of her partisanship, that she had come to him at the crucial instant, overwhelmed him. "you know why i am here?" he managed to say. it had to do with the extent of her knowledge. "oh, why shouldn't i?" she cried, "after what you have told me. and could you think i didn't understand, from the beginning, that it meant this?" his agitation still hampered him. he made a gesture of assent. "it was inevitable," he said. "yes, it' was inevitable," she assented, and walked slowly to the mantel, resting her hand on it and bending her head. "i felt that you would not shirk it, and yet i realize how painful it must be to you." "and to you," he replied quickly. "yes, and to me. i do not know what you know, specifically,--i have never sought to find out things, in detail. that would be horrid. but i understand--in general--i have understood for many years." she raised her head, and flashed him a glance that was between a quivering smile and tears. "and i know that you have certain specific information." he could only wonder at her intuition. "so far as i am concerned, it is not for the world," he answered. "oh, i appreciate that in you!" she exclaimed. "i wished you to know it. i wished you to know," she added, a little unsteadily, "how much i admire you for what you are doing. they are afraid of you--they will crush you if they can." he did not reply. "but you are going to speak the truth," she continued, her voice low and vibrating, "that is splendid! it must have its effect, no matter what happens." "do you feel that?" he asked, taking a step toward her. "yes. when i see you, i feel it, i think." . . . whatever answer he might have made to this was frustrated by the appearance of the figure of nelson langmaid in the doorway. he seemed to survey them benevolently through his spectacles. "how are you, hodder? well, alison, i have to leave without seeing anything of you--you must induce your father not to bring his business home with him. just a word," he added to the rector, "before you go up." hodder turned to alison. "good night," he said. the gentle but unmistakable pressure of her hand he interpreted as the pinning on him of the badge of her faith. he was to go into battle wearing her colours. their eyes met. "good night," she answered . . . . in the hall the lawyer took his arm. "what's the trouble, hodder?" he asked, sympathetically. hodder, although on his guard, was somewhat taken aback by the directness of the onslaught. "i'm afraid, mr. langmaid," the rector replied, "that it would take me longer to tell you than the time at your disposal." "dear me," said the lawyer, "this is too bad. why didn't you come to me? i am a good friend of yours, hodder, and there is an additional bond between us on my sister's account. she is extremely fond of you, you know. and i have a certain feeling of responsibility for you,--i brought you here." "you have always been very kind, and i appreciate it," hodder replied. "i should be sorry to cause you any worry or annoyance. but you must understand that i cannot share the responsibility of my acts with any one." "a little advice from an old legal head is sometimes not out of place. even dr. gilman used to consult me. i hope you will bear in mind how remarkably well you have been getting along at st. john's, and what a success you've made." "success!" echoed the rector. either mr. langmaid read nothing in his face, or was determined to read nothing. "assuredly," he answered, benignly. "you have managed to please everybody, mr. parr included,--and some of us are not easy to please. i thought i'd tell you this, as a friend, as your first friend in the parish. your achievement has been all the more remarkable, following, as you did, dr. gilman. now it would greatly distress me to see that state of things disturbed, both for your sake and others. i thought i would just give you a hint, as you are going to see mr. parr, that he is in rather a nervous state. these so-called political reformers have upset the market and started a lot of legal complications that's why i'm here to-night. go easy with him. i know you won't do anything foolish." the lawyer accompanied this statement with a pat, but this time he did not succeed in concealing his concern. "that depends on one's point of view," hodder returned, with a smile. "i do not know how you have come to suspect that i am going to disturb mr. parr, but what i have to say to him is between him and me." langmaid took up his hat from the table, and sighed. "drop in on me sometime," he said, "i'd like to talk to you--hodder heard a voice behind him, and turned. a servant was standing there. "mr. parr is ready to see you, sir," he said. the rector followed him up the stairs, to the room on the second floor, half office, half study, where the capitalist transacted his business when at home. iii eldon parr was huddled over his desk reading a typewritten document; but he rose, and held out his hand, which hodder took. "how are you, mr. hodder? i'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but matters of some legal importance have arisen on which i was obliged to make a decision. you're well, i hope." he shot a glance at the rector, and sat down again, still holding the sheets. "if you will excuse me a moment longer, i'll finish this." "certainly," hodder replied. "take a chair," said mr. parr, "you'll find the evening paper beside you." hodder sat down, and the banker resumed his perusal of the document, his eye running rapidly over the pages, pausing once in a while to scratch out a word or to make a note on the margin. in the concentration of the man on the task before him the rector read a design, an implication that the affairs of the church were of a minor importance: sensed, indeed, the new attitude of hostility, gazed upon the undiscovered side, the dangerous side before which other men had quailed. alison's words recurred to him, "they are afraid of you, they will crush you if they can." eldon parr betrayed, at any rate, no sign of fear. if his mental posture were further analyzed, it might be made out to contain an intimation that the rector, by some act, had forfeited the right to the unique privilege of the old relationship. well, the fact that the banker had, in some apparently occult manner, been warned, would make hodder's task easier--or rather less difficult. his feelings were even more complicated than he had anticipated. the moments of suspense were trying to his nerves, and he had a shrewd notion that this making men wait was a favourite manoeuvre of eldon parr's; nor had he underrated the benumbing force of that personality. it was evident that the financier intended him to open the battle, and he was --as he had expected--finding it difficult to marshal the regiments of his arguments. in vain he thought of the tragedy of garvin . . . . the thing was more complicated. and behind this redoubtable and sinister eldon parr he saw, as it were, the wraith of that: other who had once confessed the misery of his loneliness. . . . at last the banker rang, sharply, the bell on his desk. a secretary entered, to whom he dictated a telegram which contained these words: "langmaid has discovered a way out." it was to be sent to an address in texas. then he turned in his chair and crossed his knees, his hand fondling an ivory paper-cutter. he smiled a little. "well, mr. hodder," he said. the rector, intensely on his guard, merely inclined his head in recognition that his turn had come. "i was sorry," the banker continued, after a perceptible pause,--that you could not see your way clear to have come with me on the cruise." "i must thank you again," hodder answered, "but i felt--as i wrote you --that certain matters made it impossible for me to go." "i suppose you had your reasons, but i think you would have enjoyed the trip. i had a good, seaworthy boat--i chartered her from mr. lieber, the president of the continental zinc, you know. i went as far as labrador. a wonderful coast, mr. hodder." "it must be," agreed the rector. it was clear that mr. parr intended to throw upon him the onus of the first move. there was a silence, brief, indeed, but long enough for hodder to feel more and more distinctly the granite hardness which the other had become, to experience a rising, reenforcing anger. he went forward, steadily but resolutely, on the crest of it. "i have remained in the city," he continued, "and i have had the opportunity to discover certain facts of which i have hitherto been ignorant, and which, in my opinion, profoundly affect the welfare of the church. it is of these i wished to speak to you." mr. parr waited. "it is not much of an exaggeration to say that ever since i came here i have been aware that st. john's, considering the long standing of the parish, the situation of the church in a thickly populated district, is not fulfilling its mission. but i have failed until now to perceive the causes of that inefficiency." "inefficiency?" the banker repeated the word. "inefficiency," said hodder. "the reproach, the responsibility is largely mine, as the rector, the spiritual, head of the parish. i believe i am right when i say that the reason for the decision, some twenty years ago, to leave the church where it is, instead of selling the property and building in the west end, was that it might minister to the poor in the neighbourhood, to bring religion and hope into their lives, and to exert its influence towards eradicating the vice and misery which surround it." "but i thought you had agreed," said mr. parr, coldly, "that we were to provide for that in the new chapel and settlement house." "for reasons which i hope to make plain to you, mr. parr," hodder replied, "those people can never be reached, as they ought to be reached, by building that settlement house. the principle is wrong, the day is past when such things can be done--in that way." he laid an emphasis on these words. "it is good, i grant you, to care for the babies and children of the poor, it is good to get young women and men out of the dance-halls, to provide innocent amusement, distraction, instruction. but it is not enough. it leaves the great, transforming thing in the lives of these people untouched, and it will forever remain untouched so long as a sense of wrong, a continually deepening impression of an unchristian civilization upheld by the church herself, exists. such an undertaking as that settlement house--i see clearly now--is a palliation, a poultice applied to one of many sores, a compromise unworthy of the high mission of the church. she should go to the root of the disease. it is her first business to make christians, who, by amending their own lives, by going out individually and collectively into the life of the nation, will gradually remove these conditions." mr. parr sat drumming on the table. hodder met his look. "so you, too, have come to it," he said. "have come to what?" "socialism." hodder, in the state of clairvoyance in which he now surprisingly found himself, accurately summed up the value and meaning of the banker's sigh. "say, rather," he replied, "that i have come to christianity. we shall never have what is called socialism until there is no longer any necessity for it, until men, of their owe free will, are ready to renounce selfish, personal ambition and power and work for humanity, for the state." mr. parr's gesture implied that he cared not by what name the thing was called, but he still appeared strangely, astonishingly calm;--hodder, with all his faculties acute, apprehended that he was dangerously calm. the man who had formerly been his friend was now completely obliterated, and he had the feeling almost of being about to grapple, in mortal combat, with some unknown monster whose tactics and resources were infinite, whose victims had never escaped. the monster was in eldon parr--that is how it came to him. the waxy, relentless demon was aroused. it behooved him, hodder, to step carefully . . . . "that is all very fine, mr. hodder, very altruistic, very christian, i've no doubt-but the world doesn't work that way." (these were the words borne in on hodder's consciousness.) "what drives the world is the motive furnished by the right of acquiring and holding property. if we had a division to-day, the able men would come out on top next year." the rector shook his head. he remembered, at that moment, horace bentley. "what drives the world is a far higher motive, mr. parr, the motive with which have been fired the great lights of history, the motive of renunciation and service which is transforming governments, which is gradually making the world a better place in which to live. and we are seeing men and women imbued with it, rising in ever increasing numbers on every side to-day." "service!" eldon parr had seized upon the word as it passed and held it. "what do you think my life has been? i suppose," he said, with a touch of intense bitterness, "that you, too, who six months ago seemed as reasonable a man as i ever met, have joined in the chorus of denunciators. it has become the fashion to-day, thanks to your socialists, reformers, and agitators, to decry a man because he is rich, to take it for granted that he is a thief and a scoundrel, that he has no sense of responsibility for his country and his fellow-men. the glory, the true democracy of this nation, lies in its equal opportunity for all. they take no account of that, of the fact that each has had the same chance as his fellows. no, but they cry out that the man who, by the sweat of his brow, has earned wealth ought to divide it up with the lazy and the self-indulgent and the shiftless. "take my case, for instance,--it is typical of thousands. i came to this city as a boy in my teens, with eight dollars in my pocket which i had earned on a farm. i swept the floor, cleaned the steps, moved boxes and ran errands in gabriel parker's store on third street. i was industrious, sober, willing to do anything. i fought, i tell you every inch of my way. as soon as i saved a little money i learned to use every ounce of brain i possessed to hold on to it. i trusted a man once, and i had to begin all over again. and i discovered, once for all, if a man doesn't look out for himself, no one will. "i don't pretend that i am any better than any one else, i have had to take life as i found it, and make the best of it. i conformed to the rules of the game; i soon had sense enough knocked into me to understand that the conditions were not of my making. but i'll say this for myself," eldon parr leaned forward over the blotter, "i had standards, and i stuck by them. i wanted to be a decent citizen, to bring up my children in the right way. i didn't squander my money, when i got it, on wine and women, i respected other men's wives, i supported the church and the institutions of the city. i too even i had my ambitions, my ideals --and they were not entirely worldly ones. you would probably accuse me of wishing to acquire only the position of power which i hold. if you had accepted my invitation to go aboard the yacht this summer, it was my intention to unfold to you a scheme of charities which has long been forming in my mind, and which i think would be of no small benefit to the city where i have made my fortune. i merely mention this to prove to you that i am not unmindful, in spite of the circumstances of my own life, of the unfortunates whose mental equipment is not equal to my own." by this "poor boy" argument which--if hodder had known--mr. parr had used at banquets with telling effect, the banker seemed to regain perspective and equilibrium, to plant his feet once more on the rock of the justification of his life, and from which, by a somewhat extraordinary process he had not quite understood, he had been partially shaken off. as he had proceeded with his personal history, his manner had gradually become one of the finality of experience over theory, of the forbearance of the practical man with the visionary. like most successful citizens of his type, he possessed in a high degree the faculty of creating sympathy, of compelling others to accept --temporarily, at least--his point of view. it was this faculty, hodder perceived, which had heretofore laid an enchantment upon him, and it was not without a certain wonder that he now felt himself to be released from the spell. the perceptions of the banker were as keen, and his sense of security was brief. somehow, as he met the searching eye of the rector, he was unable to see the man as a visionary, but beheld--and, to do him justice--felt a twinge of respect for an adversary worthy of his steel. he, who was accustomed to prepare for clouds when they were mere specks on his horizon, paused even now to marvel why he had not dealt with this. here was a man--a fanatic, if he liked--but still a man who positively did not fear him, to whom his wrath and power were as nothing! a new and startling and complicated sensation--but eldon parr was no coward. if he had, consciously or unconsciously, formerly looked upon the clergyman as a dependent, hodder appeared to be one no more. the very ruggedness of the man had enhanced, expanded--as it were--until it filled the room. and hodder had, with an audacity unparalleled in the banker's experience arraigned by implication his whole life, managed to put him on the defensive. "but if that be your experience," the rector said, "and it has become your philosophy, what is it in you that impels you to give these large sums for the public good?" "i should suppose that you, as a clergyman, might understand that my motive is a christian one." hodder sat very still, but a higher light came into his eyes. "mr. parr," he replied, "i have been a friend of yours, and i am a friend still. and what i am going to tell you is not only in the hope that others may benefit, but that your own soul may be saved. i mean that literally--your own soul. you are under the impression that you are a christian, but you are not and never have been one. and you will not be one until your whole life is transformed, until you become a different man. if you do not change, it is my duty to warn you that the sorrow and suffering, the uneasiness which you now know, and which drive you on, in search of distraction, to adding useless sums of money to your fortune --this suffering, i say, will become intensified. you will die in the knowledge of it, and live on after, in the knowledge of it." in spite of himself, the financier drew back before this unexpected blast, the very intensity of which had struck a chill of terror in his inmost being. he had been taken off his guard,--for he had supposed the day long past--if it had ever existed--when a spiritual rebuke would upset him; the day long past when a minister could pronounce one with any force. that the church should ever again presume to take herself seriously had never occurred to him. and yet--the man had denounced him in a moment of depression, of nervous irritation and exasperation against a government which had begun to interfere with the sacred liberty of its citizens, against political agitators who had spurred that government on. the world was mad. no element, it seemed, was now content to remain in its proper place. his voice, as he answered, shook with rage,--all the greater because the undaunted sternness by which it was confronted seemed to reduce it to futility. "take care!" he cried, "take care! you, nor any other man, clergyman or no clergyman, have any right to be the judge of my conduct." "on the contrary," said holder, "if your conduct affects the welfare, the progress, the reputation of the church of which i am rector, i have the right. and i intend to exercise it. it becomes my duty, however painful, to tell you, as a member of the church, wherein you have wronged the church and wronged yourself." he didn't raise his tone, and there was in it more of sorrow than of indignation. the banker turned an ashen gray . . a moment elapsed before he spoke, a transforming moment. he suddenly became ice. "very well," he said. "i can't pretend to account for these astounding views you have acquired--and i am using a mild term. let me say this: (he leaned forward a little, across the desk) i demand that you be specific. i am a busy man, i have little time to waste, i have certain matters--before me which must be attended to to-night. i warn you that i will not listen any longer to vague accusations." it was holder's turn to marvel. did eldon purr, after all; have no sense of guilt? instantaneously, automatically, his own anger rose. "you may be sure, mr. parr, that i should not be here unless i were prepared to be specific. and what i am going to say to you i have reserved for your ear alone, in the hope that you will take it to heart, while it is not yet too late, said amend your life accordingly." eldon parr shifted slightly. his look became inscrutable, was riveted on the rector. "i shall call your attention first to a man of whom you have probably never heard. he is dead now--he threw himself into the river this summer, with a curse on his lips--i am afraid--a curse against you. a few years ago he lived happily with his wife and child in a little house on the grade suburban, and he had several thousand dollars as a result of careful saving and systematic self-denial. "perhaps you have never thought of the responsibilities of a great name. this man, like thousands of others in the city, idealized you. he looked up to you as the soul of honour, as a self-made man who by his own unaided efforts--as you yourself have just pointed out--rose from a poor boy to a position of power and trust in the community. he saw you a prominent layman in the church of god. he was dazzled by the brilliancy of your success, inspired by a civilization which--gave such opportunities. he recognized that he himself had not the brains for such an achievement,--his hope and love and ambition were centred in his boy." at the word eldon parr's glance was suddenly dulled by pain. he tightened his lips. "that boy was then of a happy, merry disposition, so the mother says, and every summer night as she cooked supper she used to hear him laughing as he romped in the yard with his father. when i first saw him this summer, it was two days before his father committed suicide. the child was lying, stifled with the heat, in the back room of one of those desolate lodging houses in dalton street, and his little body had almost wasted away. "while i was there the father came in, and when he saw me he was filled with fury. he despised the church, and st. john's above all churches, because you were of it; because you who had given so generously to it had wrecked his life. you had shattered his faith in humanity, his ideal. from a normal, contented man he had deteriorated into a monomaniac whom no one would hire, a physical and mental wreck who needed care and nursing. he said he hoped the boy would die. "and what had happened? the man had bought, with all the money he had in the world, consolidated tractions. he had bought it solely because of his admiration for your ability, his faith in your name. it was inconceivable to him that a man of your standing, a public benefactor, a supporter of church and charities, would permit your name to be connected with any enterprise that was not sound and just. thousands like garvin lost all they had, while you are still a rich man. it is further asserted that you sold out all your stock at a high price, with the exception of that in the leased lines, which are guaranteed heavy dividends." "have you finished?" demanded eldon parr. "not quite, on this subject," replied the rector. "two nights after that, the man threw himself in the river. his body was pulled out by men on a tugboat, and his worthless stock certificate was in his pocket. it is now in the possession of mr. horace bentley. thanks to mr. bentley, the widow found a temporary home, and the child has almost recovered." hodder paused. his interest had suddenly become concentrated upon the banker's new demeanour, and he would not have thought it within the range of possibility that a man could listen to such a revelation concerning himself without the betrayal of some feeling. but so it was,--eldon parr had been coldly attentive, save for the one scarcely perceptible tremor when the boy was mentioned. his interrogatory gesture gave the very touch of perfection to this attitude, since it proclaimed him to have listened patiently to a charge so preposterous that a less reasonable man would have cut it short. "and what leads you to suppose," he inquired, "that i am responsible in this matter? what leads you to infer that the consolidated tractions company was not organized in good faith? do you think that business men are always infallible? the street-car lines of this city were at sixes and sevens, fighting each other; money was being wasted by poor management. the idea behind the company was a public-spirited one, to give the citizens cheaper and better service, by a more modern equipment, by a wider system of transfer. it seems to me, mr. hodder, that you put yourself in a more quixotic position than the so-called reformers when you assume that the men who organize a company in good faith are personally responsible for every share of stock that is sold, and for the welfare of every individual who may buy the stock. we force no one to buy it. they do so at their own risk. i myself have thousands of dollars of worthless stock in my safe. i have never complained." the full force of hodder's indignation went into his reply. "i am not talking about the imperfect code of human justice under which we live, mr. parr," he cried. "this is not a case in which a court of law may exonerate you, it is between you and your god. but i have taken the trouble to find out, from unquestioned sources, the truth about the consolidated tractions company--i shall not go into the details at length--they are doubtless familiar to you. i know that the legal genius of mr. langmaid, one of my vestry, made possible the organization of the company, and thereby evaded the plain spirit of the law of the state. i know that one branch line was bought for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and capitalized for three millions, and that most of the others were scandalously over-capitalized. i know that while the coming transaction was still a secret, you and other, gentlemen connected with the matter bought up large interests in other lines, which you proceeded to lease to yourselves at guaranteed dividends which these lines do not earn. i know that the first large dividend was paid out of capital. and the stock which you sold to poor garvin was so hopelessly watered that it never could have been anything but worthless. if, in spite of these facts, you do not deem yourself responsible for the misery which has been caused, if your conscience is now clear, it is my duty to tell you that there is a higher bar of justice." the intensity of the fire of the denunciation had, indeed, a momentary yet visible effect in the banker's expression. whatever the emotions thus lashed to self-betrayal, anger, hatred,--fear, perhaps, hodder could not detect a trace of penitence; and he was aware, on the part of the other, of a supreme, almost spasmodic effort for self-control. the constitutional reluctance of eldon parr to fight openly could not have been more clearly demonstrated. "because you are a clergyman, mr. hodder," he began, "because you are the rector of st. john's, i have allowed you to say things to me which i would not have permitted from any other man. i have tried to take into account your point of view, which is naturally restricted, your pardonable ignorance of what business men, who wish to do their duty by church and state, have to contend with. when you came to this parish you seemed to have a sensible, a proportional view of things; you were content to confine your activities to your own sphere, content not to meddle with politics and business, which you could, at first hand, know nothing about. the modern desire of clergymen to interfere in these matters has ruined the usefulness of many of them. "i repeat, i have tried to be patient. i venture to hope, still, that this extraordinary change in you may not be permanent, but merely the result of a natural sympathy with the weak and unwise and unfortunate who are always to be found in a complex civilization. i can even conceive how such a discovery must have shocked you, temporarily aroused your indignation, as a clergyman, against the world as it is--and, i may add, as it has always been. my personal friendship for you, and my interest in your future welfare impel me to make a final appeal to you not to ruin a career which is full of promise." the rector did not take advantage of the pause. a purely psychological curiosity hypnotized him to see how far the banker would go in his apparent generosity. "i once heard you say, i believe, in a sermon, that the christian religion is a leaven. it is the leaven that softens and ameliorates the hard conditions of life, that makes our relations with our fellow-men bearable. but life is a contest, it is war. it always has been, and always will be. business is war, commerce is war, both among nations and individuals. you cannot get around it. if a man does not exterminate his rivals they will exterminate him. in other days churches were built and endowed with the spoils of war, and did not disdain the money. to-day they cheerfully accept the support and gifts of business men. i do not accuse them of hypocrisy. it is a recognition on their part that business men, in spite of hard facts, are not unmindful of the spiritual side of life, and are not deaf to the injunction to help others. and when, let me ask you, could you find in the world's history more splendid charities than are around us to-day? institutions endowed for medical research, for the conquest of deadly diseases? libraries, hospitals, schools--men giving their fortunes for these things, the fruits of a life's work so laboriously acquired? who can say that the modern capitalist is not liberal, is not a public benefactor? "i dislike being personal, but you have forced it upon me. i dislike to refer to what i have already done in the matter of charities, but i hinted to you awhile ago of a project i have conceived and almost perfected of gifts on a much larger scale than i have ever attempted." the financier stared at him meaningly. "and i had you in mind as one of the three men whom i should consult, whom i should associate with myself in the matter. we cannot change human nature, but we can better conditions by wise giving. i do not refer now to the settle ment house, which i am ready to help make and maintain as the best in the country, but i have in mind a system to be carried out with the consent and aid of the municipal government, of play-grounds, baths, parks, places of recreation, and hospitals, for the benefit of the people, which will put our city in the very forefront of progress. and i believe, as a practical man, i can convince you that the betterment which you and i so earnestly desire can be brought about in no other way. agitation can only result in anarchy and misery for all." hodder's wrath, as he rose from his chair, was of the sort that appears incredibly to add to the physical stature,--the bewildering spiritual wrath which is rare indeed, and carries all before it. "don't tempt me, mr. parr!" he said. "now that i know the truth, i tell you frankly i would face poverty and persecution rather than consent to your offer. and i warn you once more not to flatter yourself that existence ends here, that you will, not be called to answer for every wrong act you have committed in accumulating your fortune, that what you call business is an affair of which god takes no account. what i say may seem foolishness to you, but i tell you, in the words of that foolishness, that it will not profit you to gain the whole world and lose your own soul. you remind me that the church in old time accepted gifts from the spoils of war, and i will add of rapine and murder. and the church to-day, to repeat your own parallel, grows rich with money wrongfully got. legally? ah, yes, legally, perhaps. but that will not avail you. and the kind of church you speak of--to which i, to my shame, once consented--our lord repudiates. it is none of his. i warn you, mr. parr, in his name, first to make your peace with your brothers before you presume to lay another gift on the altar." during this withering condemnation of himself eldon parr sat motionless, his face grown livid, an expression on it that continued to haunt hodder long afterwards. an expression, indeed, which made the banker almost unrecognizable. "go," he whispered, his hand trembling visibly as he pointed towards the door. "go--i have had enough of this." "not until i have said one thing more," replied the rector, undaunted. "i have found the woman whose marriage with your son you prevented, whom you bought off and started on the road to hell without any sense of responsibility. you have made of her a prostitute and a drunkard. whether she can be rescued or not is problematical. she, too, is in mr. bentley's care, a man upon whom you once showed no mercy. i leave garvin, who has gone to his death, and kate marcy and horace bentley to your conscience, mr. parr. that they are representative of many others, i do not doubt. i tell you solemnly that the whole meaning of life is service to others, and i warn you, before it is too late, to repent and make amends. gifts will not help you, and charities are of no avail." at the reference to kate marcy eldon parr's hand dropped to his side. he seemed to have physical difficulty in speaking. "ah, you have found that woman!" he leaned an elbow on the desk, he seemed suddenly to have become weary, spent, old. and hodder, as he watched him, perceived--that his haggard look was directed towards a photograph in a silver frame on the table--a photograph of preston parr. at length he broke the silence. "what would you have had me do?" he asked. "permit my son to marry a woman of the streets, i suppose. that would have been christianity, according to your notion. come now, what world you have done, if your son had been in question?" a wave of pity swept over the rector. "why," he said, why did you have nothing but cruelty in your heart, and contempt for her? when you saw that she was willing, for the love of the son whom you loved, to give up all that life meant to her, how could you destroy her without a qualm? the crime you committed was that you refused to see god in that woman's soul, when he had revealed himself to you. you looked for wile, for cunning, for self-seeking,--and they were not there. love had obliterated them. when you saw how meekly she obeyed you, and agreed to go away, why did you not have pity? if you had listened to your conscience, you would have known what to do. "i do not say that you should not have opposed the marriage--then. marriage is not to be lightly entered into. from the moment you went to see her you became responsible for her. you hurled her into the abyss, and she has come back to haunt you. you should have had her educated and cared for--she would have submitted, to any plan you proposed. and if, after a sensible separation, you became satisfied as to her character and development, and your son still wished to marry her, you should have withdrawn your objections. "as it is, and in consequence of your act, you have lost your son. he left you then, and you have no more control over him." "stop!" cried eldon parr, "for god's sake stop! i won't stand any more of this. i will not listen to criticism of my life, to strictures on my conduct from you or any other man." he reached for a book on the corner of his desk--a cheque book.--"you'll want money for these people, i suppose," he added brutally. "i will give it, but it must be understood that i do not recognize any right of theirs to demand it." for a moment holder did not trust himself to reply. he looked down across the desk at the financier, who was fumbling with the leaves. "they do not demand it, mr. parr," he answered, gently. "and i have tried to make it plain to you that you have lost the right to give it. i expected to fail in this. i have failed." "what do you mean?" eldon parr let the cheque book close. "i mean what i said," the rector replied. "that if you would save your soul you must put an end, to-morrow, to the acquisition of money, and devote the rest of your life to an earnest and sincere attempt to make just restitution to those you have wronged. and you must ask the forgiveness of god for your sins. until you do that, your charities are abominations in his sight. i will not trouble you any longer, except to say that i shall be ready to come to you at any time my presence may be of any help to you." the banker did not speak . . . . with a single glance towards the library holder left the house, but paused for a moment outside to gaze back at it, as it loomed in the darkness against the stars. chapter xxi alison goes to church i on the following sunday morning the early light filtered into alison's room, and she opened her strong eyes. presently she sprang from her bed and drew back the curtains of the windows, gazing rapturously into the crystal day. the verdure of the park was freshened to an incredible brilliancy by the dew, a thin white veil of mist was spread over the mirror of the waters, the trees flung long shadows across the turf. a few minutes later she was out, thrilled by the silence, drawing in deep, breaths of the morning air; lingering by still lakes catching the blue of the sky--a blue that left its stain upon the soul; as the sun mounted she wandered farther, losing herself in the wilderness of the forest. at eight o'clock, when she returned, there were signs that the city had awakened. a mounted policeman trotted past her as she crossed a gravel drive, and on the tree-flecked stretches, which lately had been empty as eden, human figures were scattered. a child, with a sailboat that languished for lack of wind, stared at her, first with fascination and wonder in his eyes, and then smiled at her tentatively. she returned the smile with a start. children had stared at her like that before now, and for the first time in her life she asked herself what the look might mean. she had never really been fond of them: she had never, indeed, been brought much in contact with them. but now, without warning, a sudden fierce yearning took possession of her: surprised and almost frightened, she stopped irresistibly and looked back at the thin little figure crouched beside the water, to discover that his widened eyes were still upon her. her own lingered on him shyly, and thus for a moment she hung in doubt whether to flee or stay, her heart throbbing as though she were on the brink of some unknown and momentous adventure. she took a timid step. "what's your name?" she asked. the boy told her. "what's yours?" he ventured, still under the charm. "alison." he had never heard of that name, and said so. they deplored the lack of wind. and presently, still mystified, but gathering courage, he asked her why she blushed, at which her colour deepened. "i can't help it," she told him. "i like it," the boy said. though the grass was still wet, she got down on her knees in her white skirt, the better to push the boat along the shore: once it drifted beyond their reach, and was only rescued by a fallen branch discovered with difficulty. the arrival of the boy's father, an anaemic-looking little man, put an end to their play. he deplored the condition of the lady's dress. "it doesn't matter in the least," she assured him, and fled in a mood she did not attempt to analyze. hurrying homeward, she regained her room, bathed, and at half past eight appeared in the big, formal dining-room, from which the glare of the morning light was carefully screened. her father insisted on breakfasting here; and she found him now seated before the white table-cloth, reading a newspaper. he glanced up at her critically. "so you've decided to honour me this morning," he said. "i've been out in the park," she replied, taking the chair opposite him. he resumed his reading, but presently, as she was pouring out the coffee, he lowered the paper again. "what's the occasion to-day?" he asked. "the occasion?" she repeated, without acknowledging that she had instantly grasped his implication. his eyes were on her gown. "you are not accustomed, as a rule, to pay much deference to sunday." "doesn't the bible say, somewhere," she inquired, "that the sabbath was made for man? perhaps that may be broadened after a while, to include woman." "but you have never been an advocate, so far as i know, of women taking advantage of their opportunity by going to church." "what's the use," demanded alison, "of the thousands of working women spending the best part of the day in the ordinary church, when their feet and hands and heads are aching? unless some fire is kindled in their souls, it is hopeless for them to try to obtain any benefit from religion--so-called--as it is preached to them in most churches." "fire in their souls!" exclaimed the banker. "yes. if the churches offered those who might be leaders among their fellows a practical solution of existence, kindled their self-respect, replaced a life of drudgery by one of inspiration--that would be worth while. but you will never get such a condition as that unless your pulpits are filled by personalities, instead of puppets who are all cast in one mould, and who profess to be there by divine right." "i am glad to see at least that you are taking an interest in religious matters," her father observed, meaningly. alison coloured. but she retorted with spirit. "that is true of a great many persons to-day who are thinking on the subject. if christianity is a solution of life, people are demanding of the churches that they shall perform their function, and show us how, and why, or else cease to encumber the world." eldon parr folded up his newspaper. "so you are going to church this morning," he said. "yes. at what time will you be ready?" "at quarter to eleven. but if you are going to st. john', you will have to start earlier. i'll order a car at half past ten." "where are you going?" she held her breath, unconsciously, for the answer. "to calvary," he replied coldly, as he rose to leave the room. "but i hesitate to ask you to come,--i am afraid you will not find a religion there that suits you." for a moment she could not trust herself to speak. the secret which, ever since friday evening, she had been burning to learn was disclosed . . . her father had broken with mr. hodder! "please don't order the motor for me," she said. "i'd rather go in the street cars." she sat very still in the empty room, her face burning. characteristically, her father had not once mentioned the rector of st. john's, yet had contrived to imply that her interest in hodder was greater than her interest in religion. and she was forced to admit, with her customary honesty, that the implication was true. the numbers who knew alison parr casually thought her cold. they admired a certain quality in her work, but they did not suspect that that quality was the incomplete expression of an innate idealism capable of being fanned into flame,--for she was subject to rare but ardent enthusiasms which kindled and transformed her incredibly in the eyes of the few to whom the process had been revealed. she had had even a longer list of suitors than any one guessed; men who--usually by accident--had touched the hidden spring, and suddenly beholding an unimagined woman, had consequently lost their heads. the mistake most of them had made (for subtlety in such affairs is not a masculine trait) was the failure to recognize and continue to present the quality in them which had awakened her. she had invariably discovered the feet of clay. thus disillusion had been her misfortune--perhaps it would be more accurate to say her fortune. she had built up, after each invasion, her defences more carefully and solidly than before, only to be again astonished and dismayed by the next onslaught, until at length the question had become insistent--the question of an alliance for purposes of greater security. she had returned to her childhood home to consider it, frankly recognizing it as a compromise, a fall . . . . and here, in this sanctuary of her reflection, and out of a quarter on which she had set no watch, out of a wilderness which she had believed to hold nothing save the ruined splendours of the past, had come one who, like the traditional figures of the wilderness, had attracted her by his very uncouthness and latent power. and the anomaly he presented in what might be called the vehemence of his advocacy of an outworn orthodoxy, in his occupation of the pulpit of st. john's, had quickened at once her curiosity and antagonism. it had been her sudden discovery, or rather her instinctive suspicion of the inner conflict in him which had set her standard fluttering in response. once more (for the last time--something whispered--now) she had become the lady of the lists; she sat on her walls watching, with beating heart and straining eyes, the closed helm of her champion, ready to fling down the revived remnant of her faith as prize or forfeit. she had staked all on the hope that he would not lower his lance. . . . . saturday had passed in suspense . . . . and now was flooding in on her the certainty that he had not failed her; that he had, with a sublime indifference to a worldly future and success, defied the powers. with indifference, too, to her! she knew, of course, that he loved her. a man with less of greatness would have sought a middle way . . . . when, at half past ten, she fared forth into the sunlight, she was filled with anticipation, excitement, concern, feelings enhanced and not soothed by the pulsing vibrations of the church bells in the softening air. the swift motion of the electric car was grateful. . . but at length the sight of familiar landmarks, old-fashioned dwellings crowded in between the stores and factories of lower tower street, brought back recollections of the days when she had come this way, other sunday mornings, and in a more leisurely public vehicle, with her mother. was it possible that she, alison parr, were going to church now? her excitement deepened, and she found it difficult to bring herself to the realization that her destination was a church--the church of her childhood. at this moment she could only think of st. john's as the setting of the supreme drama. when she alighted at the corner of burton street there was the well-remembered, shifting group on the pavement in front of the church porch. how many times, in the summer and winter, in fair weather and cloudy, in rain and sleet and snow had she approached that group, as she approached it now! here were the people, still, in the midst of whom her earliest associations had been formed, changed, indeed,-but yet the same. no, the change was in her, and the very vastness of that change came as a shock. these had stood still, anchored to their traditions, while she --had she grown? or merely wandered? she had searched, at least, and seen. she had once accepted them--if indeed as a child it could have been said of her that she accepted anything; she had been unable then, at any rate, to bring forward any comparisons. now she beheld them, collectively, in their complacent finery, as representing a force, a section of the army blocking the heads of the passes of the world's progress, resting on their arms, but ready at the least uneasy movement from below to man the breastworks, to fling down the traitor from above, to fight fiercely for the solidarity of their order. and alison even believed herself to detect, by something indefinable in their attitudes as they stood momentarily conversing in lowered voices, an aroused suspicion, an uneasy anticipation. her imagination went so far as to apprehend, as they greeted her unwonted appearance, that they read in it an addition to other vague and disturbing phenomena. her colour was high. "why, my dear," said mrs. atterbury, "i thought you had gone back to new york long ago!" beside his mother stood gordon--more dried up, it seemed, than ever. alison recalled him, as on this very spot, a thin, pale boy in short trousers, and mrs. atterbury a beautiful and controlled young matron associated with st. john's and with children's parties. she was wonderful yet, with her white hair and straight nose, her erect figure still slight. alison knew that mrs. atterbury had never forgiven her for rejecting her son--or rather for being the kind of woman who could reject him. "surely you haven't been here all summer?" alison admitted it, characteristically, without explanations. "it seems so natural to see you here at the old church, after all these years," the lady went on, and alison was aware that mrs. atterbury questioned--or rather was at a loss for the motives which had led such an apostate back to the fold. "we must thank mr. hodder, i suppose. he's very remarkable. i hear he is resuming the services to-day for the first time since june." alison was inclined to read a significance into mrs. atterbury's glance at her son, who was clearing his throat. "but--where is mr. parr?" he asked. "i understand he has come back from his cruise." "yes, he is back. i came without--him---as you see." she found a certain satisfaction in adding to the mystification, to the disquietude he betrayed by fidgeting more than usual. "but--he always comes when he is in town. business--i suppose--ahem!" "no," replied alison, dropping her bomb with cruel precision, "he has gone to calvary." the agitation was instantaneous. "to calvary!" exclaimed mother and son in one breath. "why?" it was gordon who demanded. "a--a special occasion there--a bishop or something?" "i'm afraid you must ask him," she said. she was delayed on the steps, first by nan ferguson, then by the laureston greys, and her news outdistanced her to the porch. charlotte plimpton looking very red and solid, her eyes glittering with excitement, blocked her way. "alison?" she cried, in the slightly nasal voice that was a gore inheritance, "i'm told your father's gone to calvary! has mr. hodder offended him? i heard rumours--wallis seems to be afraid that something has happened." "he hasn't said anything about it to me, charlotte," said alison, in quiet amusement, "but then he wouldn't, you know. i don't live here any longer, and he has no reason to think that i would be interested in church matters." "but--why did you come?" charlotte demanded, with gore naivete. alison smiled. "you mean--what was my motive?" charlotte actually performed the miracle of getting redder. she was afraid of alison--much more afraid since she had known of her vogue in the east. when alison had put into execution the astounding folly (to the gore mind) of rejecting the inheritance of millions to espouse a profession, it had been charlotte plimpton who led the chorus of ridicule and disapproval. but success, to the charlotte plimptons, is its own justification, and now her ambition (which had ramifications) was to have alison "do" her a garden. incidentally, the question had flashed through her mind as to how much alison's good looks had helped towards her triumph in certain shining circles. "oh, of course i didn't mean that," she hastened to deny, although it was exactly what she had meant. her curiosity unsatisfied--and not likely to be satisfied at once, she shifted abruptly to the other burning subject. "i was so glad when i learned you hadn't gone. grace larrabbee's garden is a dream, my dear. wallis and i stopped there the other day and the caretaker showed it to us. can't you make a plan for me, so that i may begin next spring? and there's something else i wanted to ask you. wallis and i are going to new york the end of the month. shall you be there?" "i don't know," said alison, cautiously. "we want so much to see one or two of your gardens on long island, and especially the sibleys', on the hudson. i know it will be late in the season,--but don't you think you could take us, alison? and i intend to give you a dinner. i'll write you a note. here's wallis." "well, well, well," said mr. plimpton, shaking alison's hand. "where's father? i hear he's gone to calvary." alison made her escape. inside the silent church, eleanor goodrich gave her a smile and a pressure of welcome. beside her, standing behind the rear pew, were asa waring and--mr. bentley! mr. bentley returned to st. john's! "you have come!" alison whispered. he understood her. he took her hand in his and looked down into her upturned face. "yes, my dear," he said, "and my girls have come sally grover and the others, and some friends from dalton street and elsewhere." the news, the sound of this old gentleman's voice and the touch of his hand suddenly filled her with a strange yet sober happiness. asa waring, though he had not overheard, smiled at her too, as in sympathy. his austere face was curiously illuminated, and she knew instinctively that in some way he shared her happiness. mr. bentley had come back! yes, it was an augury. from childhood she had always admired asa waring, and now she felt a closer tie . . . . she reached the pew, hesitated an instant, and slipped forward on her knees. years had gone by since she had prayed, and even now she made no attempt to translate into words the intensity of her yearning--for what? hodder's success, for one thing,--and by success she meant that he might pursue an unfaltering course. true to her temperament, she did not look for the downfall of the forces opposed to him. she beheld him persecuted, yet unyielding, and was thus lifted to an exaltation that amazed. . . if he could do it, such a struggle must sorely have an ultimate meaning! thus she found herself, trembling, on the borderland of faith. . . she arose, bewildered, her pulses beating. and presently glancing about, she took in that the church was fuller than she ever remembered having seen it, and the palpitating suspense she felt seemed to pervade, as it were, the very silence. with startling abruptness, the silence was broken by the tones of the great organ that rolled and reverberated among the arches; distant voices took up the processional; the white choir filed past,--first the treble voices of the boys, then the deeper notes of the--men,--turned and mounted the chancel steps, and then she saw hodder. her pew being among the first, he passed very near her. did he know she would be there? the sternness of his profile told her nothing. he seemed at that moment removed, set apart, consecrated--this was the word that came to her, and yet she was keenly conscious of his presence. tingling, she found herself repeating, inwardly, two, lines of the hymn "lay hold on life, and it shall be thy joy and crown eternally." "lay hold on life!" the service began,--the well-remembered, beautiful appeal and prayers which she could still repeat, after a lapse of time, almost by heart; and their music and rhythm, the simple yet magnificent language in which. they were clothed--her own language--awoke this morning a racial instinct strong in her,--she had not known how strong. or was it something in hodder's voice that seemed to illumine the ancient words with a new meaning? raising her eyes to the chancel she studied his head, and found in it still another expression of that race, the history of which had been one of protest, of development of its own character and personality. her mind went back to her first talk with him, in the garden, and she saw how her intuition had recognized in him then the spirit of a people striving to assert itself. she stood with tightened lips, during the apostles' creed, listening to his voice as it rose, strong and unfaltering, above the murmur of the congregation. at last she saw him swiftly crossing the chancel, mounting the pulpit steps, and he towered above her, a dominant figure, his white surplice sharply outlined against the dark stone of the pillar. the hymn died away, the congregation sat down. there was a sound in the church, expectant, presaging, like the stirring of leaves at the first breath of wind, and then all was silent. ii he had preached for an hour--longer, perhaps. alison could not have said how long. she had lost all sense of time. no sooner had the text been spoken, "except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of god," than she seemed to catch a fleeting glimpse of an hitherto unimagined personality. hundreds of times she had heard those words, and they had been as meaningless to her as to nicodemus. but now--now something was brought home to her of the magnificent certainty with which they must first have been spoken, of the tone and bearing and authority of him who had uttered them. was christ like that? and could it be a truth, after all, a truth only to be grasped by one who had experienced it? it was in vain that man had tried to evade this, the supreme revelation of jesus christ, had sought to substitute ceremonies and sacrifices for spiritual rebirth. it was in vain that the church herself had, from time to time, been inclined to compromise. st. paul, once the strict pharisee who had laboured for the religion of works, himself had been reborn into the religion of the spirit. it was paul who had liberated that message of rebirth, which the world has been so long in grasping, from the narrow bounds of palestine and sent it ringing down the ages to the democracies of the twentieth century. and even paul, though not consciously inconsistent, could not rid himself completely of that ancient, automatic, conception of religion which the master condemned, but had on occasions attempted fruitlessly to unite the new with the old. and thus, for a long time, christianity had been wrongly conceived as history, beginning with what to paul and the jews was an historical event, the allegory of the garden of eden, the fall of adam, and ending with the jewish conception of the atonement. this was a rationalistic and not a spiritual religion. the miracle was not the vision, whatever its nature, which saul beheld on the road to damascus. the miracle was the result of that vision, the man reborn. saul, the persecutor of christians, become paul, who spent the rest of his days, in spite of persecution and bodily infirmities, journeying tirelessly up and down the roman empire, preaching the risen christ, and labouring more abundantly than they all! there was no miracle in the new testament more wonderful than this. the risen christ! let us not trouble ourselves about the psychological problems involved, problems which the first century interpreted in its own simple way. modern, science has taught us this much, at least, that we have by no means fathomed the limits even of a transcendent personality. if proofs of the resurrection and ascension were demanded, let them be spiritual proofs, and there could be none more convincing than the life of the transformed saul, who had given to the modern, western world the message of salvation . . . . that afternoon, as alison sat motionless on a distant hillside of the park, gazing across the tree-dotted, rolling country to the westward, she recalled the breathless silence in the church when he had reached this point and paused, looking down at the congregation. by the subtle transmission of thought, of feeling which is characteristic at dramatic moments of bodies of people, she knew that he had already contrived to stir them to the quick. it was not so much that these opening words might have been startling to the strictly orthodox, but the added fact that hodder had uttered them. the sensation in the pews, as alison interpreted it and exulted over it, was one of bewildered amazement that this was their rector, the same man who had preached to them in june. like paul, of whom he spoke, he too was transformed, had come to his own, radiating a new power that seemed to shine in his face. still agitated, she considered that discourse now in her solitude, what it meant for him, for her, for the church and civilization that a clergyman should have had the courage to preach it. he himself had seemed unconscious of any courage; had never once--she recalled--been sensational. he had spoken simply, even in the intensest moments of denunciation. and she wondered now how he had managed, without stripping himself, without baring the intimate, sacred experiences of his own soul, to convey to them, so nobly, the change which had taken place in him.... he began by referring to the hope with which he had come to st. john's, and the gradual realization that the church was a failure--a dismal failure when compared to the high ideal of her master. by her fruits she should be known and judged. from the first he had contemplated, with a heavy heart, the sin and misery at their very gates. not three blocks distant children were learning vice in the streets, little boys of seven and eight, underfed and anaemic, were driven out before dawn to sell newspapers, little girls thrust forth to haunt the saloons and beg, while their own children were warmed and fed. while their own daughters were guarded, young women in dayton street were forced to sell themselves into a life which meant slow torture, inevitable early death. hopeless husbands and wives were cast up like driftwood by the cruel, resistless flood of modern civilization--the very civilization which yielded their wealth and luxury. the civilization which professed the spirit of christ, and yet was pitiless. he confessed to them that for a long time he had been blind to the truth, had taken the inherited, unchristian view that the disease which caused vice and poverty might not be cured, though its ulcers might be alleviated. he had not, indeed, clearly perceived and recognized the disease. he had regarded dalton street in a very special sense as a reproach to st. john's, but now he saw that all such neighbourhoods were in reality a reproach to the city, to the state, to the nation. true christianity and democracy were identical, and the congregation of st. john's, as professed christians and citizens, were doubly responsible, inasmuch as they not only made no protest or attempt to change a government which permitted the dalton streets to exist, but inasmuch also as,--directly or indirectly,--they derived a profit from conditions which were an abomination to god. it would be but an idle mockery for them to go and build a settlement house, if they did not first reform their lives. here there had been a decided stir among the pews. hodder had not seemed to notice it. when he, their rector, had gone to dalton street to invite the poor and wretched into god's church, he was met by the scornful question: "are the christians of the churches any better than we? christians own the grim tenements in which we live, the saloons and brothels by which we are surrounded, which devour our children. christians own the establishments which pay us starvation wages; profit by politics, and take toll from our very vice; evade the laws and reap millions, while we are sent to jail. is their god a god who will lift us out of our misery and distress? are their churches for the poor? are not the very pews in which they sit as closed to us as their houses?" "i know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot. i would thou wert cold or hot." one inevitable conclusion of such a revelation was that he had not preached to them the vital element of christianity. and the very fact that his presentation of religion had left many indifferent or dissatisfied was proof-positive that he had dwelt upon non-essentials, laid emphasis upon the mistaken interpretations of past ages. there were those within the church who were content with this, who--like the pharisees of old--welcomed a religion which did not interfere with their complacency, with their pursuit of pleasure and wealth, with their special privileges; welcomed a church which didn't raise her voice against the manner of their lives--against the order, the golden calf which they had set up, which did not accuse them of deliberately retarding the coming of the kingdom of god. ah, that religion was not religion, for religion was a spiritual, not a material affair. in that religion, vainly designed by man as a compromise between god and mammon, there was none of the divine discontent of the true religion of the spirit, no need of the rebirth of the soul. and those who held it might well demand, with nicodemus and the rulers of the earth, "how can these things be?" and there were others who still lingered in the church, perplexed and wistful, who had come to him and confessed that the so-called catholic acceptance of divine truths, on which he had hitherto dwelt, meant nothing to them. to these, in particular, he owed a special reparation, and he took this occasion to announce a series of sunday evening sermons on the creeds. so long as the creeds remained in the prayer book it was his duty to interpret them in terms not only of modern thought, but in harmony with the real significance of the person and message of jesus christ. those who had come to him questioning, he declared, were a thousand times right in refusing to accept the interpretations of other men, the consensus of opinion of more ignorant ages, expressed in an ancient science and an archaic philosophy. and what should be said of the vast and ever increasing numbers of those not connected with the church, who had left it or were leaving it? and of the less fortunate to whose bodily wants they had been ministering in the parish house, for whom it had no spiritual message, and who never entered its doors? the necessity of religion, of getting in touch with, of dependence on the spirit of the universe was inherent in man, and yet there were thousands--nay, millions in the nation to-day in whose hearts was an intense and unsatisfied yearning, who perceived no meaning in life, no cause for which to work, who did not know what christianity was, who had never known what it was, who wist not where to turn to find out. education had brought many of them to discern, in the church's teachings, an anachronistic medley of myths and legends, of theories of schoolmen and theologians, of surviving pagan superstitions which could not be translated into life. they saw, in christianity, only the adulterations of the centuries. if any one needed a proof of the yearning people felt, let him go to the bookshops, or read in the publishers' lists to-day the announcements of books on religion. there was no supply where there was no demand. truth might no longer be identified with tradition, and the day was past when councils and synods might determine it for all mankind. the era of forced acceptance of philosophical doctrines and dogmas was past, and that of freedom, of spiritual rebirth, of vicarious suffering, of willing sacrifice and service for a cause was upon them. that cause was democracy. christ was uniquely the son of god because he had lived and suffered and died in order to reveal to the world the meaning of this life and of the hereafter--the meaning not only for the individual, but for society as well. nothing might be added to or subtracted from that message--it was complete. true faith was simply trusting--trusting that christ gave to the world the revelation of god's plan. and the saviour himself had pointed out the proof: "if any man do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of god, or whether i speak for myself." christ had repeatedly rebuked those literal minds which had demanded material evidence: true faith spurned it, just as true friendship, true love between man and man, true trust scorned a written bond. to paraphrase st. james's words, faith without trust is dead--because faith without trust is impossible. god is a spirit, only to be recognized in the spirit, and every one of the saviour's utterances were--not of the flesh, of the man--but of the spirit within him. "he that hath seen me hath seen the father;" and "why callest thou me good? none is good save one, that is, god." the spirit, the universal meaning of life, incarnate in the human jesus. to be born again was to overcome our spiritual blindness, and then, and then only, we might behold the spirit shining in the soul of christ. that proof had sufficed for mark, had sufficed for the writer of the sublime fourth gospel, had sufficed for paul. let us lift this wondrous fact, once and for all, out of the ecclesiastical setting and incorporate it into our lives. nor need the hearts of those who seek the truth, who fear not to face it, be troubled if they be satisfied, from the gospels, that the birth of jesus was not miraculous. the physical never could prove the spiritual, which was the real and everlasting, which no discovery in science or history can take from us. the godship of christ rested upon no dogma, it was a conviction born into us with the new birth. and it becomes an integral part of our personality, our very being. the secret, then, lay in a presentation of the divine message which would convince and transform and electrify those who heard it to action--a presentation of the message in terms which the age could grasp. that is what paul had done, he had drawn his figures boldly from the customs of the life of his day, but a more or less intimate knowledge of these ancient customs were necessary before modern men and women could understand those figures and parallels. and the church must awake to her opportunities, to her perception of the cause. . . . what, then, was the function, the mission of the church universal? once she had laid claim to temporal power, believed herself to be the sole agency of god on earth, had spoken ex cathedra on philosophy, history, theology, and science, had undertaken to confer eternal bliss and to damn forever. her members, and even her priests, had gone from murder to mass and from mass to murder, and she had engaged in cruel wars and persecutions to curtail the liberties of mankind. under that conception religion was a form of insurance of the soul. perhaps a common, universal belief had been necessary in the dark ages before the sublime idea of education for the masses had come; but the church herself --through ignorance--had opposed the growth of education, had set her face sternly against the development of the individual, which christ had taught, the privilege of man to use the faculties of the intellect which god had bestowed upon him. he himself, their rector, had advocated a catholic acceptance, though much modified from the mediaeval acceptance, --one that professed to go behind it to an earlier age. yes, he must admit with shame that he had been afraid to trust where god trusted, had feared to confide the working out of the ultimate truth of the minds of the millions. the church had been monarchical in form, and some strove stubbornly and blindly to keep her monarchical. democracy in government was outstripping her. let them look around, to-day, and see what was happening in the united states of america. a great movement was going on to transfer actual participation in government from the few to the many, --a movement towards true democracy, and that was precisely what was about to happen in the church. her condition at present was one of uncertainty, transition--she feared to let go wholly of the old, she feared to embark upon the new. just as the conservatives and politicians feared to give up the representative system, the convention, so was she afraid to abandon the synod, the council, and trust to man. the light was coming slowly, the change, the rebirth of the church by gradual evolution. by the grace of god those who had laid the foundations of the church in which he stood, of all protestantism, had built for the future. the racial instinct in them had asserted itself, had warned them that to suppress freedom in religion were to suppress it in life, to paralyze that individual initiative which was the secret of their advancement. the new church universal, then, would be the militant, aggressive body of the reborn, whose mission it was to send out into the life of the nation transformed men and women who would labour unremittingly for the kingdom of god. unity would come--but unity in freedom, true catholicity. the truth would gradually pervade the masses--be wrought out by them. even the great evolutionary forces of the age, such as economic necessity, were acting to drive divided christianity into consolidation, and the starving churches of country villages were now beginning to combine. no man might venture to predict the details of the future organization of the united church, although st. paul himself had sketched it in broad outline: every worker, lay and clerical, labouring according to his gift, teachers, executives, ministers, visitors, missionaries, healers of sick and despondent souls. but the supreme function of the church was to inspire--to inspire individuals to willing service for the cause, the cause of democracy, the fellowship of mankind. if she failed to inspire, the church would wither and perish. and therefore she must revive again the race of inspirers, prophets, modern apostles to whom this gift was given, going on their rounds, awaking cities and arousing whole country-sides. but whence--it might be demanded by the cynical were the prophets to come? prophets could not be produced by training and education; prophets must be born. reborn,--that was the word. let the church have faith. once her cause were perceived, once her whole energy were directed towards its fulfilment, the prophets would arise, out of the east and out of the west, to stir mankind to higher effort, to denounce fearlessly the shortcomings and evils of the age. they had not failed in past ages, when the world had fallen into hopelessness, indifference, and darkness. and they would not fail now. prophets were personalities, and phillips brooks himself a prophet--had defined personality as a conscious relationship with god. "all truth," he had said, "comes to the world through personality." and down the ages had come an apostolic succession of personalities. paul, augustine, francis, dante, luther, milton,--yes, and abraham lincoln, and phillips brooks, whose authority was that of the spirit, whose light had so shone before men that they had glorified the father which was in heaven; the current of whose power had so radiated, in ever widening circles, as to make incandescent countless other souls. and which among them would declare that abraham lincoln, like stephen, had not seen his master in the sky? the true prophet, the true apostle, then, was one inspired and directed by the spirit, the laying on of hands was but a symbol,--the symbol of the sublime truth that one personality caught fire from another. let the church hold fast to that symbol, as an acknowledgment, a reminder of a supreme mystery. tradition had its value when it did not deteriorate into superstition, into the mechanical, automatic transmission characteristic of the mediaeval church, for the very suggestion of which peter had rebuked simon in samaria. for it would be remembered that simon had said: "give me also this power, that on whomsoever i lay hands, he may receive the holy ghost." the true successor to the apostles must be an apostle himself. jesus had seldom spoken literally, and the truths he sought to impress upon the world had of necessity been clothed in figures and symbols,--for spiritual truths might be conveyed in no other way. the supreme proof of his godship, of his complete knowledge of the meaning of life was to be found in his parables. to the literal, material mind, for example, the parable of the talents was merely an unintelligible case of injustice.... what was meant by the talents? they were opportunities for service. experience taught us that when we embraced one opportunity, one responsibility, the acceptance of it invariably led to another, and so the servant who had five talents, five opportunities, gained ten. the servant who had two gained two more. but the servant of whom only one little service was asked refused that, and was cast into outer darkness, to witness another performing the task which should have been his. hell, here and hereafter, was the spectacle of wasted opportunity, and there is no suffering to compare to it. the crime, the cardinal sin was with those who refused to serve, who shut their eyes to the ideal their lord had held up, who strove to compromise with jesus christ himself, to twist and torture his message to suit their own notions as to how life should be led; to please god and mammon at the same time, to bind christ's church for their comfort and selfish convenience. of them it was written, that they shut up the kingdom of heaven against men; for they neither go in themselves, neither suffer them that are entering to go in. were these any better than the people who had crucified the lord for his idealism, and because he had not brought them the material kingdom for which they longed? that servant who had feared to act, who had hid his talent in the ground, who had said unto his lord, "i knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hadst not sown," was the man without faith, the atheist who sees only cruelty and indifference in the order of things, who has no spiritual sight. but to the other servants it was said, "thou halt been faithful over a few things, i will make thee ruler over many things. enter thou into the joy of thy lord." the meaning of life, then, was service, and by life our lord did not mean mere human existence, which is only a part of life. the kingdom of heaven is a state, and may begin here. and that which we saw around us was only one expression of that eternal life--a medium to work through, towards god. all was service, both here and hereafter, and he that had not discovered that the joy of service was the only happiness worth living for could have no conception of the kingdom. to those who knew, there was no happiness like being able to say, "i have found my place in god's plan, i am of use." such was salvation . . . . and in the parable of the prodigal son may be read the history of what are known as the protestant nations. what happens logically when the individual is suddenly freed from the restraint of external authority occurred when martin luther released the vital spark of christianity, which he got from paul, and from christ himself--the revelation of individual responsibility, that god the spirit would dwell, by grace, in the individual soul. ah, we had paid a terrible yet necessary price for freedom. we had wandered far from the father, we had been reduced to the very husks of individualism, become as swine. we beheld around us, to-day, selfishness, ruthless competition, as great contrasts between misery and luxury as in the days of the roman empire. but should we, for that reason, return to the leading-strings of authority? could we if we would? a little thought ought to convince us that the liberation of the individual could not be revoked, that it had forever destroyed the power of authority to carry conviction. to go back to the middle ages would be to deteriorate and degenerate. no, we must go on. . . . luther's movement, in religion, had been the logical forerunner of democracy, of universal suffrage in government, the death-knell of that misinterpretation of christianity as the bulwark of monarchy and hierarchy had been sounded when he said, "ich kann nicht anders!" the new republic founded on the western continent had announced to the world the initiation of the transfer of authority to the individual soul. god, the counterpart of the king, the ruler in a high heaven of a flat terrestrial expanse, outside of the world, was now become the spirit of a million spheres, the indwelling spirit in man. democracy and the religion of jesus christ both consisted in trusting the man--yes, and the woman--whom god trusts. christianity was individualism carried beyond philosophy into religion, and the christian, the ideal citizen of the democracy, was free since he served not because he had to, but because he desired to of his own will, which, paradoxically, is god's will. god was in politics, to the confusion of politicians; god in government. and in some greater and higher sense than we had yet perceived, the saying 'vox populi vox dei' was eternally true. he entered into the hearts of people and moved them, and so the world progressed. it was the function of the church to make christians, until--when the kingdom of god should come--the blending should be complete. then church and state would be identical, since all the members of the one would be the citizens of the other . . . . "i will arise and go to my father." rebirth! a sense of responsibility, of consecration. so we had come painfully through our materialistic individualism, through our selfish protestantism, to a glimpse of the true protestantism--democracy. our spiritual vision was glowing clearer. we were beginning to perceive that charity did not consist in dispensing largesse after making a fortune at the expense of one's fellow-men; that there was something still wrong in a government that permits it. it was gradually becoming plain to us, after two thousand years, that human bodies and souls rotting in tenements were more valuable than all the forests on all the hills; that government, christian government, had something to do with these. we should embody, in government, those sublime words of the master, "suffer little children to come unto me." and the government of the future would care for the little children. we were beginning to do it. here, as elsewhere, christianity and reason went hand in hand, for the child became the man who either preyed on humanity and filled the prisons and robbed his fellows, or else grew into a useful, healthy citizen. it was nothing less than sheer folly as well as inhuman cruelty to let the children sleep in crowded, hot rooms, reeking with diseases, and run wild throughout the long summer, learning vice in the city streets. and we still had slavery--economic slavery--yes, and the more horrible slavery of women and young girls in vice--as much a concern of government as the problem which had confronted it in . . . . we were learning that there was something infinitely more sacred than property . . . . and now alison recalled, only to be thrilled again by an electric sensation she had never before experienced with such intensity, the look of inspiration on the preacher's face as he closed. the very mists of the future seemed to break before his importuning gaze, and his eyes seemed indeed to behold, against the whitening dawn of the spiritual age he predicted, the slender spires of a new church sprung from the foundations of the old. a church, truly catholic, tolerant, whose portals were wide in welcome to all mankind. the creative impulse, he had declared, was invariably religious, the highest art but the expression of the mute yearnings of a people, of a race. thus had once arisen, all over europe, those wonderful cathedrals which still cast their spell upon the world, and art to-day would respond--was responding --to the unutterable cravings of mankind, would strive once more to express in stone and glass and pigment what nations felt. generation after generation would labour with unflagging zeal until the art sculptured fragment of the new cathedral--the new cathedral of democracy --pointed upward toward the blue vault of heaven. such was his vision --god the spirit, through man reborn, carrying out his great design . . . chapter xxii "which say to the seers, see not" i as alison arose from her knees and made her way out of the pew, it was the expression on charlotte plimpton's face which brought her back once more to a sense of her surroundings; struck her, indeed, like a physical blow. the expression was a scandalized one. mrs. plimpton had moved towards her, as if to speak, but alison hurried past, her exaltation suddenly shattered, replaced by a rising tide of resentment, of angry amazement against a materialism so solid as to remain unshaken by the words which had so uplifted her. eddies were forming in the aisle as the people streamed slowly out of the church, and snatches of their conversation, in undertones, reached her ears. "i should never have believed it!" "mr. hodder, of all men. . ." "the bishop!" outside the swinging doors, in the vestibule, the voices were raised a little, and she found her path blocked. "it's incredible!" she heard gordon atterbury saying to little everett constable, who was listening gloomily. "sheer unitarianism, socialism, heresy." his attention was forcibly arrested by alison, in whose cheeks bright spots of colour burned. he stepped aside, involuntarily, apologetically, as though he had instinctively read in her attitude an unaccountable disdain. everett constable bowed uncertainly, for alison scarcely noticed them. "ahem!" said gordon, nervously, abandoning his former companion and joining her, "i was just saying, it's incredible--" she turned on him. "it is incredible," she cried, "that persons who call themselves christians cannot recognize their religion when they hear it preached." he gave back before her, visibly, in an astonishment which would have been ludicrous but for her anger. he had never understood her--such had been for him her greatest fascination;--and now she was less comprehensible than ever. the time had been when he would cheerfully have given over his hope of salvation to have been able to stir her. he had never seen her stirred, and the sight of her even now in this condition was uncomfortably agitating. of all things, an heretical sermon would appear to have accomplished this miracle! "christianity!" he stammered. "yes, christianity." her voice tingled. "i don't pretend to know much about it, but mr. hodder has at least made it plain that it is something more than dead dogmas, ceremonies, and superstitions." he would have said something, but her one thought was to escape, to be alone. these friends of her childhood were at that moment so distasteful as to have become hateful. some one laid a hand upon her arm. "can't we take you home, alison? i don't see your motor." it was mrs. constable. "no, thanks--i'm going to walk," alison answered, yet something in mrs. constable's face, in mrs. constable's voice, made her pause. something new, something oddly sympathetic. their eyes met, and alison saw that the other woman's were tired, almost haggard--yet understanding. "mr. hodder was right--a thousand times right, my dear," she said. alison could only stare at her, and the crimson in the bright spots of her cheeks spread over her face. why had mrs. constable supposed that she would care to hear the sermon praised? but a second glance put her in possession of the extraordinary fact that mrs. constable herself was profoundly moved. "i knew he would change," she went on, "i have seen for some time that he was too big a man not to change. but i had no conception that he would have such power, and such courage, as he has shown this morning. it is not only that he dared to tell us what we were--smaller men might have done that, and it is comparatively easy to denounce. but he has the vision to construct, he is a seer himself--he has really made me see what christianity is. and as long as i live i shall never forget those closing sentences." "and now?" asked alison. "and now what will happen?" mrs. constable changed colour. her tact, on which she prided herself, had deserted her in a moment of unlooked-for emotion. "oh, i know that my father and the others will try to put him out--but can they?" alison asked. it was mrs. constable's turn to stare. the head she suddenly and impulsively put forth trembled on alison's wrist. "i don't know, alison--i'm afraid they can. it is too terrible to think about. . . . and they can't--they won't believe that many changes are coming, that this is but one of many signs. . . do come and see me." alison left her, marvelling at the passage between them, and that, of all persons in the congregation of st. john's, the lightning should have struck mrs. constable. . . turning to the right on burton street, she soon found herself walking rapidly westward through deserted streets lined by factories and warehouses, and silent in the sabbath calm . . . . she thought of hodder, she would have liked to go to him in that hour . . . . in park street, luncheon was half over, and nelson langmaid was at the table with her father. the lawyer glanced at her curiously as she entered the room, and his usual word of banter, she thought, was rather lame. the two went on, for some time, discussing a railroad suit in texas. and alison, as she hurried through her meal, leaving the dishes almost untouched, scarcely heard them. once, in her reverie, her thoughts reverted to another sunday when hodder had sat, an honoured guest, in the chair which mr. langmaid now occupied . . . . it was not until they got up from the table that her father turned to her. "did you have a good sermon?" he asked. it was the underlying note of challenge to which she responded. "the only good sermon i have ever heard." their eyes met. langmaid looked down at the tip of his cigar. "mr. hodder," said eldon parr, "is to be congratulated." ii hodder, when the service was over, had sought the familiar recess in the robing-room, the words which he himself had spoken still ringing in his ears. and then he recalled the desperate prayer with which he had entered the pulpit, that it might be given him in that hour what to say: the vivid memories of the passions and miseries in dalton street, the sudden, hot response of indignation at the complacency confronting him. his voice had trembled with anger . . . . he remembered, as he had paused in his denunciation of these who had eyes and saw not, meeting the upturned look of alison parr, and his anger had turned to pity for their blindness--which once had been his own; and he had gone on and on, striving to interpret for them his new revelation of the message of the saviour, to impress upon them the dreadful yet sublime meaning of life eternal. and it was in that moment the vision of the meaning of the evolution of his race, of the prodigal turning to responsibility--of which he once had had a glimpse--had risen before his eyes in its completeness--the guiding hand of god in history! the spirit in these complacent souls, as yet unstirred . . . . so complete, now, was his forgetfulness of self, of his future, of the irrevocable consequences of the step he had taken, that it was only gradually he became aware that some one was standing near him, and with a start he recognized mccrae. "there are some waiting to speak to ye," his assistant said. "oh!" hodder exclaimed. he began, mechanically, to divest himself of his surplice. mccrae stood by. "i'd like to say a word, first--if ye don't mind--" he began. the rector looked at him quickly. "i'd like just to thank ye for that sermon--i can say no more now," said mccrae; he turned away, and left the room abruptly. this characteristic tribute from the inarticulate, loyal scotchman left him tingling . . . . he made his way to the door and saw the people in the choir room, standing silently, in groups, looking toward him. some one spoke to him, and he recognized eleanor goodrich. "we couldn't help coming, mr. hodder--just to tell you how much we admire you. it was wonderful, what you said." he grew hot with gratitude, with thankfulness that there were some who understood--and that this woman was among them, and her husband . . . phil goodrich took him by the hand. "i can understand that kind of religion," he said. "and, if necessary, i can fight for it. i have come to enlist." "and i can understand it, too," added the sunburned evelyn. "i hope you will let me help." that was all they said, but hodder understood. eleanor goodrich's eyes were dimmed as she smiled an her sister and her husband--a smile that bespoke the purest quality of pride. and it was then, as they made way for others, that the full value of their allegiance was borne in upon him, and he grasped the fact that the intangible barrier which had separated him from them had at last been broken down: his look followed the square shoulders and aggressive, close-cropped head of phil goodrich, the firm, athletic figure of evelyn, who had represented to him an entire class of modern young women, vigorous, athletic, with a scorn of cant in which he secretly sympathized, hitherto frankly untouched by spiritual interests of any sort. she had, indeed, once bluntly told him that church meant nothing to her . . . . in that little company gathered in the choir room were certain members of his congregation whom, had he taken thought, he would least have expected to see. there were mr. and mrs. bradley, an elderly couple who had attended st. john's for thirty years; and others of the same unpretentious element of his parish who were finding in modern life an increasingly difficult and bewildering problem. there was little miss tallant, an assiduous guild worker whom he had thought the most orthodox of persons; miss ramsay, who taught the children of the italian mothers; mr. carton, the organist, a professed free-thinker, with whom hodder had had many a futile argument; and martha preston, who told him that he had made her think about religion seriously for the first time in her life. and there were others, types equally diverse. young men of the choir, and others whom he had never seen, who informed him shyly that they would come again, and bring their friends . . . . and all the while, in the background, hodder had been aware of a familiar face--horace bentley's. beside him, when at length he drew near, was his friend asa waring--a strangely contrasted type. the uncompromising eyes of a born leader of men flashed from beneath the heavy white eyebrows, the button of the legion of honour gleaming in his well-kept coat seemed emblematic of the fire which in his youth had driven him forth to fight for the honour of his country--a fire still undimmed. it was he who spoke first. "this is a day i never expected to see, mr. hodder," he said, "for it has brought back to this church the man to whom it owes its existence. mr. bentley did more, by his labour and generosity, his true christianity, his charity and his wisdom, for st. john's than any other individual. it is you who have brought him back, and i wish personally to express my gratitude." mr. bentley, in mild reproof, laid his hand upon the t, shoulder of his old friend. "ah, asa," he protested, "you shouldn't say such things." "had it not been for mr. bentley," hodder explained, "i should not be here to-day." asa waring pierced the rector with his eye, appreciating the genuine feeling with which these words were spoken. and yet his look contained a question. "mr. bentley," hodder added, "has been my teacher this summer." the old gentleman's hand trembled a little on the goldheaded stick. "it is a matter of more pride to me than i can express, sir, that you are the rector of this church with which my most cherished memories are associated," he said. "but i cannot take any part of the credit you give me for the splendid vision which you have raised up before us to-day, for your inspired interpretation of history, of the meaning of our own times. you have moved me, you have given me more hope and courage than i have had for many a long year--and i thank you, mr. hodder. i am sure that god will prosper and guide you in what you have so nobly undertaken." mr. bentley turned away, walking towards the end of the room . . . . asa waring broke the silence. "i didn't know that you knew him, that you had seen what he is doing --what he has done in this city. i cannot trust myself, mr. hodder, to speak of horace bentley's life. . . i feel too strongly on the subject. i have watched, year by year, this detestable spirit of greed, this lust for money and power creeping over our country, corrupting our people and institutions, and finally tainting the church itself. you have raised your voice against it, and i respect and honour and thank you for it, the more because you have done it without resorting to sensation, and apparently with no thought of yourself. and, incidentally, you have explained the christian religion to me as i have never had it explained in my life. "i need not tell you you have made enemies--powerful ones. i can see that you are a man, and that you are prepared for them. they will leave no stone unturned, will neglect no means to put you out and disgrace you. they will be about your ears to-morrow--this afternoon, perhaps. i need not remind you that the outcome is doubtful. but i came here to assure you of my friendship and support in all you hope to accomplish in making the church what it should be. in any event, what you have done to-day will be productive of everlasting good." in a corner still lingered the group which mr. bentley had joined. and hodder, as he made his way towards it, recognized the faces of some of those who composed it. sally grower was there, and the young women who lived in mr. bentley's house, and others whose acquaintance he had made during the summer. mrs. garvin had brought little dicky, incredibly changed from the wan little figure he had first beheld in the stifling back room in dalton street; not yet robust, but freckled and tanned by the country sun and wind. the child, whom he had seen constantly in the interval, ran forward joyfully, and hodder bent down to take his hand.... these were his friends, emblematic of the new relationship in which he stood to mankind. and he owed them to horace bentley! he wondered, as he greeted them, whether they knew what their allegiance meant to him in this hour. but it sufficed that they claimed him as their own. behind them all stood kate marcy. and it struck him for the first time, as he gazed at her earnestly, how her appearance had changed. she gave him a frightened, bewildered look, as though she were unable to identify him now with the man she had known in the dalton street flat, in the restaurant. she was still struggling, groping, wondering, striving to accustom herself to the higher light of another world. "i wanted to come," she faltered. "sally grower brought me. . . " hodder went back with them to dalton street. his new ministry had begun. and on this, the first day of it, it was fitting that he should sit at the table of horace bentley, even as on that other sunday, two years agone, he had gone to the home of the first layman of the diocese, eldon parr. iii the peace of god passes understanding because sorrow and joy are mingled therein, sorrow and joy and striving. and thus the joy of emancipation may be accompanied by a heavy heart. the next morning, when hodder entered his study, he sighed as his eye fell upon the unusual pile of letters on his desk, for their writers had once been his friends. the inevitable breach had come at last. most of the letters, as he had anticipated, were painful reading. and the silver paper-cutter with which he opened the first had been a christmas present from mrs. burlingame, who had penned it, a lady of signal devotion to the church, who for many years had made it her task to supply and arrange the flowers on the altar. he had amazed and wounded her--she declared--inexpressibly, and she could no longer remain at st. john's--for the present, at least. a significant addition. he dropped the letter, and sat staring out of the window . . . presently arousing himself, setting himself resolutely to the task of reading the rest. in the mood in which he found himself he did not atop to philosophize on the rigid yet sincere attitude of the orthodox. his affection for many of them curiously remained, though it was with some difficulty he strove to reconstruct a state of mind with which he had once agreed. if christianity were to sweep on, these few unbending but faithful ones must be sacrificed: such was the law. . . many, while repudiating his new beliefs--or unbeliefs!--added, to their regrets of the change in him, protestations of a continued friendship, a conviction of his sincerity. others like mrs. atterbury, were frankly outraged and bitter. the contents of one lilac-bordered envelope brought to his eyes a faint smile. did he know--asked the sender of this--could he know the consternation he had caused in so many persons, including herself? what was she to believe? and wouldn't he lunch with her on thursday? mrs. ferguson's letter brought another smile--more thoughtful. her incoherent phrases had sprung from the heart, and the picture rose before him of the stout but frightened, good-natured lady who had never accustomed herself to the enjoyment of wealth and luxury. mr. ferguson was in such a state, and he must please not tell her husband that she had written. yet much in his sermon had struck her as so true. it seemed wrong to her to have so much, and others so little! and he had made her remember many things in her early life she had forgotten. she hoped he would see mr. ferguson, and talk to him. . . . then there was mrs. constable's short note, that troubled and puzzled him. this, too, had in it an undercurrent of fear, and the memory came to him of the harrowing afternoon he had once spent with her, when she would have seemed to have predicted the very thing which had now happened to him. and yet not that thing. he divined instinctively that a maturer thought on the subject of his sermon had brought on an uneasiness as the full consequences of this new teaching had dawned upon her consequences which she had not foreseen when she had foretold the change. and he seemed to read between the lines that the renunciation he demanded was too great. would he not let her come and talk to him? . . . miss brewer, a lady of no inconsiderable property, was among those who told him plainly that if he remained they would have to give up their pews. three or four communications were even more threatening. mr. alpheus gore, mrs. plimpton's brother, who at five and forty had managed to triple his share of the gore inheritance, wrote that it would be his regretful duty to send to the bishop an information on the subject of mr. hodder's sermon. there were, indeed, a few letters which he laid, thankfully, in a pile by themselves. these were mostly from certain humble members of his parish who had not followed their impulses to go to him after the service, or from strangers who had chanced to drop into the church. some were autobiographical, such as those of a trained nurse, a stenographer, a hardware clerk who had sat up late sunday night to summarize what that sermon had meant to him, how a gray and hopeless existence had taken on a new colour. next sunday he would bring a friend who lived in the same boarding house . . . . hodder read every word of these, and all were in the same strain: at last they could perceive a meaning to religion, an application of it to such plodding lives as theirs . . . . one or two had not understood, but had been stirred, and were coming to talk to him. another was filled with a venomous class hatred. . . . the first intimation he had of the writer of another letter seemed from the senses rather than the intellect. a warm glow suffused him, mounted to his temples as he stared at the words, turned over the sheet, and read at the bottom the not very legible signature. the handwriting, by no means classic, became then and there indelibly photographed on his brain, and summed up for him the characteristics, the warring elements in alison parr. "all afternoon," she wrote, "i have been thinking of your sermon. it was to me very wonderful--it lifted me out of myself. and oh, i want so much to believe unreservedly what you expressed so finely, that religion is democracy, or the motive power behind democracy--the service of humanity by the reborn. i understand it intellectually. i am willing to work for such a cause, but there is something in me so hard that i wonder if it can dissolve. and then i am still unable to identify that cause with the church as at present constituted, with the dogmas and ceremonies that still exist. i am too thorough a radical to have your patience. and i am filled with rage--i can think of no milder word--on coming in contact with the living embodiments of that old creed, who hold its dogmas so precious. 'which say to the seers, see not; and to the prophets, prophesy not unto us right things, speak unto us smooth things, prophesy deceits.'" "you see, i have been reading isaiah, and when i came to that paragraph it seemed so appropriate. these people have always existed. and will they not always continue to exist? i wish i could believe, wholly and unreservedly, that this class, always preponderant in the world, could be changed, diminished--done away with in a brighter future! i can, at least, sympathize with isaiah's wrath. "what you said of the longing, the yearning which exists to-day amongst the inarticulate millions moved me most--and of the place of art in religion, to express that yearning. religion the motive power of art, and art, too, service. 'consider the lilies of the field.' you have made it, at least, all-comprehensive, have given me a new point of view for which i can never be sufficiently grateful--and at a time when i needed it desperately. that you have dared to do what you have done has been and will be an inspiration, not only to myself, but to many others. this, is a longer letter, i believe, than i have ever written in my life. but i wanted you to know." he reread it twice, pondering over its phrases. "a new point of view.... at a time when i needed it desperately." it was not until then that he realized the full intensity of his desire for some expression from her since the moment he had caught sight of her in the church. but he had not been prepared for the unreserve, the impulsiveness with which she had actually written. such was his agitation that he did not heed, at first, a knock on the door, which was repeated. he thrust the letter inside his coat as the janitor of the parish house appeared. "there is a gentleman to see you, sir, in the office," he said. hodder went down the stairs. and he anticipated, from the light yet nervous pacing that he heard on the bare floor, that the visitor was none other than his vestryman, mr. gordon atterbury. the sight of the gentleman's spruce figure confirmed the guess. "good morning, mr. atterbury," he said as he entered. mr. atterbury stopped in his steps, as if he had heard a shot. "ah--good morning, mr. hodder. i stopped in on my way to the office." "sit down," said the rector. mr. atterbury sat down, but with the air of a man who does so under protest, who had not intended to. he was visibly filled and almost quivering with an excitement which seemed to demand active expression, and which the tall clergyman's physical calm and self-possession seemed to augment. for a moment mr. atterbury stared at the rector as he sat behind his desk. then he cleared his throat. "i thought of writing to you, mr. hodder. my mother, i believe, has done so. but it seemed to me, on second thought, better to come to you direct." the rector nodded, without venturing to remark on the wisdom of the course. "it occurred to me," mr. atterbury went on, "that possibly some things i wish to discuss might--ahem be dispelled in a conversation. that i might conceivably have misunderstood certain statements in your sermon of yesterday." "i tried," said the rector, "to be as clear as possible." "i thought you might not fully have realized the effect of what you said. i ought to tell you, i think, that as soon as i reached home i wrote out, as accurately as i could from memory, the gist of your remarks. and i must say frankly, although i try to put it mildly, that they appear to contradict and controvert the doctrines of the church." "which doctrines?" hodder asked. gordon atterbury sputtered. "which doctrines?" he repeated. "can it be possible that you misunderstand me? i might refer you to those which you yourself preached as late as last june, in a sermon which was one of the finest and most scholarly efforts i ever heard." "it was on that day, mr. atterbury," replied the rector, with a touch of sadness in his voice, "i made the discovery that fine and scholarly efforts were not christianity." "what do you mean?" mr. atterbury demanded. "i mean that they do not succeed in making christians." "and by that you imply that the members of your congregation, those who have been brought up and baptized and confirmed in this church, are not christians?" "i am sorry to say a great many of them are not," said the rector. "in other words, you affirm that the sacrament of baptism is of no account." "i affirm that baptism with water is not sufficient." "i'm afraid that this is very grave," mr. hodder. "i quite agree with you," replied the rector, looking straight at his vestryman. "and i understood,--" the other went on, clearing his throat once more, "i think i have it correctly stated in my notes, but i wish to be quite clear, that you denied the doctrine of the virgin birth." hodder made a strong effort to control himself. "what i have said i have said," he answered, "and i have said it in the hope that it might make some impression upon the lives of those to whom i spoke. you were one of them, mr. atterbury. and if i repeat and amplify my meaning now, it must be understood that i have no other object except that of putting you in the way of seeing that the religion of christ is unique in that it is dependent upon no doctrine or dogma, upon no external or material sign or proof or authority whatever. i am utterly indifferent to any action you may contemplate taking concerning me. read your four gospels carefully. if we do not arrive, through contemplation of our lord's sojourn on this earth, of his triumph over death, of his message--which illuminates the meaning of our lives here--at that inner spiritual conversion of which he continually speaks, and which alone will give us charity, we are not christians." "but the doctrines of the church, which we were taught from childhood to believe? the doctrines which you once professed, and of which you have now made such an unlooked-for repudiation!" "yes, i have changed," said the rector, gazing seriously at the twitching figure of his vestryman, "i was bound, body and soul, by those very doctrines." he roused himself. "but on what grounds do you declare, mr. atterbury," he demanded, somewhat sternly, "that this church is fettered by an ancient and dogmatic conception of christianity? where are you to find what are called the doctrines of the church? what may be heresy in one diocese is not so in another, and i can refer to you volumes written by ministers of this church, in good standing, whose published opinions are the same as those i expressed in my sermon of yesterday. the very cornerstone of the church is freedom, but many have yet to discover this, and we have held in our communion men of such divergent views as dr. pusey and phillips brooks. mr. newman, in his tract ninety, which was sincerely written, showed that the thirty-nine articles were capable of almost any theological interpretation. from what authoritative source are we to draw our doctrines? in the baptismal service the articles of belief are stated to be in the apostles' creed, but nowhere--in this church is it defined how their ancient language is to be interpreted. that is wisely left to the individual. shall we interpret the gospels by the creeds, which in turn purport to be interpretations of the gospels? or shall we draw our conclusions as to what the creeds may mean to us by pondering on the life of christ, and striving to do his will? 'the letter killeth, but the spirit maketh alive.'" hodder rose, and stood facing his visitor squarely. he spoke slowly, and the fact that he made no gesture gave all the more force to his words. "hereafter, mr. atterbury," he added, "so long as i am rector of this church, i am going to do my best to carry out the spirit of christ's teaching--to make christians. and there shall be no more compromise, so far as i can help it." gordon atterbury had grown very pale. he, too, got to his feet. "i--i cannot trust myself to discuss this matter with you any further, mr. hodder. i feel too deeply--too strongly on the subject. i do not pretend to account for this astonishing transformation in your opinions. up to the present i have deemed st. john's fortunate--peculiarly fortunate, in having you for its rector. i am bound to say i think you have not considered, in this change of attitude on your part, those who have made st. john's what it is, who through long and familiar association are bound to it by a thousand ties,--those who, like myself, have what may be called a family interest in this church. my father and mother were married here, i was baptized here. i think i may go so far as to add, mr. hodder, that this is our church, the church which a certain group of people have built in which to worship god, as was their right. nor do i believe we can be reproached with a lack of hospitality or charity. we maintain this parish house, with its clubs; and at no small inconvenience to ourselves we have permitted the church to remain in this district. there is no better church music in this city, and we have a beautiful service in the evening at which, all pews are free. it is not unreasonable that we should have something to say concerning the doctrine to be preached here, that we should insist that that doctrine be in accordance with what we have always believed was the true doctrine as received by this church." up to this point mr. atterbury had had a feeling that he had not carried out with much distinction the programme which he had so carefully rehearsed on the way to the parish house. hodder's poise had amazed and baffled him--he had expected to find the rector on the defensive. but now, burning anew with a sense of injustice, he had a sense at last of putting his case strongly. the feeling of triumph, however, was short lived. hodder did not reply at once. so many seconds, indeed, went by that mr. atterbury began once more to grow slightly nervous under the strange gaze to which he was subjected. and when the clergyman' spoke there was no anger in his voice, but a quality--a feeling which was disturbing, and difficult to define. "you are dealing now, mr. atterbury," he said, "with the things of caesar, not of god. this church belongs to god--not to you. but you have consecrated it to him. his truth, as christ taught it, must not be preached to suit any man's convenience. when you were young you were not taught the truth--neither was i. it was mixed with adulterations which obscured and almost neutralized it. but i intend to face it now, and to preach it, and not the comfortable compromise which gives us the illusion that we are christians because we subscribe to certain tenets, and permits us to neglect our christian duties. "and since you have spoken of charity, let me assure you that there is no such thing as charity without the transforming, personal touch. it isn't the bread or instruction or amusement we give people vicariously, but the effect of our gift--even if that gift be only a cup of cold water--in illuminating and changing their lives. and it will avail any church little to have a dozen settlement houses while her members acquiesce in a state which refuses to relieve her citizens from sickness and poverty. charity bends down only to lift others up. and with all our works, our expenditure and toil, how many have we lifted up?" gordon atterbury's indignation got the better of him. for he was the last man to behold with patience the shattering of his idols. "i think you have cast an unwarranted reflection on those who have built and made this church what it is, mr. hodder," he exclaimed. "and that you will find there are in it many--a great many earnest christians who were greatly shocked by the words you spoke yesterday, who will not tolerate any interference with their faith. i feel it my duty to speak frankly, mr hodder, disagreeable though it be, in view of our former relations. i must tell you that i am not alone in the opinion that you should resign. it is the least you can do, in justice to us, in justice to yourself. there are other bodies--i cannot call them churches--which doubtless would welcome your liberal, and i must add atrophying, interpretation of christianity. and i trust that reflection will convince you of the folly of pushing this matter to the extreme. we should greatly deplore the sensational spectacle of st. john's being involved in an ecclesiastical trial, the unpleasant notoriety into which it would bring a church hitherto untouched by that sort of thing. and i ought to tell you that i, among others, am about to send an information to the bishop." gordon atterbury hesitated a moment, but getting no reply save an inclination of the head, took up his hat. "ahem--i think that is all i have to say, mr. hodder. good morning." even then hodder did not answer, but rose and held open the door. as he made his exit under the strange scrutiny of the clergyman's gaze the little vestryman was plainly uncomfortable. he cleared his throat once more, halted, and then precipitately departed. hodder went to the window and thoughtfully watched the hurrying figure of mr. atterbury until it disappeared, almost skipping, around the corner . . . . the germ of truth, throughout the centuries, had lost nothing of its dynamic potentialities. if released and proclaimed it was still powerful enough to drive the world to insensate anger and opposition.... as he stood there, lost in reflection, a shining automobile drew up at the curb, and from it descended a firm lady in a tight-fitting suit whom he recognized as mrs wallis plimpton. a moment later she had invaded the office--for no less a word may be employed to express her physical aggressiveness, the glowing health which she radiated. "good morning, mr. hodder," she said, seating herself in one of the straight-backed chairs. "i have been so troubled since you preached that sermon yesterday, i could scarcely sleep. and i made up my mind i'd come to you the first thing this morning. mr. plimpton and i have been discussing it. in fact, people are talking of nothing else. we dined with the laureston greys last night, and they, too, were full of it." charlotte plimpton looked at him, and the flow of her words suddenly diminished. and she added, a little lamely for her, "spiritual matters in these days are so difficult, aren't they?" "spiritual matters always were difficult, mrs. plimpton," he said. "i suppose so," she assented hurriedly, with what was intended for a smile. "but what i came to ask you is this--what are we to teach our children?" "teach them the truth," the rector replied. "one of the things which troubled me most was your reference to modern criticism," she went on, recovering her facility. "i was brought up to believe that the bible was true. the governess--miss standish, you know, such a fine type of englishwoman--reads the children bible stories every sunday evening. they adore them, and little wallis can repeat them almost by heart--the pillar of cloud by day, daniel in the lions' den, and the wise men from the east. if they aren't true, some one ought to have told us before now." a note of injury had crept into her voice. "how do you feel about these things yourself?" holder inquired. "how do i feel? why, i have never thought about them very much--they were there, in the bible!" "you were taught to believe them?" "of course," she exclaimed, resenting what seemed a reflection on the gore orthodoxy. "do they in any manner affect your conduct?" "my conduct?" she repeated. "i don't know what you mean. i was brought up in the church, and mr. plimpton has always gone, and we are bringing up the children to go. is that what you mean?" "no," hodder answered, patiently, "that is not what i mean. i ask whether these stories in any way enter into your life, become part of you, and tend to make you a more useful woman?" "well--i have never considered them in that way," she replied, a little perplexed. "do you believe in them yourself?" "why--i don't know,--i've never thought. i don't suppose i do, absolutely--not in those i have mentioned." "and you think it right to teach things to your children which you do not yourself believe?" "how am i to decide?" she demanded. "first by finding out yourself what you do believe," he replied, with a touch of severity. "mr. hodder!" she cried in a scandalized voice, "do you mean to say that i, who have been brought up in this church, do not know what christianity is." he looked at her and shook his head. "you must begin by being honest with yourself," he went on, not heeding her shocked expression. "if you are really in earnest in this matter, i should be glad to help you all i can. but i warn you there is no achievement in the world more difficult than that of becoming a, christian. it means a conversion of your whole being something which you cannot now even imagine. it means a consuming desire which,--i fear,--in consideration of your present mode of life, will be difficult to acquire." "my present mode of life!" she gasped. "precisely," said the rector. he was silent, regarding, her. there was discernible not the slightest crack of crevice in the enamel of this woman's worldly armour. for the moment her outraged feelings were forgotten. the man had fascinated her. to be told, in this authoritative manner, that she was wicked was a new and delightful experience. it brought back to her the real motive of her visit, which had in reality been inspired not only by the sermon of the day before, but by sheer curiosity. "what would you have me do?" she demanded. "find yourself." "do you mean to say that i am not--myself?" she asked, now completely bewildered. "i mean to say that you are nobody until you achieve conviction." for charlotte plimpton, nee gore, to be told in her own city, by the rector of her own church that she was nobody was an event hitherto inconceivable! it was perhaps as extraordinary that she did not resent. it. curiosity still led her on. "conviction?" she repeated. "but i have conviction, mr. hodder. i believe in the doctrines of the church." "belief!" he exclaimed, and checked himself strongly. "conviction through feeling. not until then will you find what you were put in the world for." "but my husband--my children? i try to do my duty." "you must get a larger conception of it," hodder replied. "i suppose you mean," she declared, "that i am to spend the rest of my life in charity." "how you would spend the rest of your life would be revealed to you," said the rector. it was the weariness in his tone that piqued her now, the intimation that he did not believe in her sincerity--had not believed in it from the first. the life-long vanity of a woman used to be treated with consideration, to be taken seriously, was aroused. this extraordinary man had refused to enter into the details which she inquisitively craved. charlotte plimpton rose. "i shall not bother you any longer at present, mr. hodder," she said sweetly. "i know you must have, this morning especially, a great deal to trouble you." he met her scrutiny calmly. "it is only the things we permit to trouble us that do so, mrs. plimpton," he replied. "my own troubles have arisen largely from a lack of faith on the part of those whom i feel it is my duty to influence." it was then she delivered her parting shot, which she repeated, with much satisfaction, to her husband that evening. she had reached the door. "was there a special service at calvary yesterday?" she asked innocently, turning back. "not that i know of." "i wondered. mr. parr was there; i'm told--and he's never been known to desert st. john's except on the rarest occasions. but oh, mr. hodder, i must congratulate you on your influence with alison. when she has been out here before she never used to come to church at all." the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xxiii. the choice xxiv. the vestry meets xxv. "rise, crowned with light!" xxvi. the current of life chapter xxiii the choice i pondering over alison's note, he suddenly recalled and verified some phrases which had struck him that summer on reading harnack's celebrated history of dogma, and around these he framed his reply. "to act as if faith in eternal life and in the living christ was the simplest thing in the world, or a dogma to which one has to submit, is irreligious. . . it is christian to pray that god would give the spirit to make us strong to overcome the feelings and the doubts of nature. . . where this faith, obtained in this way, exists, it has always been supported by the conviction that the man lives who brought life and immortality to light. to hold fast this faith is the goal of life, for only what we consciously strive for is in this matter our own. what we think we possess is very soon lost." "the feelings and the doubts of nature!" the divine discontent, the striving against the doubt that every honest soul experiences and admits. thus the contrast between her and these others who accepted and went their several ways was brought home to him. he longed to talk to her, but his days were full. yet the very thought of her helped to bear him up as his trials, his problems accumulated; nor would he at any time have exchanged them for the former false peace which had been bought (he perceived more and more clearly) at the price of compromise. the worst of these trials, perhaps, was a conspicuous article in a newspaper containing a garbled account of his sermon and of the sensation it had produced amongst his fashionable parishioners. he had refused to see the reporter, but he had been made out a hero, a socialistic champion of the poor. the black headlines were nauseating; and beside them, in juxtaposition, were pen portraits of himself and of eldon parr. there were rumours that the banker had left the church until the recalcitrant rector should be driven out of it; the usual long list of mr. parr's benefactions was included, and certain veiled paragraphs concerning his financial operations. mr. ferguson, mr. plimpton, mr. constable, did not escape,--although they, too, had refused to be interviewed . . . . the article brought to the parish house a bevy of reporters who had to be fought off, and another batch of letters, many of them from ministers, in approval or condemnation. his fellow-clergymen called, some to express sympathy and encouragement, more of them to voice in person indignant and horrified protests. dr. annesley of calvary--a counterpart of whose rubicund face might have been found in the council of trent or in mediaeval fish-markets --pronounced his anathemas with his hands folded comfortably over his stomach, but eventually threw to the winds every vestige of his ecclesiastical dignity . . . . then there came a note from the old bishop, who was traveling. a kindly note, withal, if non-committal,--to the effect that he had received certain communications, but that his physician would not permit him to return for another ten days or so. he would then be glad to see mr. holder and talk with him. what would the bishop do? holder's relations with him had been more than friendly, but whether the bishop's views were sufficiently liberal to support him in the extreme stand he had taken he could not surmise. for it meant that the bishop, too, must enter into a conflict with the first layman of his diocese, of whose hospitality he had so often partaken, whose contributions had been on so lordly a scale. the bishop was in his seventieth year, and had hitherto successfully fought any attempt to supply him with an assistant,--coadjutor or suffragan. at such times the fear grew upon hodder that he might be recommended for trial, forced to abandon his fight to free the church from the fetters that bound her: that the implacable hostility of his enemies would rob him of his opportunity. thus ties were broken, many hard things were said and brought to his ears. there were vacancies in the classes and guilds, absences that pained him, silences that wrung him. . . . of all the conversations he held, that with mrs. constable was perhaps the most illuminating and distressing. as on that other occasion, when he had gone to her, this visit was under the seal of confession, unknown to her husband. and hodder had been taken aback, on seeing her enter his office, by the very tragedy in her face--the tragedy he had momentarily beheld once before. he drew up a chair for her, and when she had sat down she gazed at him some moments without speaking. "i had to come," she said; "there are some things i feel i must ask you. for i have been very miserable since i heard you on sunday." he nodded gently. "i knew that you would change your views--become broader, greater. you may remember that i predicted it." "yes," he said. "i thought you would grow more liberal, less bigoted, if you will allow me to say so. but i didn't anticipate--" she hesitated, and looked up at him again. "that i would take the extreme position i have taken," he assisted her. "oh, mr. hodder," she cried impulsively, "was it necessary to go so far? and all at once. i am here not only because i am miserable, but i am concerned on your account. you hurt me very much that day you came to me, but you made me your friend. and i wonder if you really understand the terrible, bitter feeling you have aroused, the powerful enemies you have made by speaking so--so unreservedly?" "i was prepared for it," he answered. "surely, mrs. constable, once i have arrived at what i believe to be the truth, you would not have me temporize?" she gave him a wan smile. "in one respect, at least, you have not changed," she told him. "i am afraid you are not the temporizing kind. but wasn't there,--mayn't there still be a way to deal with this fearful situation? you have made it very hard for us--for them. you have given them no loophole of escape. and there are many, like me, who do not wish to see your career ruined, mr. hodder." "would you prefer," he asked, "to see my soul destroyed? and your own?" her lips twitched. "isn't there any other way but that? can't this transformation, which you say is necessary and vital, come gradually? you carried me away as i listened to you, i was not myself when i came out of the church. but i have been thinking ever since. consider my husband, mr. hodder," her voice faltered. "i shall not mince matters with you--i know you will not pretend to misunderstand me. i have never seen him so upset since since that time gertrude was married. he is in a most cruel position. i confessed to you once that mr. parr had made for us all the money we possess. everett is fond of you, but if he espouses your cause, on the vestry, we shall be ruined." hodder was greatly moved. "it is not my cause, mrs. constable," he said. "surely, christianity is not so harsh and uncompromising as that! and do you quite do justice to--to some of these men? there was no one to tell them the wrongs they were committing--if they were indeed wrongs. our civilization is far from perfect." "the church may have been remiss, mistaken," the rector replied. "but the christianity she has taught, adulterated though it were, has never condoned the acts which have become commonplace in modern finance. there must have been a time, in the life of every one of these men, when they had to take that first step against which their consciences revolted, when they realized that fraud and taking advantage of the ignorant and weak were wrong. they have deliberately preferred gratification in this life to spiritual development--if indeed they believe in any future whatsoever. for 'whosoever will save his life shall lose it' is as true to-day as it ever was. they have had their choice--they still have it." "i am to blame," she cried. "i drove my husband to it, i made him think of riches, it was i who cultivated mr. parr. and oh, i suppose i am justly punished. i have never been happy for one instant since that day." he watched her, pityingly, as she wept. but presently she raised her face, wonderingly. "you do believe in the future life after--after what you have been through?" "i do," he answered simply. "yes--i am sure you do. it is that, what you are, convinces me you do. even the remarkable and sensible explanation you gave of it when you interpreted the parable of the talents is not so powerful as the impression that you yourself believe after thinking it out for yourself --not accepting the old explanations. and then," she added, with a note as of surprise, "you are willing to sacrifice everything for it!" "and you?" he asked. "cannot you, too, believe to that extent?" "everything?" she repeated. "it would mean--poverty. no--god help me --i cannot face it. i have become too hard. i cannot do without the world. and even if i could! oh, you cannot know what you ask everett, my husband--i must say it, you make me tell you everything--is not free. he is little better than a slave to eldon parr. i hate eldon parr," she added, with startling inconsequence. "if i had only known what it would lead to when i made everett what he is! but i knew nothing of business, and i wanted money, position to satisfy my craving at the loss of--that other thing. and now i couldn't change my husband if i would. he hasn't the courage, he hasn't the vision. what there was of him, long ago, has been killed--and i killed it. he isn't--anybody, now." she relapsed again into weeping. "and then it might not mean only poverty--it might mean disgrace." "disgrace!" the rector involuntarily took up the word. "there are some things he has done," she said in a low voice, "which he thought he was obliged to do which eldon parr made him do." "but mr. parr, too--?" hodder began. "oh, it was to shield eldon parr. they could never be traced to him. and if they ever came out, it would kill my husband. tell me," she implored, "what can i do? what shall i do? you are responsible. you have made me more bitterly unhappy than ever." "are you willing," he asked, after a moment, "to make the supreme renunciation? to face poverty, and perhaps disgrace, to save your soul and others?" "and--others?" "yes. your sacrifice would not, could not be in vain. otherwise i should be merely urging on you the individualism which you once advocated with me." "renunciation." she pronounced the word questioningly. "can christianity really mean that--renunciation of the world? must we take it in the drastic sense of the church of the early centuries-the church of the martyrs?" "christianity demands all of us, or nothing," he replied. "but the false interpretation of renunciation of the early church has cast its blight on christianity even to our day. oriental asceticism, stoicism, philo and other influences distorted christ's meaning. renunciation does not mean asceticism, retirement from the world, a denial of life. and the early christian, since he was not a citizen, since he took the view that this mortal existence was essentially bad and kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on another, was the victim at once of false philosophies and of the literal messianic prophecies of the jews, which were taken over with christianity. the earthly kingdom which was to come was to be the result of some kind of a cataclysm. personally, i believe our lord merely used the messianic literature as a convenient framework for his spiritual kingdom of heaven, and that the gospels misinterpret his meaning on this point. "renunciation is not the withdrawal from, the denial of life, but the fulfilment of life, the submission to the divine will and guidance in order that our work may be shown us. renunciation is the assumption, at once, of heavenly and earthly citizenship, of responsibility for ourselves and our fellow-men. it is the realization that the other world, the inner, spiritual world, is here, now, and that the soul may dwell in it before death, while the body and mind work for the coming of what may be called the collective kingdom. life looked upon in that way is not bad, but good,--not meaningless, but luminous." she had listened hungrily, her eyes fixed upon his face. "and for me?" she questioned. "for you," he answered, leaning forward and speaking with a conviction that shook her profoundly, "if you make the sacrifice of your present unhappiness, of your misery, all will be revealed. the labour which you have shirked, which is now hidden from you, will be disclosed, you will justify your existence by taking your place as an element of the community. you will be able to say of yourself, at last, 'i am of use.'" "you mean--social work?" the likeness of this to mrs. plimpton's question struck him. she had called it "charity." how far had they wandered in their teaching from the revelation of the master, since it was as new and incomprehensible to these so-called christians as to nicodemus himself! "all christian work is social, mrs. constable, but it is founded on love. 'thou shaft love thy neighbour as thyself.' you hold your own soul precious, since it is the shrine of god. and for that reason you hold equally precious your neighbour's soul. love comes first, as revelation, as imparted knowledge, as the divine gist of autonomy--self-government. and then one cannot help working, socially, at the task for which we are made by nature most efficient. and in order to discover what that task is, we must wait." "why did not some one tell me this, when i was young?" she asked--not speaking to him. "it seems so simple." "it is simple. the difficult thing is to put it into practice--the most difficult thing in the world. both courage and faith are required, faith that is content to trust as to the nature of the reward. it is the wisdom of foolishness. have you the courage?" she pressed her hands together. "alone--perhaps i should have. i don't know. but my husband! i was able to influence him to his destruction, and now i am powerless. darkness has closed around me. he would not--he will not listen to me." "you have tried?" "i have attempted to talk to him, but the whole of my life contradicts my words. he cannot see me except as, the woman who drove him into making money. sometimes i think he hates me." hodder recalled, as his eyes rested on her compassionately, the sufferings of that other woman in dalton street. "would you have me desert him--after all these years?" she whispered. "i often think he would be happier, even now." "i would have you do nothing save that which god himself will reveal to you. go home, go into the church and pray--pray for knowledge. i think you will find that you are held responsible for your husband. pray that that which you have broken, you may mend again." "do you think there is a chance?" hodder made a gesture. "god alone can judge as to the extent of his punishments." she got to her feet, wearily. "i feel no hope--i feel no courage, but--i will try. i see what you mean--that my punishment is my powerlessness." he bent his head. "you are so strong--perhaps you can help me." "i shall always be ready," he replied. he escorted her down the steps to the dark blue brougham with upstanding, chestnut horses which was waiting at the curb. but mrs. constable turned to the footman, who held open the door. "you may stay here awhile," she said to him, and gave hodder her hand.... she went into the church . . . . ii asa waring and his son-in-law, phil goodrich, had been to see hodder on the subject of the approaching vestry meeting, and both had gone away not a little astonished and impressed by the calmness with which the rector looked forward to the conflict. others of his parishioners, some of whom were more discreet in their expressions of sympathy, were no less surprised by his attitude; and even his theological adversaries, such as gordon atterbury, paid him a reluctant tribute. thanks, perhaps, to the newspaper comments as much as to any other factor, in the minds of those of all shades of opinion in the parish the issue had crystallized into a duel between the rector and eldon parr. bitterly as they resented the glare of publicity into which st. john's had been dragged, the first layman of the diocese was not beloved; and the fairer-minded of hodder's opponents, though appalled, were forced to admit in their hearts that the methods by which mr. parr had made his fortune and gained his ascendency would not bear scrutiny . . . . some of them were disturbed, indeed, by the discovery that there had come about in them, by imperceptible degrees, in the last few years a new and critical attitude towards the ways of modern finance: moat of them had an uncomfortable feeling that hodder was somehow right,--a feeling which they sought to stifle when they reflected upon the consequences of facing it. for this would mean a disagreeable shaking up of their own lives. few of them were in a position whence they might cast stones at eldon parr . . . . what these did not grasp was the fact that that which they felt stirring within them was the new and spiritual product of the dawning twentieth century--the social conscience. they wished heartily that the new rector who had developed this disquieting personality would peacefully resign and leave them to the former, even tenor of their lives. they did not for one moment doubt the outcome of his struggle with eldon parr. the great banker was known to be relentless, his name was synonymous with victory. and yet, paradoxically, hodder compelled their inner sympathy and admiration! . . . some of them, who did not attempt peremptorily to choke the a processes made the startling discovery that they were not, after all, so shocked by his doctrines as they had at first supposed. the trouble was that they could not continue to listen to him, as formerly, with comfort.... one thing was certain, that they had never expected to look forward to a vestry meeting with such breathless interest and anxiety. this clergyman had suddenly accomplished the surprising feat of reviving the church as a burning, vital factor in the life of the community! he had discerned her enemy, and defied his power . . . . as for hodder, so absorbed had he been by his experiences, so wrung by the human contacts, the personal problems which he had sought to enter, that he had actually given no thought to the battle before him until the autumn afternoon, heavy with smoke, had settled down into darkness. the weather was damp and cold, and he sat musing on the ordeal now abruptly confronting him before his study fire when he heard a step behind him. he turned to recognize, by the glow of the embers, the heavy figure of nelson langmaid. "i hope i'm not disturbing you, hodder," he said. "the janitor said you were in, and your door is open." "not at all," replied the rector, rising. as he stood for a moment facing the lawyer, the thought of their friendship, and how it had begun in the little rectory overlooking the lake at bremerton, was uppermost in his mind,--yes, and the memory of many friendly, literary discussions in the same room where they now stood, of pleasant dinners at langmaid's house in the west end, when the two of them had often sat talking until late into the nights. "i must seem very inhospitable," said hodder. "i'll light the lamp--it's pleasanter than the electric light." the added illumination at first revealed the lawyer in his familiar aspect, the broad shoulders, the big, reddish beard, the dome-like head, --the generous person that seemed to radiate scholarly benignity, peace, and good-will. but almost instantly the rector became aware of a new and troubled, puzzled glance from behind the round spectacles. . ." "i thought i'd drop in a moment on my way up town--" he began. and the note of uncertainty in his voice, too, was new. hodder drew towards the fire the big chair in which it had been langmaid's wont to sit, and perhaps it was the sight of this operation that loosed the lawyer's tongue. "confound it, hodder!" he exclaimed, "i like you--i always have liked you. and you've got a hundred times the ability of the average clergyman. why in the world did you have to go and make all this trouble?" by so characteristic a remark hodder was both amused and moved. it revealed so perfectly the point of view and predicament of the lawyer, and it was also an expression of an affection which the rector cordially, returned . . . . before answering, he placed his visitor in the chair, and the deliberation of the act was a revelation of the unconscious poise of the clergyman. the spectacle of this self-command on the brink of such a crucial event as the vestry meeting had taken langmaid aback more than he cared to show. he had lost the old sense of comradeship, of easy equality; and he had the odd feeling of dealing with a new man, at once familiar and unfamiliar, who had somehow lifted himself out of the everyday element in which they heretofore had met. the clergyman had contrived to step out of his, langmaid's, experience: had actually set him--who all his life had known no difficulty in dealing with men--to groping for a medium of communication . . . . hodder sat down on the other side of the fireplace. he, too, seemed to be striving for a common footing. "it was a question of proclaiming the truth when at last i came to see it, langmaid. i could not help doing what i did. matters of policy, of a false consideration for individuals could not enter into it. if this were not so, i should gladly admit that you had a just grievance, a peculiar right to demand why i had not remained the strictly orthodox person whom you induced to come here. you had every reason to congratulate yourself that you were getting what you doubtless would call a safe man." "i'll admit i had a twinge of uneasiness after i came home," langmaid confessed. hodder smiled at his frankness. "but that disappeared." "yes, it disappeared. you seemed to suit 'em so perfectly. i'll own up, hodder, that i was a little hurt that you did not come and talk to me just before you took the extraordinary--before you changed your opinions." "would it have done any good?" asked the rector, gently. "would you have agreed with me any better than you do now? i am perfectly willing, if you wish, to discuss with you any views of mine which you may not indorse. and it would make me very happy, i assure you, if i could bring you to look upon the matter as i do." this was a poser. and whether it were ingenuous, or had in it an element of the scriptural wisdom of the serpent, langmaid could not have said. as a lawyer, he admired it. "i wasn't in church, as usual,--i didn't hear the sermon," he replied. "and i never could make head or tail of theology--i always told you that. what i deplore, hodder, is that you've contrived to make a hornets' nest out of the most peaceful and contented congregation in america. couldn't you have managed to stick to religion instead of getting mixed up with socialism?" "so you have been given the idea that my sermon was socialistic?" the rector said. "socialistic and heretical,--it seems. of course i'm not much of an authority on heresy, but they claim that you went out of your way to knock some of their most cherished and sacred beliefs in the head." "but suppose i have come to the honest conclusion that in the first place these so-called cherished beliefs have no foundation in fact, and no influence on the lives of the persons who cherished them, no real connection with christianity? what would you have me do, as a man? continue to preach them for the sake of the lethargic peace of which you speak? leave the church paralyzed, as i found it?" "paralyzed! you've got the most influential people in the city." hodder regarded him for a while without replying. "so has the willesden club," he said. langmaid laughed a little, uncomfortably. "if christianity, as one of the ancient popes is said to have remarked, were merely a profitable fable," the rector continued, "there might be something in your contention that st. john's, as a church, had reached the pinnacle of success. but let us ignore the spiritual side of this matter as non-vital, and consider it from the practical side. we have the most influential people in the city, but we have not their children. that does not promise well for the future. the children get more profit out of the country clubs. and then there is another question: is it going to continue to be profitable? is it as profitable now as it was, say, twenty years ago? "you've got out of my depth," said nelson langmaid. "i'll try to explain. as a man of affairs, i think you will admit, if you reflect, that the return of st. john's, considering the large amount of money invested, is scarcely worth considering. and i am surprised that as astute a man as mr. pair has not been able to see this long ago. if we clear all the cobwebs away, what is the real function of this church as at present constituted? why this heavy expenditure to maintain religious services for a handful of people? is it not, when we come down to facts, an increasingly futile effort to bring the influences of religion--of superstition, if you will--to bear on the so-called lower classes in order that they may remain contented with their lot, with that station and condition in the world where--it is argued--it has pleased god to call them? if that were not so, in my opinion there are very few of the privileged classes who would invest a dollar in the church. and the proof of it is that the moment a clergyman raises his voice to proclaim the true message of christianity they are up in arms with the cry of socialism. they have the sense to see that their privileges are immediately threatened. "looking at it from the financial side, it would be cheaper for them to close up their churches. it is a mere waste of time and money, because the influence on their less fortunate brethren in a worldly sense has dwindled to nothing. few of the poor come near their churches in these days. the profitable fable is almost played out." hodder had spoken without bitterness, yet his irony was by no means lost on the lawyer. langmaid, if the truth be told, found himself for the moment in the unusual predicament of being at a loss, for the rector had put forward with more or less precision the very cynical view which he himself had been clever enough to evolve. "haven't they the right," he asked, somewhat lamely to demand the kind of religion they pay for?" "provided you don't call it religion," said the rector. langmaid smiled in spite of himself. "see here, hodder," he said, "i've always confessed frankly that i knew little or nothing about religion. i've come here this evening as your friend, without authority from anybody," he added significantly, "to see if this thing couldn't somehow be adjusted peaceably, for your sake as well as others'. come, you must admit there's a grain of justice in the contention against you. when i went on to bremerton to get you i had no real reason for supposing that these views would develop. i made a contract with you in all good faith." "and i with you," answered the rector. "perhaps you do not realize, langmaid, what has been the chief factor in developing these views." the lawyer was silent, from caution. "i must be frank with you. it was the discovery that mr. parr and others of my chief parishioners were so far from being christians as to indulge, while they supported the church of christ, in operations like that of the consolidated tractions company, wronging their fellow-men and condemning them to misery and hate. and that you, as a lawyer, used your talents to make that operation possible." "hold on!" cried langmaid, now plainly agitated. "you have no right--you can know nothing of that affair. you do not understand business." "i'm afraid," replied the rector, sadly, "that i understand one side of it only too well." "the church has no right to meddle outside of her sphere, to dictate to politics and business." "her sphere," said holder,--is the world. if she does not change the world by sending out christians into it, she would better close her doors." "well, i don't intend to quarrel with you, holder. i suppose it can't be helped that we look at these things differently, and i don't intend to enter into a defence of business. it would take too long, and it wouldn't help any." he got to his feet. "whatever happens, it won't interfere with our personal friendship, even if you think me a highwayman and i think you a--" "a fanatic," holder supplied. he had risen, too, and stood, with a smile on his face, gazing at the lawyer with an odd scrutiny. "an idealist, i was going to say," langmaid answered, returning the smile, "i'll admit that we need them in the world. it's only when one of them gets in the gear-box . . . ." the rector laughed. and thus they stood, facing each other. "langmaid," holder asked, "don't you ever get tired and disgusted with the juggernaut car?" the big lawyer continued to smile, but a sheepish, almost boyish expression came over his face. he had not credited the clergyman with so much astuteness. "business, nowadays, is--business, holder. the juggernaut car claims us all. it has become-if you will permit me to continue to put my similes into slang--the modern band wagon. and we lawyers have to get on it, or fall by the wayside." holder stared into the fire. "i appreciate your motive in coming here," he said, at length, "and i do you the justice of believing it was friendly, that the fact that you are, in a way, responsible for me to--to the congregation of st. john's did not enter into it. i realize that i have made matters particularly awkward for you. you have given them in me, and in good faith, something they didn't bargain for. you haven't said so, but you want me to resign. on the one hand, you don't care to see me tilting at the windmills, or, better, drawing down on my head the thunderbolts of your gods. on the other hand, you are just a little afraid for your gods. if the question in dispute were merely an academic one, i'd accommodate you at once. but i can't. i've thought it all out, and i have made up my mind that it is my clear duty to remain here and, if i am strong enough, wrest this church from the grip of eldon parr and the men whom he controls. "i am speaking plainly, and i understand the situation thoroughly. you will probably tell me, as others have done, that no one has ever opposed eldon parr who has not been crushed. i go in with my eyes open, i am willing to be crushed, if necessary. you have come here to warn me, and i appreciate your motive. now i am going to warn you, in all sincerity and friendship. i may be beaten, i may be driven out. but the victory will be mine nevertheless. eldon parr and the men who stand with him in the struggle will never recover from the blow i shall give them. i shall leave them crippled because i have the truth on my side, and the truth is irresistible. and they shall not be able to injure me permanently. and you, i regret deeply to say, will be hurt, too. i beg you, for no selfish reason, to consider again the part you intend to play in this affair." such was the conviction, such the unlooked-for fire with which the rector spoke that langmaid was visibly shaken and taken aback in spite of himself. "do you mean," he demanded, when he had caught his breath, "that you intend to attack us publicly?" "is that the only punishment you can conceive of?" the rector asked. the reproach in his voice was in itself a denial. "i beg your pardon, hodder," said the lawyer, quickly. "and i am sure you honestly believe what you say, but--" "in your heart you, too, believe it, langmaid. the retribution has already begun. nevertheless you will go on--for a while." he held out his hand, which langmaid took mechanically. "i bear you no ill-will. i am sorry that you cannot yet see with sufficient clearness to save yourself." langmaid turned and picked up his hat and stick and left the room without another word. the bewildered, wistful look which had replaced the ordinarily benign and cheerful expression haunted hodder long after the lawyer had gone. it was the look of a man who has somehow lost his consciousness of power. chapter xxiv the vestry meets at nine o'clock that evening hodder stood alone in the arched vestry room, and the sight of the heavy gothic chairs ranged about the long table brought up memories of comfortable, genial meetings prolonged by chat and banter.... the noise of feet, of subdued voices beside the coat room in the corridor, aroused him. all of the vestry would seem to have arrived at once. he regarded them with a detached curiosity as they entered, reading them with a new insight. the trace of off-handedness in mr. plimpton's former cordiality was not lost upon him--an intimation that his star had set. mr. plimpton had seen many breaches healed--had healed many himself. but he had never been known as a champion of lost causes. "well, here we are, mr. hodder, on the stroke," he remarked. "as a vestry, i think we're entitled to the first prize for promptness. how about it, everett?" everett constable was silent. "good evening, mr. hodder," he said. he did not offer to shake hands, as mr. plimpton had done, but sat down at the far end of the table. he looked tired and worn; sick, the rector thought, and felt a sudden swelling of compassion for the pompous little man whose fibre was not as tough as that of these other condottieri: as francis ferguson's, for instance, although his soft hand and pink and white face framed in the black whiskers would seem to belie any fibre whatever. gordon atterbury hemmed and hawed,--"ah, mr. hodder," and seated himself beside mr. constable, in a chair designed to accommodate a portly bishop. both of them started nervously as asa waring, holding his head high, as a man should who has kept his birthright, went directly to the rector. "i'm glad to see you, mr. hodder," he said, and turning defiantly, surveyed the room. there was an awkward silence. mr. plimpton edged a little nearer. the decree might have gone forth for mr. hodder's destruction, but asa waring was a man whose displeasure was not to be lightly incurred. "what's this i hear about your moving out of hamilton place, mr. waring? you'd better come up and take the spaulding lot, in waverley, across from us." "i am an old man, mr. plimpton," asa waring replied. "i do not move as easily as some other people in these days." everett constable produced his handkerchief and rubbed his nose violently. but mr. plimpton was apparently undaunted. "i have always said," he observed, "that there was something very fine in your sticking to that neighbourhood after your friends had gone. here's phil!" phil goodrich looked positively belligerent, and as he took his stand on the other side of hodder his father-in-law smiled at him grimly. mr. goodrich took hold of the rector's arm. "i missed one or two meetings last spring, mr. hodder," he said, "but i'm going to be on hand after this. my father, i believe, never missed a vestry meeting in his life. perhaps that was because they used to hold most of 'em at his house." "and serve port and cigars, i'm told," mr. plimpton put in. "that was an inducement, wallis, i'll admit," answered phil. "but there are even greater inducements now." in view of phil goodrich's well-known liking for a fight, this was too pointed to admit of a reply, but mr. plimpton was spared the attempt by the entrance of. nelson langmaid. the lawyer, as he greeted them, seemed to be preoccupied, nor did he seek to relieve the tension with his customary joke. a few moments of silence followed, when eldon parr was seen to be standing in the doorway, surveying them. "good evening, gentlemen," he said coldly, and without more ado went to his customary chair, and sat down in it. immediately followed a scraping of other chairs. there was a dominating quality about the man not to be gainsaid. the rector called the meeting to order . . . . during the routine business none of the little asides occurred which produce laughter. every man in the room was aware of the intensity of eldon parr's animosity, and yet he betrayed it neither by voice, look, or gesture. there was something uncanny in this self-control, this sang froid with which he was wont to sit at boards waiting unmoved for the time when he should draw his net about his enemies, and strangle them without pity. it got on langmaid's nerves--hardened as he was to it. he had seen many men in that net; some had struggled, some had taken their annihilation stoically; honest merchants, freebooters, and brigands. most of them had gone out, with their families, into that precarious border-land of existence in which the to-morrows are ever dreaded. yet here, somehow, was a different case. langmaid found himself going back to the days when his mother had taken him to church, and he could not bear to look at, hodder. since six o'clock that afternoon--had his companions but known it--he had passed through one of the worst periods of his existence. . . . after the regular business had been disposed of a brief interval was allowed, for the sake of decency, to ensue. that eldon parr would not lead the charge in person was a foregone conclusion. whom, then, would he put forward? for obvious reasons, not wallis plimpton or langmaid, nor francis ferguson. hodder found his, glance unconsciously fixed upon everett constable, who, moved nervously and slowly pushed back his chair. he was called upon, in this hour and in the church his father had helped to found, to make the supreme payment for the years of financial prosperity. although a little man, with his shoulders thrown back and his head high, he generally looked impressive when he spoke, and his fine features and clear-cut english contributed to the effect. but now his face was strained, and his voice seemed to lack command as he bowed and mentioned the rector's name. eldon parr sat back. "gentlemen," mr. constable began, "i feel it my duty to say something this evening, something that distresses me. like some of you who are here present, i have been on this vestry for many years, and my father was on it before me. i was brought up under dr. gilman, of whom i need not speak. all here, except our present rector, knew him. this church, st. john's, has been a part--a--large part--of my life. and anything that seems to touch its welfare, touches me. "when dr. gilman died, after so many years of faithful service, we faced a grave problem,--that of obtaining a young man of ability, an active man who would be able to assume the responsibilities of a large and growing parish, and at the same time carry on its traditions, precious to us all; one who believed in and preached, i need scarcely add, the accepted doctrines of the church, which we have been taught to think are sacred and necessary to salvation. and in the discovery of the reverend mr. hodder, we had reason to congratulate ourselves and the parish. he was all that we had hoped for, and more. his sermons were at once a pleasure and an instruction. "i wish to make it clear," he continued, "that in spite of the pain mr. hodder's words of last sunday have given me, i respect and honour him still, and wish him every success. but, gentlemen, i think it is plain to all of you that he has changed his religious convictions. as to the causes through which that change has come about, i do not pretend to know. to say the least, the transition is a startling one, one for which some of us were totally unprepared. to speak restrainedly, it was a shock--a shock which i shall remember as long as i live. "i need not go into the doctrinal question here, except to express my opinion that the fundamental facts of our religion were contradicted. and we have also to consider the effect of this preaching on coming generations for whom we are responsible. there are, no doubt, other fields for mr. hodder's usefulness. but i think it may safely be taken as a principle that this parish has the right to demand from the pulpit that orthodox teaching which suits it, and to which it has been accustomed. and i venture further to give it as my opinion--to put it mildly that others have been as disturbed and shocked as i. i have seen many, talked with many, since sunday. for these reasons, with much sorrow and regret, i venture to suggest to the vestry that mr. hodder resign as our rector. and i may add what i believe to be the feeling of all present, that we have nothing but good will for him, although we think we might have been informed of what he intended to do. "and that in requesting him to resign we are acting for his own good as well as our own, and are thus avoiding a situation which threatens to become impossible,--one which would bring serious reflection on him and calamity on the church. we already, in certain articles in the newspapers, have had an indication of the intolerable notoriety we may expect, although i hold mr. hodder innocent in regard to those articles. i am sure he will have the good sense to see this situation as i see it, as the majority of the parish see it." mr. constable sat down, breathing hard. he had not looked at the rector during the whole of his speech, nor at eldon parr. there was a heavy silence, and then philip goodrich rose, square, clean-cut, aggressive. "i, too, gentlemen, have had life-long association with this church," he began deliberately. "and for mr. hodder's sake i am going to give you a little of my personal history, because i think it typical of thousands of men of my age all over this country. it was nobody's fault, perhaps, that i was taught that the christian religion depended on a certain series of nature miracles and a chain of historical events, and when i went east to school i had more of this same sort of instruction. i have never, perhaps, been overburdened with intellect, but the time arrived nevertheless when i began to think for myself. some of the older boys went once, i remember, to the rector of the school--a dear old man--and frankly stated our troubles. to use a modern expression, he stood pat on everything. i do not say it was a consciously criminal act, he probably saw no way out himself. at any rate, he made us all agnostics at one stroke. "what i learned in college of science and history and philosophy merely confirmed me in my agnosticism. as a complete system for the making of atheists and materialists, i commend the education which i received. if there is any man here who believes religion to be an essential factor in life, i ask him to think of his children or grandchildren before he comes forward to the support of mr. constable. "in that sermon which he preached last sunday, mr. hodder, for the first time in my life, made christianity intelligible to me. i want him to know it. and there are other men and women in that congregation who feel as i do. gentlemen, there is nothing i would not give to have had christianity put before me in that simple and inspiring way when i was a boy. and in my opinion st. john's is more fortunate to-day than it ever has been in its existence. mr. hodder should have an unanimous testimonial of appreciation from this vestry for his courage. and if the vote requesting him to resign prevails, i venture to predict that there is not a man on this vestry who will not live to regret it." phil goodrich glared at eldon parr, who remained unmoved. "permit me to add," he said, "that this controversy, in other respects than doctrine, is more befitting to the middle ages than to the twentieth century, when this church and other denominations are passing resolutions in their national conventions with a view to unity and freedom of belief." mr. langmaid, mr. plimpton, and mr. constable sat still. mr. ferguson made no move. it was gordon atterbury who rushed into the breach, and proved that the extremists are allies of doubtful value. he had, apparently, not been idle since sunday, and was armed cap-a pie with time-worn arguments that need not be set down. all of which went to show that mr. goodrich had not referred to the middle ages in vain. for gordon atterbury was a born school-man. but he finished by declaring, at the end of twenty minutes (much as he regretted the necessity of saying it), that mr. hodder's continuance as rector would mean the ruin of the church in which all present took such a pride. that the great majority of its members would never submit to what was so plainly heresy. it was then that mr. plimpton gathered courage to pour oil on the waters. there was nothing, in his opinion, he remarked smilingly, in his function as peacemaker, to warrant anything but the most friendly interchange of views. he was second to none in his regard for mr. hodder, in his admiration for a man who had the courage of his convictions. he had not the least doubt that mr. hodder did not desire to remain in the parish when it was so apparent that the doctrines which he now preached were not acceptable to most of those who supported the church. and he added (with sublime magnanimity) that he wished mr. hodder the success which he was sure he deserved, and gave him every assurance of his friendship. asa waring was about to rise, when he perceived that hodder himself was on his feet. and the eyes of every man, save one, were fixed on him irresistibly. the rector seemed unaware of it. it was philip goodrich who remarked to his father-in-law, as they walked home afterwards, of the sense he had had at that moment that there were just two men in the room,--hodder and eldon parr. all the rest were ciphers; all had lost, momentarily, their feelings of partisanship and were conscious only of these two intense, radiating, opposing centres of force; and no man, oddly enough, could say which was the stronger. they seemingly met on equal terms. there could not be the slightest doubt that the rector did not mean to yield, and yet they might have been puzzled if they had asked themselves how they had read the fact in his face or manner. for he betrayed neither anger nor impatience. no more did the financier reveal his own feelings. he still sat back in his chair, unmoved, in apparent contemplation. the posture was familiar to langmaid. would he destroy, too, this clergyman? for the first time in his life, and as he looked at hodder, the lawyer wondered. hodder did not defend himself, made no apologies. christianity was not a collection of doctrines, he reminded them,--but a mode of life. if anything were clear to him, it was that the present situation was not, with the majority of them, a matter of doctrines, but of unwillingness to accept the message and precept of jesus christ, and lead christian lives. they had made use of the doctrines as a stalking-horse. there was a stir at this, and hodder paused a moment and glanced around the table. but no one interrupted. he was fully aware of his rights, and he had no intention of resigning. to resign would be to abandon the work for which he was responsible, not to them, but to god. and he was perfectly willing--nay, eager to defend his christianity before any ecclesiastical court, should the bishop decide that a court was necessary. the day of freedom, of a truer vision was at hand, the day of christian unity on the vital truths, and no better proof of it could be brought forward than the change in him. in his ignorance and blindness he had hitherto permitted compromise, but he would no longer allow those who made only an outward pretence of being christians to direct the spiritual affairs of st. john's, to say what should and what should not be preached. this was to continue to paralyze the usefulness of the church, to set at naught her mission, to alienate those who most had need of her, who hungered and thirsted after righteousness, and went away unsatisfied. he had hardly resumed his seat when everett constable got up again. he remarked, somewhat unsteadily, that to prolong the controversy would be useless and painful to all concerned, and he infinitely regretted the necessity of putting his suggestion that the rector resign in the form of a resolution . . . . the vote was taken. six men raised their hands in favour of his resignation--nelson langmaid among them: two, asa waring and philip goodrich, were against it. after announcing the result, hodder rose. "for the reason i have stated, gentlemen, i decline to resign," he said. "i stand upon my canonical rights." francis ferguson arose, his voice actually trembling with anger. there is something uncanny in the passion of a man whose life has been ordered by the inexorable rules of commerce, who has been wont to decide all questions from the standpoint of dollars and cents. if one of his own wax models had suddenly become animated, the effect could not have been more startling. in the course of this discussion, he declared, mr. hodder had seen fit to make grave and in his opinion unwarranted charges concerning the lives of some, if not all, of the gentlemen who sat here. it surprised him that these remarks had not been resented, but he praised a christian forbearance on the part of his colleagues which he was unable to achieve. he had no doubt that their object had been to spare mr. hodder's feelings as much as possible, but mr. hodder had shown no disposition to spare their own. he had outraged them, mr. ferguson thought,--wantonly so. he had made these preposterous and unchristian charges an excuse for his determination to remain in a position where his usefulness had ceased. no one, unfortunately, was perfect in this life,--not even mr. hodder. he, francis ferguson, was far from claiming to be so. but he believed that this arraignment of the men who stood highest in the city for decency, law, and order, who supported the church, who revered its doctrines, who tried to live christian lives, who gave their time and their money freely to it and to charities, that this arraignment was an arrogant accusation and affront to be repudiated. he demanded that mr. hodder be definite. if he had any charges to make, let him make them here and now. the consternation, the horror which succeeded such a stupid and unexpected tactical blunder on the part of the usually astute mr. ferguson were felt rather than visually discerned. the atmosphere might have been described as panicky. asa waring and phil goodrich smiled as wallis plimpton, after a moment's hush, scrambled to his feet, his face pale, his customary easiness and nonchalance now the result of an obvious effort. he, too, tried to smile, but swallowed instead as he remembered his property in dalton street . . . . nelson langmaid smiled, in spite of himself. . . mr. plimpton implored his fellow-members not to bring personalities into the debate, and he was aware all the while of the curious, pitying expression of the rector. he breathed a sigh of relief at the opening words of hodder, who followed him. "gentlemen," he said, "i have no intention of being personal, even by unanimous consent. but if mr. ferguson will come to me after this meeting i shall have not the least objection to discussing this matter with him in so far as he himself is concerned. i can only assure you now that i have not spoken without warrant." there was, oddly enough, no acceptance of this offer by mr. ferguson. another silence ensued, broken, at last, by a voice for which they had all been unconsciously waiting; a voice which, though unemotional, cold, and matter-of-fact, was nevertheless commanding, and long accustomed to speak with an overwhelming authority. eldon parr did not rise. "mr. hodder," he said, "in one respect seems to be under the delusion that we are still in the middle ages, instead of the twentieth century, since he assumes the right to meddle with the lives of his parishioners, to be the sole judge of their actions. that assumption will not, be tolerated by free men. i, for one, gentlemen, do not, propose to have a socialist for the rector of the church which i attend and support. and i maintain the privilege of an american citizen to set my own standards, within the law, and to be the sole arbitrar of those standards." "good!" muttered gordon atterbury. langmaid moved uncomfortably. "i shall not waste words," the financier continued. "there is in my mind no question that we are justified in demanding from our rector the christian doctrines to which we have given our assent, and which are stated in the creeds. that they shall be subject to the whims of the rector is beyond argument. i do not pretend to, understand either, gentlemen, the nature of the extraordinary change that has taken place in the rector of st. john's. i am not well versed m psychology. i am incapable of flights myself. one effect of this change is an attitude on which reasonable considerations would seem to have no effect. "our resources, fortunately, are not yet at an end. it has been my hope, on account of my former friendship with mr. hodder, that an ecclesiastical trial might not be necessary. it now seems inevitable. in the meantime, since mr. hodder has seen fit to remain in spite of our protest, i do not intend to enter this church. i was prepared, gentlemen, as some of you no doubt know, to spend a considerable sum in adding to the beauty of st. john's and to the charitable activities of the parish. mr. hodder has not disapproved of my gifts in the past, but owing to his present scruples concerning my worthiness, i naturally hesitate to press the matter now." mr. parr indulged in the semblance of a smile. "i fear that he must take the responsibility of delaying this benefit, with the other responsibilities he has assumed." his voice changed. it became sharper. "in short, i propose to withhold all contributions for whatever purpose from this church while mr. hodder is rector, and i advise those of you who have voted for his resignation to do the same. in the meantime, i shall give my money to calvary, and attend its services. and i shall offer further a resolution--which i am informed is within our right--to discontinue mr. hodder's salary." there was that in the unparalleled audacity of eldon parr that compelled hodder's unwilling admiration. he sat gazing at the financier during this speech, speculating curiously on the inner consciousness of the man who could utter it. was it possible that he had no sense of guilt? even so, he had shown a remarkable astuteness in relying on the conviction that he (hodder) would not betray what he knew. he was suddenly aware that asa waring was standing beside him. "gentlemen," said mr. waring, "i have listened to this discussion as long as i can bear it with patience. had i been told of it, i should have thought it incredible that the methods of the money changers should be applied to the direction and control of the house of god. in my opinion there is but one word which is suitable for what has passed here to-night, and the word is persecution. perhaps i have lived too long i have lived to see honourable, upright men deprived of what was rightfully theirs, driven from their livelihood by the rapacity of those who strive to concentrate the wealth and power of the nation into their hands. i have seen this power gathering strength, stretching its arm little by little over the institutions i fought to preserve, and which i cherish over our politics, over our government, yes, and even over our courts. i have seen it poisoning the business honour in which we formerly took such a pride, i have seen it reestablishing a slavery more pernicious than that which millions died to efface. i have seen it compel a subservience which makes me ashamed, as an american, to witness." his glance, a withering moral scorn, darted from under the grizzled eyebrows and alighted on one man after another, and none met it. everett constable coughed, wallis plimpton shifted his position, the others sat like stones. asa waring was giving vent at last to the pent-up feelings of many years. "and now that power, which respects nothing, has crept into the sanctuary of the church. our rector recognizes it, i recognize it,--there is not a man here who, in his heart, misunderstands me. and when a man is found who has the courage to stand up against it, i honour him with all my soul, and a hope that was almost dead revives in me. for there is one force, and one force alone, able to overcome the power of which i speak, --the spirit of christ. and the mission of the church is to disseminate that spirit. the church is the champion on which we have to rely, or give up all hope of victory. the church must train the recruits. and if the church herself is betrayed into the hands of the enemy, the battle is lost. "if mr. hodder is forced out of this church, it would be better to lock the doors. st. john's will be held up, and rightfully, to the scorn of the city. all the money in the world will not save her. though crippled, she has survived one disgrace, when she would not give free shelter to the man who above all others expressed her true spirit, when she drove horace bentley from her doors after he had been deprived of the fortune which he was spending for his fellow-men. she will not survive another. "i have no doubt mr. parr's motion to take from mr. hodder his living will go through. and still i urge him not to resign. i am not a rich man, even when such property as i have is compared to moderate fortunes of these days, but i would pay his salary willingly out of my own pocket rather than see him go . . . . "i call the attention of the chairman," said eldon parr, after a certain interval in which no one had ventured to speak, "to the motion before the vestry relating to the discontinuance of mr. hodder's salary." it was then that the unexpected happened. gordon atterbury redeemed himself. his respect for mr. waring, he said, made him hesitate to take issue with him. he could speak for himself and for a number of people in the congregation when he reiterated his opinion that they were honestly shocked at what mr. hodder had preached, and that this was his sole motive in requesting mr. hodder to resign. he thought, under the circumstances, that this was a matter which might safely be left with the bishop. he would not vote to deprive mr. hodder of his salary. the motion was carried by a vote of five to three. for eldon parr well knew that his will needed no reenforcement by argument. and this much was to be said for him, that after he had entered a battle he never hesitated, never under any circumstances reconsidered the probable effect of his course. as for the others, those who had supported him, they were cast in a less heroic mould. even francis ferguson. as between the devil and the deep sea, he was compelled, with as good a grace as possible, to choose the devil. he was utterly unable to contemplate the disaster which might ensue if certain financial ties, which were thicker than cables, were snapped. but his affection for the devil was not increased by thus being led into a charge from which he would willingly have drawn back. asa waring might mean nothing to eldon parr, but he meant a great deal to francis ferguson, who had by no means forgotten his sensations of satisfaction when mrs. waring had made her first call in park street on francis ferguson's wife. he left the room in such a state of absent-mindedness as actually to pass mr. parr in the corridor without speaking to him. the case of wallis plimpton was even worse. he had married the gores, but he had sought to bind himself with hoops of steel to the warings. he had always secretly admired that old roman quality (which the goodriches --their connections--shared) of holding fast to their course unmindful and rather scornful of influence which swayed their neighbours. the clan was sufficient unto itself, satisfied with a moderate prosperity and a continually increasing number of descendants. the name was unstained. such are the strange incongruities in the hearts of men, that few realized the extent to which wallis plimpton had partaken of the general hero-worship of phil goodrich. he had assiduously cultivated his regard, at times discreetly boasted of it, and yet had never been sure of it. and now fate, in the form of his master, eldon parr had ironically compelled him at one stroke to undo the work of years. as soon as the meeting broke up, he crossed the room. "i can't tell you how much i regret this, phil," he said. "charlotte has very strong convictions, you know, and so have i. you can understand, i am sure, how certain articles of belief might be necessary to one person, and not to another." "yes," said phil, "i can understand. we needn't mention the articles, wallis." and he turned his back. he never knew the pain he inflicted. wallis plimpton looked at the rector, who stood talking to mr. waring, and for the first time in his life recoiled from an overture. something in the faces of both men warned him away. even everett constable, as they went home in the cars together, was brief with him, and passed no comments when mr. plimpton recovered sufficiently to elaborate on the justification of their act, and upon the extraordinary stand taken by phil goodrich and mr. waring. "they might have told us what they were going to do." everett constable eyed him. "would it have made any difference, plimpton?" he demanded. after that they rode in silence, until they came to a certain west end corner, where they both descended. little mr. constable's sensations were, if anything, less enviable, and he had not mr. plimpton's recuperative powers. he had sold that night, for a mess of pottage, the friendship and respect of three generations. and he had fought, for pay, against his own people. and lastly, there was langmaid, whose feelings almost defy analysis. he chose to walk through the still night the four miles--that separated him from his home. and he went back over the years of his life until he found, in the rubbish of the past, a forgotten and tarnished jewel. the discovery pained him. for that jewel was the ideal he had carried away, as a youth, from the old law school at the bottom of hamilton place, --a gift from no less a man than the great lawyer and public-spirited citizen, judge henry goodrich--philip goodrich's grandfather, whose seated statue marked the entrance of the library. he, nelson langmaid, --had gone forth from that school resolved to follow in the footsteps of that man,--but somehow he missed the path. somehow the jewel had lost its fire. there had come a tempting offer, and a struggle--just one: a readjustment on the plea that the world had changed since the days of judge goodrich, whose uncompromising figure had begun to fade: an exciting discovery that he, nelson langmaid, possessed the gift of drawing up agreements which had the faculty of passing magically through the meshes of the statutes. affluence had followed, and fame, and even that high office which the judge himself had held, the presidency of the state bar association. in all that time, one remark, which he had tried to forget, had cut him to the quick. bedloe hubbell had said on the political platform that langmaid got one hundred thousand dollars a year for keeping eldon parr out of jail. once he stopped in the street, his mind suddenly going back to the action of the financier at the vestry meeting. "confound him!" he said aloud, "he has been a fool for once. i told him not to do it." he stood at last in the ample vestibule of his house, singling out his latch-key, when suddenly the door opened, and his daughter helen appeared. "oh, dad," she cried, "why are you so-late? i've been watching for you. i know you've let mr. hodder stay." she gazed at him with widened eyes. "don't tell me that you've made him resign. i can't--i won't believe it." "he isn't going to resign, helen," langmaid replied, in an odd voice. "he--he refused to." chapter xxv "rise, crowned with light!" i the church of st. john's, after a peaceful existence of so many years, had suddenly become the stage on which rapid and bewildering dramas were played: the storm-centre of chaotic forces, hitherto unperceived, drawn from the atmosphere around her. for there had been more publicity, more advertising. "the rector of st. john's will not talk"--such had been one headline: neither would the vestry talk. and yet, despite all this secrecy, the whole story of the suspension of hodder's salary was in print, and an editorial (which was sent to him) from a popular and sensational journal, on "tainted money," in which hodder was held up to the public as a martyr because he refused any longer to accept for the church ill-gotten gains from consolidated tractions and the like. this had opened again the floodgates of the mails, and it seemed as though every person who had a real or fancied grievance against eldon parr had written him. nor did others of his congregation escape. the press of visitors at the parish house suddenly increased once more, men and women came to pour into his ears an appalling aeries of confessions; wrongs which, like garvin's, had engendered bitter hatreds; woes, temptations, bewilderments. hodder strove to keep his feet, sought wisdom to deal patiently with all, though at times he was tried to the uttermost. and he held steadfastly before his mind the great thing, that they did come. it was what he had longed for, prayed for, despaired of. he was no longer crying in the empty wilderness, but at last in touch-in natural touch with life: with life in all its sorrow, its crudity and horror. he had contrived, by the grace of god, to make the connection for his church. that church might have been likened to a ship sailing out of the snug harbour in which she had lain so long to range herself gallantly beside those whom she had formerly beheld, with complacent cowardice, fighting her fight: young men and women, enlisted under other banners than her own, doing their part in the battle of the twentieth century for humanity. her rector was her captain. it was he who had cut her cables, quelled, for a time at least, her mutineers; and sought to hearten those of her little crew who wavered, who shrank back appalled as they realized something of the immensity of the conflict in which her destiny was to be wrought out. to carry on the figure, philip goodrich might have been deemed her first officer. he, at least, was not appalled, but grimly conscious of the greatness of the task to which they had set their hands. the sudden transformation of conservative st. john's was no more amazing than that of the son of a family which had never been without influence in the community. but that influence had always been conservative. and phil goodrich had hitherto taken but a listless interest in the church of his fathers. fortune had smiled upon him, trusts had come to him unsought. he had inherited the family talent for the law, the freedom to practise when and where he chose. his love of active sport had led him into many vacations, when he tramped through marsh and thicket after game, and at five and forty there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his hard body. in spite of his plain speaking, an overwhelming popularity at college had followed him to his native place, and no organization, sporting or serious, was formed in the city that the question was not asked, "what does goodrich think about it?" his whole-souled enlistment in the cause of what was regarded as radical religion became, therefore, the subject of amazed comment in the many clubs he now neglected. the "squabble" in st. john's, as it was generally referred to, had been aired in the press, but such was the magic in a name made without conscious effort that phil goodrich's participation in the struggle had a palpably disarming effect: and there were not a few men who commonly spent their sunday mornings behind plate-glass windows, surrounded by newspapers, as well as some in the athletic club (whose contests mr. goodrich sometimes refereed) who went to st. john's out of curiosity and who waited, afterwards, for an interview with phil or the rector. the remark of one of these was typical of others. he had never taken much stock in religion, but if goodrich went in for it he thought he'd go and look it over. scarcely a day passed that phil did not drop in at the parish house.... and he set himself, with all the vigour of an unsquandered manhood, to help hodder to solve the multitude of new problems by which they were beset. a free church was a magnificent ideal, but how was it to be carried on without an eldon parr, a ferguson, a constable, a mrs. larrabbee, or a gore who would make up the deficit at the end of the year? could weekly contributions, on the envelope system, be relied upon, provided the people continued to come and fill the pews of absent and outraged parishioners? the music was the most expensive in the city, although mr. taylor, the organist, had come to the rector and offered to cut his salary in half, and to leave that in abeyance until the finances could be adjusted. and his example had been followed by some of the high-paid men in the choir. others had offered to sing without pay. and there were the expenses of the parish house, an alarming sum now eldon parr had withdrawn: the salaries of the assistants. hodder, who had saved a certain sum in past years, would take nothing for the present . . . . asa waring and phil goodrich borrowed on their own responsibility . . . ii something of the overwhelming nature of the forces hodder had summoned was visibly apparent on that first sunday after what many had called his apostasy. instead of the orderly, sprucely-dressed groups of people which were wont to linger in greetings before the doors of st. john's, a motley crowd thronged the pavement and streamed into the church, pressing up the aisles and invading the sacred precincts where decorous parishioners had for so many years knelt in comfort and seclusion. the familiar figure of gordon atterbury was nowhere to be seen, and the atterbury pew was occupied by shop-girls in gaudy hats. eldon parr's pew was filled, everett constable's, wallis plimpton's; and the ushers who had hastily been mustered were awestricken and powerless. such a resistless invasion by the hordes of the unknown might well have struck with terror some of those who hitherto had had the courage to standup loyally in the rector's support. it had a distinct flavour of revolution: contained, for some, a grim suggestion of a time when that vague, irresponsible, and restless monster, the mob, would rise in its might and brutally and inexorably take possession of all property. alison had met eleanor goodrich in burton street, and as the two made their way into the crowded vestibule they encountered martha preston, whose husband was alison's cousin, in the act of flight. "you're not going in!" she exclaimed. "of course we are." mrs. preston stared at alison in amazement. "i didn't know you were still here," she said, irrelevantly. "i'm pretty liberal, my dear, as you know,--but this is more than i can stand. look at them!" she drew up her skirts as a woman brushed against her. "i believe in the poor coming to church, and all that, but this is mere vulgar curiosity, the result of all that odious advertising in the newspapers. my pew is filled with them. if i had stayed, i should have fainted. i don't know what to think of mr. hodder." "mr. hodder is not to blame for the newspapers," replied alison, warmly. she glanced around her at the people pushing past, her eyes shining, her colour high, and there was the ring of passion in her voice which had do martha preston a peculiarly disquieting effect. "i think it's splendid that they are here at all! i don't care what brought them." mrs. preston stared again. she was a pretty, intelligent woman, at whose dinner table one was sure to hear the discussion of some "modern problem": she believed herself to be a socialist. her eyes sought eleanor goodrich's, who stood by, alight with excitement. "but surely you, eleanor-you're not going in! you'll never be able to stand it, even if you find a seat. the few people we know who've come are leaving. i just saw the allan pendletons." "have you seen phil?" eleanor asked. "oh, yes, he's in there, and even he's helpless. and as i came out poor mr. bradley was jammed up against the wall. he seemed perfectly stunned . . . ." at this moment they were thrust apart. eleanor quivered as she was carried through the swinging doors into the church. "i think you're right," she whispered to alison, "it is splendid. there's something about it that takes hold of me, that carries one away. it makes me wonder how it can be guided--what will come of it?" they caught sight of phil pushing his way towards them, and his face bore the set look of belligerency which eleanor knew so well, but he returned her smile. alison's heart warmed towards him. "what do you think of this?" he demanded. "most of our respectable friends who dared to come have left in a towering rage--to institute lawsuits, probably. at tiny rate, strangers are not being made to wait until ten minutes after the service begins. that's one barbarous custom abolished." "strangers seem to have taken matters in their own hands for once" eleanor smiled. "we've made up our minds to stay, phil, even if we have to stand." "that's the right spirit," declared her husband, glancing at alison, who had remained silent, with approval and by no means a concealed surprise. "i think i know of a place where i can squeeze you in, near professor bridges and sally, on the side aisle." "are george and sally here?" eleanor exclaimed. "hodder," said phil, "is converting the heathen. you couldn't have kept george away. and it was george who made sally stay!" presently they found themselves established between a rawboned young workingman who smelled strongly of soap, whose hair was plastered tightly against his forehead, and a young woman who leaned against the wall. the black in which she was dressed enhanced the whiteness and weariness of her face, and she sat gazing ahead of her, apparently unconscious of those who surrounded her, her hands tightly folded in her lap. in their immediate vicinity, indeed, might have been found all the variety of type seen in the ordinary street car. and in truth there were some who seemed scarcely to realize they were not in a public vehicle. an elaborately dressed female in front of them, whose expansive hat brushed her neighbours, made audible comments to a stout man with a red neck which was set in a crease above his low collar. "they tell me eldon parr's pew has a gold plate on it. i wish i knew which it was. it ain't this one, anyway, i'll bet." "say, they march in in this kind of a church, don't they?" some one said behind them. eleanor, with her lips tightly pressed, opened her prayer book. alison's lips were slightly parted as she gazed about her, across the aisle. her experience of the sunday before, deep and tense as it had been, seemed as nothing compared to this; the presence of all these people stimulated her inexpressibly, fired her; and she felt the blood pulsing through her body as she contrasted this gathering with the dignified, scattered congregation she had known. she scarcely recognized the church itself . . . she speculated on the homes from which these had come, and the motives which had brought them. for a second the perfume of the woman in front, mingling with other less definable odours, almost sickened her, evoking suggestions of tawdry, trivial, vulgar lives, fed on sensation and excitement; but the feeling was almost immediately swept away by a renewed sense of the bigness of the thing which she beheld,--of which, indeed, she was a part. and her thoughts turned more definitely to the man who had brought it all about. could he control it, subdue it? here was opportunity suddenly upon him, like a huge, curving, ponderous wave. could he ride it? or would it crush him remorselessly? sensitive, alert, quickened as she was, she began to be aware of other values: of the intense spiritual hunger in the eyes of the woman in black, the yearning of barren, hopeless existences. and here and there alison's look fell upon more prosperous individuals whose expressions proclaimed incredulity, a certain cynical amusement at the spectacle: others seemed uneasy, as having got more than they had bargained for, deliberating whether to flee . . . and then, just as her suspense was becoming almost unbearable, the service began. . . . how it had been accomplished, the thing she later felt, was beyond the range of intellectual analysis. nor could she have told how much later, since the passage of time had gone unnoticed. curiosities, doubts, passions, longings, antagonisms--all these seemed--as the most natural thing in the world--to have been fused into one common but ineffable emotion. such, at least, was the impression to which alison startlingly awoke. all the while she had been conscious of hodder, from the moment she had heard his voice in the chancel; but somehow this consciousness of him had melted, imperceptibly, into that of the great congregation, once divided against itself, which had now achieved unity of soul. the mystery as to how this had been effected was the more elusive when she considered the absence of all methods which might have been deemed revivalistic. few of those around her evinced a familiarity with the historic service. and then occurred to her his explanation of personality as the medium by which all truth is revealed, by which the current of religion, the motive power in all history, is transmitted. surely this was the explanation, if it might be called one! that tingling sense of a pervading spirit which was his,--and yet not his. he was the incandescent medium, and yet, paradoxically, gained in identity and individuality and was inseparable from the thing itself. she could not see him. a pillar hid the chancel from her view. the service, to which she had objected as archaic, became subordinate, spiritualized, dominated by the personality. hodder had departed from the usual custom by giving out the page of the psalter: and the verses, the throbbing responses which arose from every corner of the church, assumed a new significance, the vision of the ancient seer revived. one verse he read resounded with prophecy. "thou shalt deliver me from the strivings of the people: and thou shalt make me the head of the heathen." and the reply: "a people whom i have not known shall serve me." the working-man next to alison had no prayer-book. she thrust her own into his hand, and they read from it together . . . . when they came to the second hymn the woman in front of her had wonderfully shed her vulgarity. her voice--a really good one--poured itself out: "see a long race thy spacious courts adorn, see future sons, and daughters yet unborn, in crowding ranks on every side arise, demanding life, impatient for the skies." once alison would have been critical of the words she was beyond that, now. what did it matter, if the essential thing were present? the sermon was a surprise. and those who had come for excitement, for the sensation of hearing a denunciation of a class they envied and therefore hated, and nevertheless strove to imitate, were themselves rebuked. were not their standards the same? and if the standard were false, it followed inevitably that the life was false also. hodder fairly startled these out of their preconceived notions of christianity. let them shake out of their minds everything they had thought it to mean, churchgoing, acceptance of creed and dogma, contributive charity, withdrawal from the world, rites and ceremonies: it was none of these. the motive in the world to-day was the acquisition of property; the motive of christianity was absolutely and uncompromisingly opposed to this. shock their practical sense as it might, christianity looked forward with steadfast faith to a time when the incentive to amass property would be done away with, since it was a source of evil and a curse to mankind. if they would be christians, let them face that. let them enter into life, into the struggles going on around them to-day against greed, corruption, slavery, poverty, vice and crime. let them protest, let them fight, even as jesus christ had fought and protested. for as sure as they sat there the day would come when they would be called to account, would be asked the question--what had they done to make the united states of america a better place to live in? there were in the apostolic writings and tradition misinterpretations of life which had done much harm. early christianity had kept its eyes fixed on another world, and had ignored this: had overlooked the fact that every man and woman was put here to do a particular work. in the first epistle of peter the advice was given, "submit yourselves to every ordinance of man for the lord's sake." but christ had preached democracy, responsibility, had foreseen a millennium, the fulfilment of his kingdom, when all men, inspired by the spirit, would make and keep in spirit the ordinances of god. before they could do god's work and man's work they must first be awakened, filled with desire. desire was power. and he prayed that some of them, on this day, would receive that desire, that power which nothing could resist. the desire which would lead each and every one to the gates of the inner world which was limitless and eternal, filled with dazzling light . . . . let them have faith then. not credulity in a vague god they could not imagine, but faith in the spirit of the universe, humanity, in jesus christ who had been the complete human revelation of that spirit, who had suffered and died that man might not live in ignorance of it. to doubt humanity,--such was the great refusal, the sin against the holy ghost, the repudiation of the only true god! after a pause, he spoke simply of his hope for st. john's. if he remained here his ambition was that it would be the free temple of humanity, of jesus christ, supported not by a few, but by all,--each in accordance with his means. of those who could afford nothing, nothing would be required. perhaps this did not sound practical, nor would it be so if the transforming inspiration failed. he could only trust and try, hold up to them the vision of the church as a community of willing workers for the kingdom . . . iii after the service was over the people lingered in the church, standing in the pews and aisles, as though loath to leave. the woman with the perfume and the elaborate hat was heard to utter a succinct remark. "say, charlie, i guess he's all right. i never had it put like that." the thick-necked man's reply was inaudible. eleanor goodrich was silent and a little pale as she pressed close to alison. her imagination had been stretched, as it were, and she was still held in awe by the vastness of what she had heard and seen. vaster even than ever,--so it appeared now,--demanding greater sacrifices than she had dreamed of. she looked back upon the old as at receding shores. alison, with absorbed fascination, watched the people; encountered, here and there, recognitions from men and women with whom she had once danced and dined in what now seemed a previous existence. why had they come? and how had they received the message? she ran into a little man, a dealer in artists' supplies who once had sold her paints and brushes, who stared and bowed uncertainly. she surprised him by taking his hand. "did you like it?" she asked, impulsively. "it's what i've been thinking for years, miss parr," he responded, "thinking and feeling. but i never knew it was christianity. and i never thought--" he stopped and looked at her, alarmed. "oh," she said, "i believe in it, too--or try to." she left him, mentally gasping . . . . without, on the sidewalk, eleanor goodrich was engaged in conversation with a stockily built man, inclined to stoutness; he had a brown face and a clipped, bristly mustache. alison paused involuntarily, and saw him start and hesitate as his clear, direct gaze met her own. bedloe hubbell was one of those who had once sought to marry her. she recalled him as an amiable and aimless boy; and after she had gone east she had received with incredulity and then with amusement the news of his venture into altruistic politics. it was his efficiency she had doubted, not his sincerity. later tidings, contemptuous and eventually irritable utterances of her own father, together with accounts in the new york newspapers of his campaign, had convinced her in spite of herself that bedloe hubbell had actually shaken the seats of power. and somehow, as she now took him in, he looked it. his transformation was one of the signs, one of the mysteries of the times. the ridicule and abuse of the press, the opposition and enmity of his childhood friends, had developed the man of force she now beheld, and who came forward to greet her. "alison!" he exclaimed. he had changed in one sense, and not in another. her colour deepened as the sound of his voice brought back the lapsed memories of the old intimacy. for she had been kind to him, kinder than to any other; and the news of his marriage--to a woman from the pacific coast--had actually induced in her certain longings and regrets. when the cards had reached her, new york and the excitement of the life into which she had been weakly, if somewhat unwittingly, drawn had already begun to pall. "i'm so glad to see you," she told him. "i've heard--so many things. and i'm very much in sympathy with what you're doing." they crossed the street, and walked away from the church together. she had surprised him, and made him uncomfortable. "you've been away so long," he managed to say, "perhaps you do not realize--" "oh, yes, i do," she interrupted. "i am on the other side, on your side. i thought of writing you, when you nearly won last autumn." "you see it, too?" he exclaimed. "yes, i've changed, too. not so much as you," she added, shyly. "i always had a certain sympathy, you know, with the robin hoods." he laughed at her designation, both pleased and taken aback by her praise. . . but he wondered if she knew the extent of his criticism of her father. "that rector is a wonderful man," he broke out, irrelevantly. "i can't get over' him--i can't quite grasp the fact that he exists, that he has dared to do what he has done." this brought her colour back, but she faced him bravely. you think he is wonderful, then?" "don't you?" he demanded. she assented. "but i am curious to know why you do. somehow, i never thought of--you--" "as religious," he supplied. "and you? if i remember rightly--" "yes," she interrupted, "i revolted, too. but mr. hodder puts it so --it makes one wonder." "he has not only made me wonder," declared bedloe hubbell, emphatically, "i never knew what religion was until i heard this man last sunday." "last sunday!" "until then, i hadn't been inside of a church for fifteen years,--except to get married. my wife takes the children, occasionally, to a presbyterian church near us." "and why, did you go then?" she asked. "i am a little ashamed of my motive," he confessed. "there were rumours --i don't pretend to know how they got about--" he hesitated, once more aware of delicate ground. "wallis plimpton said something to a man who told me. i believe i went out of sheer curiosity to hear what hodder would have to say. and then, i had been reading, wondering whether there were anything in christianity, after all." "yes?" she said, careless now as to what cause he might attribute her eagerness. "and he gave you something?" it was then she grasped the truth that this sudden renewed intimacy was the result of the impression hodder had left upon the minds of both. "he gave me everything," bedloe hubbell replied. "i am willing to acknowledge it freely. in his explanation of the parable of the prodigal son, he gave me the clew to our modern times. what was for me an inextricable puzzle has become clear as day. he has made me understand, at last, the force which stirred me, which goaded me until i was fairly compelled to embark in the movement which the majority of our citizens still continue to regard as quixotic. i did not identify that force with religion, then, and when i looked back on the first crazy campaign we embarked upon, with the whole city laughing at me and at the obscure and impractical personnel we had, there were moments when it seemed incomprehensible folly. i had nothing to gain, and everything to lose by such a venture. i was lazy and easy-going, as you know. i belonged to the privileged class, i had sufficient money to live in comparative luxury all my days, i had no grudge against these men whom i had known all my life." "but it must have had some beginning," said alison. "i was urged to run for the city council, by these very men." bedloe hubbell smiled at the recollection. "they accuse me now of having indulged once in the same practice, for which i am condemning them. our company did accept rebates, and we sought favours from the city government. i have confessed it freely on the platform. even during my first few months in the council what may be called the old political practices seemed natural to me. but gradually the iniquity of it all began to dawn on me, and then i couldn't rest until i had done something towards stopping it. "at length i began to see," he continued, "that education of the masses was to be our only preserver, that we should have to sink or swim by that. i began to see, dimly, that this was true for other movements going on to-day. now comes hodder with what i sincerely believe is the key. he compels men like me to recognize that our movements are not merely moral, but religious. religion, as yet unidentified, is the force behind these portentous stirrings of politics in our country, from sea to sea. he aims, not to bring the church into politics, but to make her the feeder of these movements. men join them to-day from all motives, but the religious is the only one to which they may safely be trusted. he has rescued the jewel from the dust-heap of tradition, and holds it up, shining, before our eyes." alison looked at her companion. "that," she said, "is a very beautiful phrase." bedloe hubbell smiled queerly. "i don't know why i'm telling you all this. i can't usually talk about it. but the sight of that congregation this morning, mixed as it was, and the way he managed to weld it together." "ah, you noticed that!" she exclaimed sharply. "noticed it!" "i know. it was a question of feeling it." there was a silence. "will he succeed?" she asked presently. "ah," said bedloe hubbell, "how is it possible to predict it? the forces against him are tremendous, and it is usually the pioneer who suffers. i agree absolutely with his definition of faith, i have it. and the work he has done already can never be undone. the time is ripe, and it is something that he has men like phil goodrich behind him, and mr. waring. i'm going to enlist, and from now on i intend to get every man and woman upon whom i have any influence whatever to go to that church . . . ." a little later alison, marvelling, left him. chapter xxvi the current of life i the year when hodder had gone east--to bremerton and bar harbor, he had read in the train a magazine article which had set fire to his imagination. it had to do with the lives of the men, the engineers who dared to deal with the wild and terrible power of the western hills, who harnessed and conquered roaring rivers, and sent the power hundreds of miles over the wilderness, by flimsy wires, to turn the wheels of industry and light the dark places of the cities. and, like all men who came into touch with elemental mysteries, they had their moments of pure ecstasy, gaining a tingling, intenser life from the contact with dynamic things; and other moments when, in their struggle for mastery, they were buffeted about, scorched, and almost overwhelmed. in these days the remembrance of that article came back to hodder. it was as though he, too, were seeking to deflect and guide a force --the force of forces. he, too, was buffeted, scorched, and bruised, at periods scarce given time to recover himself in the onward rush he himself had started, and which he sought to control. problems arose which demanded the quick thinking of emergency. he, too, had his moments of reward, the reward of the man who is in touch with reality. he lived, from day to day, in a bewildering succession of encouragements and trials, all unprecedented. if he remained at st. john's, an entire new organization would be necessary . . . . he did not as yet see it clearly; and in the meantime, with his vestry alienated, awaiting the bishop's decision, he could make no definite plans, even if he had had the leisure. wholesale desertions had occurred in the guilds and societies, the activities of which had almost ceased. little tomkinson, the second assistant, had resigned; and mccrae, who worked harder than ever before, was already marked, hodder knew, for dismissal if he himself were defeated. and then there was the ever present question of money. it remained to be seen whether a system of voluntary offerings were practicable. for hodder had made some inquiries into the so-called "free churches," only to discover that there were benefactors behind them, benefactors the christianity of whose lives was often doubtful. one morning he received in the mail the long-expected note from the bishop, making an appointment for the next day. hodder, as he read it over again, smiled to himself. . . he could gather nothing of the mind of the writer from the contents. the piece of news which came to him on the same morning swept completely the contemplations of the approaching interview from his mind. sally grover stopped in at the parish house on her way to business. "kate marcy's gone," she announced, in her abrupt fashion. "gone!" he exclaimed, and stared at her in dismay. "gone where?" "that's just it," said miss grover. "i wish i knew. i reckon we'd got into the habit of trusting her too much, but it seemed the only way. she wasn't in her room last night, but ella finley didn't find it out until this morning, and she ran over scared to death, to tell us about it." involuntarily the rector reached for his hat. "i've sent out word among our friends in dalton street," sally continued. an earthquake could not have disturbed her outer, matter-of-fact calmness. but hodder was not deceived: he knew that she was as profoundly grieved and discouraged as himself. "and i've got old gratz, the cabinet-maker, on the job. if she's in dalton street, he'll find her." "but what--?" hodder began. sally threw up her hands. "you never can tell, with that kind. but it sticks in my mind she's done something foolish." "foolish?" sally twitched, nervously. "somehow i don't think it's a spree--but as i say, you can't tell. she's full of impulses. you remember how she frightened us once before, when she went off and stayed all night with the woman she used to know in the flat house, when she heard she was sick?" hodder nodded. "you've inquired there?" "that woman went to the hospital, you know. she may be with another one. if she is, gratz ought to find her. . . you know there was a time, mr. hodder, when i didn't have much hope that we'd pull her through. but we got hold of her through her feelings. she'd do anything for mr. bentley --she'd do anything for you, and the way she stuck to that embroidery was fine. i don't say she was cured, but whenever she'd feel one of those fits coming on she'd let us know about it, and we'd watch her. and i never saw one of that kind change so. why, she must be almost as good looking now as she ever was." "you don't think she has done anything--desperate?" asked hodder, slowly. sally comprehended. "well--somehow i don't. she used to say if she ever got drunk again she'd never come back. but she didn't have any money--she's given mr. bentley every cent of it. and we didn't have any warning. she was as cheerful as could be yesterday morning, mrs. mcquillen says." "it might not do any harm to notify the police," replied hodder, rising. "i'll go around to headquarters now." he was glad of the excuse for action. he could not have sat still. and as he walked rapidly across burton street he realized with a pang how much his heart had been set on kate marcy's redemption. in spite of the fact that every moment of his time during the past fortnight had been absorbed by the cares, responsibilities, and trials thrust upon him, he reproached himself for not having gone oftener to dalton street. and yet, if mr. bentley and sally grower had been unable to foresee and prevent this, what could he have done? at police headquarters he got no news. the chief received him deferentially, sympathetically, took down kate marcy's description, went so far as to remark, sagely, that too much mustn't be expected of these women, and said he would notify the rector if she were found. the chief knew and admired mr. bentley, and declared he was glad to meet mr. hodder. . . hodder left, too preoccupied to draw any significance from the nature of his welcome. he went at once to mr. bentley's. the old gentleman was inclined to be hopeful, to take sally grower's view of the matter. . he trusted, he said, sally's instinct. and hodder came away less uneasy, not a little comforted by a communion which never failed to fortify him, to make him marvel at the calmness of that world in which his friend lived, a calmness from which no vicarious sorrow was excluded. and before hodder left, mr. bentley had drawn from him some account of the more recent complexities at the church. the very pressure of his hand seemed to impart courage. "you won't stay and have dinner with me?" the rector regretfully declined. "i hear the bishop has returned," said mr. bentley, smiling. hodder was surprised. he had never heard mr. bentley speak of the bishop. of course he must know him. "i have my talk with him to-morrow." mr. bentley said nothing, but pressed his hand again . . . . on tower street, from the direction of the church, he beheld a young man and a young woman approaching him absorbed in conversation. even at a distance both seemed familiar, and presently he identified the lithe and dainty figure in the blue dress as that of the daughter of his vestryman, francis ferguson. presently she turned her face, alight with animation, from her companion, and recognized him. "it's mr. hodder!" she exclaimed, and was suddenly overtaken with a crimson shyness. the young man seemed equally embarrassed as they stood facing the rector. "i'm afraid you don't remember me, mr. hodder," he said. "i met you at mr. ferguson's last spring." then it came to him. this was the young man who had made the faux pas which had caused mrs. ferguson so much consternation, and who had so manfully apologized afterwards. his puzzled expression relaxed into a smile, and he took the young man's hand. "i was going to write to you," said nan, as she looked up at the rector from under the wide brim of her hat. "our engagement is to be announced wednesday." hodder congratulated them. there was a brief silence, when nan said tremulously: "we're coming to st. john's!" "i'm very glad," hodder replied, gravely. it was one of those compensating moments, for him, when his tribulations vanished; and the tributes of the younger generation were those to which his heart most freely responded. but the situation, in view of the attitude of francis ferguson, was too delicate to be dwelt upon. "i came to hear you last sunday, mr. hodder," the young man volunteered, with that mixture of awkwardness and straightforwardness which often characterize his sex and age in referring to such matters. "and i had an idea of writing you, too, to tell you how much i liked what you said. but i know you must have had many letters. you've made me think." he flushed, but met the rector's eye. nan stood regarding him with pride. "you've made me think, too," she added. "and we intend to pitch in and help you, if we can be of any use." he parted from them, wondering. and it was not until he had reached the parish house that it occurred to him that he was as yet unenlightened as to the young man's name . . . . his second reflection brought back to his mind kate mercy, for it was with a portion of nan ferguson's generous check that her board had been paid. and he recalled the girl's hope, as she had given it to him, that he would find some one in dalton street to help . . . . ii there might, to the mundane eye, have been an element of the ridiculous in the spectacle of the rector of st. john's counting his gains, since he had chosen--with every indication of insanity--to bring the pillars of his career crashing down on his own head. by no means the least, however, of the treasures flung into his lap was the tie which now bound him to the philip goodriches, which otherwise would never have been possible. and as he made his way thither on this particular evening, a renewed sense came upon him of his emancipation from the dreary, useless hours he had been wont to spend at other dinner tables. that existence appeared to him now as the glittering, feverish unreality of a nightmare filled with restless women and tired men who drank champagne, thus gradually achieving--by the time cigars were reached--an artificial vivacity. the caprice and superficiality of the one sex, the inability to dwell upon or even penetrate a serious subject, the blindness to what was going on around them; the materialism, the money standard of both, were nauseating in the retrospect. how, indeed, had life once appeared so distorted to him, a professed servant of humanity, as to lead him in the name of duty into that galley? such was the burden of his thought when the homelike front of the goodrich house greeted him in the darkness, its enshrouded windows gleaming with friendly light. as the door opened, the merry sound of children's laughter floated down the stairs, and it seemed to hodder as though a curse had been lifted. . . . the lintel of this house had been marked for salvation, the scourge had passed it by: the scourge of social striving which lay like a blight on a free people. within, the note of gentility, of that instinctive good taste to which many greater mansions aspired in vain, was sustained. the furniture, the pictures, the walls and carpets were true expressions of the individuality of master and mistress, of the unity of the life lived together; and the rector smiled as he detected, in a corner of the hall, a sturdy but diminutive hobby-horse--here the final, harmonious touch. there was the sound of a scuffle, treble shrieks of ecstasy from above, and eleanor goodrich came out to welcome him. "its phil," she told him in laughing despair, "he upsets all my discipline, and gets them so excited they don't go to sleep for hours..." seated in front of the fire in the drawing-room, he found alison parr. her coolness, her radiancy, her complete acceptance of the situation, all this and more he felt from the moment he touched her hand and looked into her face. and never had she so distinctly represented to him the mysterious essence of fate. why she should have made the fourth at this intimate gathering, and whether or not she was or had been an especial friend of eleanor goodrich he did not know. there was no explanation.... a bowl of superb chrysanthemums occupied the centre of the table. eleanor lifted them off and placed them on the sideboard. "i've got used to looking at phil," she explained, "and craning is so painful." the effect at first was to increase the intensity of the intimacy. there was no reason--he told himself--why alison's self-possession should have been disturbed; and as he glanced at her from time to time he perceived that it was not. so completely was she mistress of herself that presently he felt a certain faint resentment rising within him,--yet he asked himself why she should not have been. it was curious that his imagination would not rise, now, to a realization of that intercourse on which, at times, his fancy had dwelt with such vividness. the very interest, the eagerness with which she took part in their discussions seemed to him in the nature of an emphatic repudiation of any ties to him which might have been binding. all this was only, on hodder's part, to be aware of the startling discovery as to how strong his sense of possession had been, and how irrational, how unwarranted. for he had believed himself, as regarding her, to have made the supreme renunciation of his life. and the very fact that he had not consulted, could not consult her feelings and her attitude made that renunciation no less difficult. all effort, all attempt at achievement of the only woman for whom he had ever felt the sublime harmony of desire--the harmony of the mind and the flesh--was cut off. to be here, facing her again in such close proximity, was at once a pleasure and a torture. and gradually he found himself yielding to the pleasure, to the illusion of permanency created by her presence. and, when all was said, he had as much to be grateful for as he could reasonably have wished; yes, and more. the bond (there was a bond, after all!) which united them was unbreakable. they had forged it together. the future would take care of itself. the range of the conversation upon which they at length embarked was a tacit acknowledgment of a relationship which now united four persons who, six months before, would have believed themselves to have had nothing in common. and it was characteristic of the new interest that it transcended the limits of the parish of st. john's, touched upon the greater affairs to which that parish--if their protest prevailed--would now be dedicated. not that the church was at once mentioned, but subtly implied as now enlisted,--and emancipated henceforth from all ecclesiastical narrowness . . . . the amazing thing by which hodder was suddenly struck was the naturalness with which alison seemed to fit into the new scheme. it was as though she intended to remain there, and had abandoned all intention of returning to the life which apparently she had once permanently and definitely chosen.... bedloe hubbell's campaign was another topic. and phil had observed, with the earnestness which marked his more serious statements, that it wouldn't surprise him if young carter, hubbell's candidate for mayor, overturned that autumn the beatty machine. "oh, do you think so!" alison exclaimed with exhilaration. "they're frightened and out of breath," said phil, "they had no idea that bedloe would stick after they had licked him in three campaigns. two years ago they tried to buy him off by offering to send him to the senate, and wallis plimpton has never got through his head to this why he refused." plimpton's head, eleanor declared dryly, was impervious to a certain kind of idea. "i wonder if you know, mr. hodder, what an admirer mr. hubbell is of yours?" alison asked. "he is most anxious to have a talk with you." hodder did not know. "well," said phil, enthusiastically, to the rector, "that's the best tribute you've had yet. i can't say that bedloe was a more unregenerate heathen than i was, but he was pretty bad." this led them, all save hodder, into comments on the character of the congregation the sunday before, in the midst of which the rector was called away to the telephone. sally grover had promised to let him know whether or not they had found kate marcy, and his face was grave when he returned . . . . he was still preoccupied, an hour later, when alison arose to go. "but your carriage isn't here," said phil, going to the window. "oh, i preferred to, walk," she told him, "it isn't far." iii a blood-red october moon shed the fulness of its light on the silent houses, and the trees, still clinging to leaf, cast black shadows across the lawns and deserted streets. the very echoes of their footsteps on the pavement seemed to enhance the unreality of their surroundings: some of the residences were already closed for the night, although the hour was not late, and the glow behind the blinds of the others was nullified by the radiancy from above. to hodder, the sense of their isolation had never been more complete. alison, while repudiating the notion that an escort were needed in a neighbourhood of such propriety and peace, had not refused his offer to accompany her. and hodder felt instinctively, as he took his place beside her, a sense of climax. this situation, like those of the past, was not of his own making. it was here; confronting him, and a certain inevitable intoxication at being once, more alone with her prevented him from forming any policy with which to deal with it. he might either trust himself, or else he might not. and as she said, the distance was not great. but he could not help wondering, during those first moments of silence, whether she comprehended the strength of the temptation to which she subjected him . . . . the night was warm. she wore a coat, which was open, and from time to time he caught the gleam of the moonlight on the knotted pearls at her throat. over her head she had flung, mantilla-like, a black lace scarf, the effect of which was, in the soft luminosity encircling her, to add to the quality of mystery never exhausted. if by acquiescing in his company she had owned to a tie between them, the lace shawl falling over the tails of her dark hair and framing in its folds her face, had somehow made her once more a stranger. nor was it until she presently looked up into his face with a smile that this impression was, if not at once wholly dissipated, at least contradicted. her question, indeed, was intimate. "why did you come with me?" "why?" he repeated, taken aback. "yes. i'm sure you have something you wish to do, something which particularly worries you." "no," he answered, appraising her intuition of him, "there is nothing i can do, to-night. a young woman in whom mr. bentley is interested, in whom i am interested, has disappeared. but we have taken all the steps possible towards finding her." "it was nothing--more serious, then? that, of course, is serious enough. nothing, i mean, directly affecting your prospects of remaining--where you are?" "no," he answered. he rejoiced fiercely that she should have asked him. the question was not bold, but a natural resumption of the old footing "not that i mean to imply," he added, returning her smile, "that those prospects' are in any way improved." "are they any worse?" she said. "i see the bishop to-morrow. i have no idea what position he will take. but even if he should decide not to recommend me for trial many difficult problems still remain to be solved." "i know. it's fine," she continued, after a moment, "the way you are going ahead as if there were no question of your not remaining; and getting all those people into the church and influencing them as you did when they had come for all sorts of reasons. do you remember, the first time i met you, i told you i could not think of you as a clergyman. i cannot now--less than ever." "what do you think of me as?" he asked. "i don't know," she considered. "you are unlike any person i have ever known. it is curious that i cannot now even think of st. john's as a church. you have transformed it into something that seems new. i'm afraid i can't describe what i mean, but you have opened it up, let in the fresh air, rid it of the musty and deadening atmosphere which i have always associated with churches. i wanted to see you, before i went away," she went on steadily, "and when eleanor mentioned that you were coming to her house to-night, i asked her to invite me. do you think me shameless?" the emphasis of his gesture was sufficient. he could not trust himself to speak. "writing seemed so unsatisfactory, after what you had done for me, and i never can express myself in writing. i seem to congeal." "after what i have done for you!" he exclaimed: "what can i have done?" "you have done more than you know," she answered, in a low voice. "more, i think, than i know. how are such things to be measured, put into words? you have effected some change in me which defies analysis, a change of attitude,--to attempt to dogmatize it would ruin it. i prefer to leave it undefined--not even to call it an acquisition of faith. i have faith," she said, simply, "in what you have become, and which has made you dare, superbly, to cast everything away. . . it is that, more than anything you have said. what you are." for the instant he lost control of himself. "what you are," he replied. "do you realize--can you ever realize what your faith in me has been to me?" she appeared to ignore this. "i did not mean to say that you have not made many things clear, which once were obscure, as i wrote you. you have convinced me that true belief, for instance, is the hardest thing in the world, the denial of practically all these people, who profess to believe, represent. the majority of them insist that humanity is not to be trusted. . ." they had reached, in an incredibly brief time, the corner of park street. "when are you leaving?" he asked, in a voice that sounded harsh in his own ears. "come!" she said gently, "i'm not going in yet, for a while." the park lay before them, an empty, garden filled with checquered light and shadows under the moon. he followed her across the gravel, glistening with dew, past the statue of the mute statesman with arm upraised, into pastoral stretches--a delectable country which was theirs alone. he did not take it in, save as one expression of the breathing woman at his side. he was but partly conscious of a direction he had not chosen. his blood throbbed violently, and a feeling of actual physical faintness was upon him. he was being led, helplessly, all volition gone, and the very idea of resistance became chimerical . . . . there was a seat under a tree, beside a still lake burnished by the moon. it seemed as though he could not bear the current of her touch, and yet the thought of its removal were less bearable . . . for she had put her own hand out, not shyly, but with a movement so fraught with grace, so natural that it was but the crowning bestowal. "alison!" he cried, "i can't ask it of you. i have no right--" "you're not asking it," she answered. "it is i who am asking it." "but i have no future--i may be an outcast to-morrow. i have nothing to offer you." he spoke more firmly now, more commandingly. "don't you see, dear, that it is just because your future as obscure that i can do this? you never would have done it, i know,--and i couldn't face that. don't you understand that i am demanding the great sacrifice?" "sacrifice!" he repeated. his fingers turned, and closed convulsively on hers. "yes, sacrifice," she said gently. "isn't it the braver thing?" still he failed to catch her meaning. "braver," she explained, with her wonderful courage, "braver if i love you, if i need you, if i cannot do without you." he took her in his arms, crushing her to him in his strength, in one ineffable brief moment finding her lips, inhaling the faint perfume of her smooth akin. her lithe figure lay passively against him, in marvellous, unbelievable surrender. "i see what you mean," he said, at length, "i should have been a coward. but i could not be sure that you loved me." so near was her face that he could detect, even under the obscurity of the branches, a smile. "and so i was reduced to this! i threw my pride to the winds," she whispered. "but i don't care. i was determined, selfishly, to take happiness." "and to give it," he added, bending down to her. the supreme quality of its essence was still to be doubted, a bright star-dust which dazzled him, to evaporate before his waking eyes. and, try as he would, he could not realize to the full depth the boy of contact with a being whom, by discipline, he had trained his mind to look upon as the unattainable. they had spoken of the future, yet in these moments any consideration of it was blotted out. . . it was only by degrees that he collected himself sufficiently to be able to return to it. . . alison took up the thread. "surely," she said, "sacrifice is useless unless it means something, unless it be a realization. it must be discriminating. and we should both of us have remained incomplete if we had not taken--this. you would always, i think, have been the one man for me,--but we should have lost touch." he felt her tremble. "and i needed you. i have needed you all my life--one in whom h might have absolute faith. that is my faith, of which i could not tell you awhile ago. is it--sacrilegious?" she looked up at him. he shook his head, thinking of his own. it seemed the very distillation of the divine. "all my life," she went on, "i have been waiting for the one who would risk everything. oh, if you had faltered the least little bit, i don't know what i should have done. that would have destroyed what was left of me, put out, i think, the flickering fire that remained, instead of fanning it into flame. you cannot know how i watched you, how i prayed! i think it was prayer--i am sure it was. and it was because you did not falter, because you risked all, that you gained me. you have gained only what you yourself made, more than i ever was, more than i ever expected to be." "alison!" he remonstrated, "you mustn't say that." she straightened up and gazed at him, taking one of his hands in her lithe fingers. "oh, but i must! it is the truth. i felt that you cared--women are surer in such matters than men. i must conceal nothing from you--nothing of my craftiness. women are crafty, you know. and suppose you fail? ah, i do not mean failure--you cannot fail, now. you have put yourself forever beyond failure. but what i mean is, suppose you were compelled to leave st. john's, and i came to you then as i have come now, and begged to take my place beside you? i was afraid to risk it. i was afraid you would not take me, even now, to-night. do you realize how austere you are at times, how you have frightened me?" "that i should ever have done that!" he said. "when i looked at you in the pulpit you seemed so far from me, i could scarcely bear it. as if i had no share in you, as if you had already gone to a place beyond, where i could not go, where i never could. oh, you will take me with you, now,--you won't leave me behind!" to this cry every fibre of his soul responded. he had thought himself, in these minutes, to have known all feelings, all thrills, but now, as he gathered her to him again, he was to know still another, the most exquisite of all. that it was conferred upon him to give this woman protection, to shield and lift her, inspire her as she inspired him--this consciousness was the most exquisite of all, transcending all conception of the love of woman. and the very fulness of her was beyond him. a lifetime were insufficient to exhaust her . . . . "i wanted to come to you now, john. i want to share your failure, if it comes--all your failures. because they will be victories--don't you see? i have never been able to achieve that kind of victory--real victory, by myself. i have always succumbed, taken the baser, the easier thing." her cheek was wet. "i wasn't strong enough, by myself, and i never knew the stronger one . . . . "see what my trust in you has been! i knew that you would not refuse me in spite of the fact that the world may misunderstand, may sneer at your taking me. i knew that you were big enough even for that, when you understood it, coming from me. i wanted to be with you, now, that we might fight it out together." "what have i done to deserve so priceless a thing?" he asked. she smiled at him again, her lip trembling. "oh, i'm not priceless, i'm only real, i'm only human--human and tired. you are so strong, you can't know how tired. have you any idea why i came out here, this summer? it was because i was desperate--because i had almost decided to marry some one else." she felt him start. "i was afraid of it;" he said. "were you? did you think, did you wonder a little about me?" there was a vibrant note of triumph to which he reacted. she drew away from him. a little. "perhaps, when you know how sordid my life has been, you won't want me." "is--is that your faith, alison?" he demanded. "god forbid! you have come to a man who also has confessions to make." "oh, i am glad. i want to know all of you--all, do you understand? that will bring us even closer together. and it was one thing i felt about you in the beginning, that day in the garden, that you had had much to conquer--more than most men. it was a part of your force and of your knowledge of life. you were not a sexless ascetic who preached a mere neutral goodness. does that shock you?" he smiled in turn. "i went away from here, as i once told you, full of a high resolution not to trail the honour of my art--if i achieved art--in the dust. but i have not only trailed my art--i trailed myself. in new york i became contaminated, --the poison of the place, of the people with whom i came in contact, got into my blood. little by little i yielded--i wanted so to succeed, to be able to confound those who had doubted and ridiculed me! i wasn't content to wait to deny myself for the ideal. success was in the air. that was the poison, and i only began to realize it after it was too late. "please don't think i am asking pity--i feel that you must know. from the very first my success--which was really failure--began to come in the wrong way. as my father's daughter i could not be obscure. i was sought out, i was what was called picturesque, i suppose. the women petted me, although some of them hated me, and i had a fascination for a certain kind of men--the wrong kind. i began going to dinners, house parties, to recognize, that advantages came that way . . . . it seemed quite natural. it was what many others of my profession tried to do, and they envied me my opportunities. "i ought to say, in justice to myself, that i was not in the least cynical about it. i believed i was clinging to the ideal of art, and that all i wanted was a chance. and the people i went with had the same characteristics, only intensified, as those i had known here. of course i was actually no better than the women who were striving frivolously to get away from themselves, and the men who were fighting to get money. only i didn't know it. "well, my chance came at last. i had done several little things, when an elderly man who is tremendously rich, whose name you would recognize if i mentioned it, gave me an order. for weeks, nearly every day, he came to my studio for tea, to talk over the plans. i was really unsophisticated then--but i can see now--well, that the garden was a secondary consideration . . . . and the fact that i did it for him gave me a standing i should not otherwise have had . . . . oh, it is sickening to look back upon, to think what an idiot i was in how little i saw.... "that garden launched me, and i began to have more work than i could do. i was conscientious about it tried--tried to make every garden better than the last. but i was a young woman, unconventionally living alone, and by degrees the handicap of my sex was brought home to me. i did not feel the pressure at first, and then--i am ashamed to say--it had in it an element of excitement, a sense of power. the poison was at work. i was amused. i thought i could carry it through, that the world had advanced sufficiently for a woman to do anything if she only had the courage. and i believed i possessed a true broadness of view, and could impress it, so far as i was concerned, on others . . . . "as i look back upon it all, i believe my reputation for coldness saved me, yet it was that very reputation which increased the pressure, and sometimes i was fairly driven into a corner. it seemed to madden some men--and the disillusionments began to come. of course it was my fault --i don't pretend to say it wasn't. there were many whom, instinctively, i was on my guard against, but some i thought really nice, whom i trusted, revealed a side i had not suspected. that was the terrible thing! and yet i held to my ideal, tattered as it was. . . " alison was silent a moment, still clinging to his hand, and when she spoke again it was with a tremor of agitation. "it is hard, to tell you this, but i wish you to know. at last i met a man, comparatively young, who was making his own way in new york, achieving a reputation as a lawyer. shall i tell you that i fell in love with him? he seemed to bring a new freshness into my life when i was beginning to feel the staleness of it. not that i surrendered at once, but the reservations of which i was conscious at the first gradually disappeared--or rather i ignored them. he had charm, a magnificent self-confidence, but i think the liberality of the opinions he expressed, in regard to women, most appealed to me. i was weak on that side, and i have often wondered whether he knew it. i believed him incapable of a great refusal. "he agreed, if i consented to marry him, that i should have my freedom --freedom to live in my own life and to carry on my profession. fortunately, the engagement was never announced, never even suspected. one day he hinted that i should return to my father for a month or two before the wedding . . . . the manner in which he said it suddenly turned me cold. oh," alison exclaimed, "i was quite willing to go back, to pay my father a visit, as i had done nearly every year, but--how can i tell you?--he could not believe that i had definitely given up-my father's money . . . . "i sat still and looked at him, i felt as if i were frozen, turned to stone. and after a long while, since i would not speak to him, he went out. . . three months later he came back and said that i had misunderstood him, that he couldn't live without me. i sent him away.... only the other day he married amy grant, one of my friends . . . . "well, after that, i was tired--so tired! everything seemed to go out of life. it wasn't that i loved him any longer,--all had been crushed. but the illusion was gone, and i saw myself as i was. and for the first time in my life i felt defenceless, helpless. i wanted refuge. did you ever hear of jennings howe?" "the architect?" alison nodded. "of course you must have--he is so well known. he has been a widower for several years. he liked my work, saw its defects, and was always frank about them, and i designed a good many gardens in connection with his houses. he himself is above all things an artist, and he fell into the habit of coming to my studio and giving me friendly advice, in the nicest way. he seemed to understand that i was going through some sort of a crisis. he called it 'too much society.' and then, without any warning, he asked me to marry him. "that is why i came out here--to think it over. i didn't love him, and i told him so, but i respected him. "he never compromised in his art, and i have known him over and over to refuse houses because certain conditions were stipulated. to marry him was an acknowledgment of defeat. i realized that. but i had come to the extremity where i wanted peace--peace and protection. i wanted to put myself irrevocably beyond the old life, which simply could not have gone on, and i saw myself in the advancing years becoming tawdry and worn, losing little by little what i had gained at a price. "so i came here--to reflect, to see, as it were, if i could find something left in me to take hold of, to build upon, to begin over again, perhaps, by going back to the old associations. i could think of no better place, and i knew that my father would, be going away after a few weeks, and that i should be lone, yet with an atmosphere back of me,--my old atmosphere. that was why i went to church the first sunday, in order to feel more definitely that atmosphere, to summon up more completely the image of my mother. more and more, as the years have passed, i have thought of her in moments of trouble. i have recovered her as i never had hoped to do in mr. bentley. isn't it strange," she exclaimed wonderingly, "that he should have come into both our lives, with such an influence, at this time?" "and then i met you, talked to you that afternoon in the garden. shall i make a complete confession? i wrote to jennings howe that very week that i could not marry him." "you knew!" hodder exclaimed: "you knew then?" "ah, i can't tell what i knew--or when. i knew, after i had seen you, that i couldn't marry him! isn't that enough?" he drew in his breath deeply. "i should be less than a man if i refused to take you, alison. and--no matter what happens, i can and will find some honest work to support you. but oh, my dear, when i think of it, the nobility and generosity of what you have done appalls me." "no, no!" she protested, "you mustn't say that! i needed you more than you need me. and haven't we both discovered the world, and renounced it? i can at least go so far as to say that, with all my heart. and isn't marriage truer and higher when man and wife start with difficulties and problems to solve together? it is that thought that brings me the greatest joy, that i may be able to help you . . . . didn't you need me, just a little?" "now that i have you, i am unable to think of the emptiness which might have been. you came to me, like beatrice, when i had lost my way in the darkness of the wood. and like beatrice, you showed me the path, and hell and heaven." "oh, you would have found the path without me. i cannot claim that. i saw from the first that you were destined to find it. and, unlike beatrice, i too was lost, and it was you who lifted me up. you mustn't idealize me." . . . she stood up. "come!" she said. he too stood, gazing at her, and she lifted her hands to his shoulders . . . . they moved out from under the tree and walked for a while in silence across the dew-drenched grass, towards park street. the moon, which had ridden over a great space in the sky, hung red above the blackness of the forest to the west. "do you remember when we were here together, the day i met mr. bentley? and you never would have spoken!" "how could i, alison?" he asked. "no, you couldn't. and yet--you would have let me go!" he put his arm in hers, and drew her towards him. "i must talk to your father," he said, "some day--soon. i ought to tell him--of our intentions. we cannot go on like this." "no," she agreed, "i realize it. and i cannot stay, much longer, in park street. i must go back to new york, until you send for me, dear. and there are things i must do. do you know, even though i antagonize him so--my father, i mean--even though he suspects and bitterly resents any interest in you, my affection for you, and that i have lingered because of you, i believe, in his way, he has liked to have me here." "i can understand it," hodder said. "it's because you are bigger than i, although he has quarrelled with you so bitterly. i don't know what definite wrongs he has done to other persons. i don't wish to know. i don't ask you to tell me what passed between you that night. once you said that you had an affection for him --that he was lonely. he is lonely. in these last weeks, in spite of his anger, i can see that he suffers terribly. it is a tragedy, because he will never give in." "it is a tragedy." hodder's tone was agitated. "i wonder if he realizes a little" she began, and paused. "now that preston has come home--" "your brother?" hodder exclaimed. "yes. i forgot to tell you. i don't know why he came," she faltered. "i suppose he has got into some new trouble. he seems changed. i can't describe it now, but i will tell you about it . . . . it's the first time we've all three been together since my mother died, for preston wasn't back from college when i went to paris to study . . . ." they stood together on the pavement before the massive house, fraught with so many and varied associations for hodder. and as he looked up at it, his eye involuntarily rested upon the windows of the boy's room where eldon parr had made his confession. alison startled him by pronouncing his name, which came with such unaccustomed sweetness from her lips. "you will write me to-morrow," she said, "after you have seen the bishop?" "yes, at once. you mustn't let it worry you." "i feel as if i had cast off that kind of worry forever. it is only --the other worries from which we do not escape, from which we do not wish to escape." with a wonderful smile she had dropped his hands and gone in at the entrance, when a sound made them turn, the humming of a motor. and even as they looked it swung into park street. "it's a taxicab!" she said. as she spoke it drew up almost beside them, instead of turning in at the driveway, the door opened, and a man alighted. "preston!" alison exclaimed. he started, turning from the driver, whom he was about to pay. as for hodder, he was not only undergoing a certain shock through the sudden contact, at such a moment, with alison's brother: there was an additional shock that this was alison's brother and eldon parr's son. not that his appearance was shocking, although the well-clad, athletic figure was growing a trifle heavy, and the light from the side lamps of the car revealed dissipation in a still handsome face. the effect was a subtler one, not to be analyzed, and due to a multitude of preconceptions. alison came forward. "this is mr. hodder, preston," she said simply. for a moment preston continued to stare at the rector without speaking. suddenly he put out his hand. "mr. hodder, of st. john's?" he demanded. "yes," answered hodder. his surprise deepened to perplexity at the warmth of the handclasp that followed. a smile that brought back vividly to hodder the sunny expression of the schoolboy in the picture lightened the features of the man. "i'm very glad to see you," he said, in a tone that left no doubt of its genuine quality. "thank you," hodder replied, meeting his eye with kindness, yet with a scrutiny that sought to penetrate the secret of an unexpected cordiality. "i, too, have hoped to see you." alison, who stood by wondering, felt a meaning behind the rector's words. she pressed his hand as he bade her, once more, good night. "won't you take my taxicab?" asked preston. "it is going down town anyway." "i think i'd better stick to the street cars," hodder said. his refusal was not ungraceful, but firm. preston did not insist. in spite of the events of that evening, which he went over again and again as the midnight car carried him eastward, in spite of a new-born happiness the actuality of which was still difficult to grasp, hodder was vaguely troubled when he thought of preston parr. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xvii. reconstruction xviii. the riddle of causation xix. mr. goodrich becomes a partisan chapter xvii reconstruction i life had indeed become complicated, paradoxical. he, john hodder, a clergyman, rector of st. john's by virtue of not having resigned, had entered a restaurant of ill repute, had ordered champagne for an abandoned woman, and had no sense of sin when he awoke the next morning! the devil, in the language of orthodox theology, had led him there. he had fallen under the influence of the tempter of his youth, and all in him save the carnal had been blotted out. more paradoxes! if the devil had not taken possession of him and led him there, it were more than probable that he could never have succeeded in any other way in getting on a footing of friendship with this woman, kate marcy. her future, to be sure, was problematical. here was no simple, sentimental case he might formerly have imagined, of trusting innocence betrayed, but a mixture of good and evil, selfishness and unselfishness. and she had, in spite of all, known the love which effaces self! could the disintegration, in her case, be arrested? gradually hodder was filled with a feeling which may be called amazement because, although his brain was no nearer to a solution than before, he was not despondent. for a month he had not permitted his mind to dwell on the riddle; yet this morning he felt stirring within him a new energy for which he could not account, a hope unconnected with any mental process! he felt in touch, once more, faintly but perceptibly, with something stable in the chaos. in bygone years he had not seen the chaos, but the illusion of an orderly world, a continual succession of sunrises, 'couleur de rose', from the heights above bremerton. now were the scales fallen from his eyes; now he saw the evil, the injustice, the despair; felt, in truth, the weight of the sorrow of it all, and yet that sorrow was unaccountably transmuted, as by a chemical process, into something which for the first time had a meaning--he could not say what meaning. the sting of despair had somehow been taken out of it, and it remained poignant! not on the obsession of the night before, when he had walked down dalton street and beheld it transformed into a realm of adventure, but upon his past life did he look back now with horror, upon the even tenor of those days and years in the bright places. his had been the highroad of a fancied security, from which he had feared to stray, to seek his god across the rough face of nature, from black, forgotten capons to the flying peaks in space. he had feared reality. he had insisted upon gazing at the universe through the coloured glasses of an outworn theology, instead of using his own eyes. so he had left the highroad, the beaten way of salvation many others had deserted, had flung off his spectacles, had plunged into reality, to be scratched and battered, to lose his way. not until now had something of grim zest come to him, of an instinct which was the first groping of a vision, as to where his own path might lie. through what thickets and over what mountains he knew not as yet--nor cared to know. he felt resistance, whereas on the highroad he had felt none. on the highroad his cry had gone unheeded and unheard, yet by holding out his hand in the wilderness he had helped another, bruised and bleeding, to her feet! salvation, let it be what it might be, he would go on, stumbling and seeking, through reality. even this last revelation, of eldon parr's agency in another tragedy, seemed to have no further power to affect him. . . nor could hodder think of alison as in blood-relationship to the financier, or even to the boy, whose open, pleasure-loving face he had seen in the photograph. ii a presage of autumn was in the air, and a fine, misty rain drifted in at his windows as he sat at his breakfast. he took deep breaths of the moisture, and it seemed to water and revive his parching soul. he found himself, to his surprise, surveying with equanimity the pile of books in the corner which had led him to the conviction of the emptiness of the universe--but the universe was no longer empty! it was cruel, but a warring force was at work in it which was not blind, but directed. he could not say why this was so, but he knew it, he felt it, sensed its energy within him as he set out for dalton street. he was neither happy nor unhappy, but in equilibrium, walking with sure steps, and the anxiety in which he had fallen asleep the night before was gone: anxiety lest the woman should have fled, or changed her mind, or committed some act of desperation. in dalton street a thin coat of yellow mud glistened on the asphalt, but even the dreariness of this neighbourhood seemed transient. he rang the bell of the flat, the door swung open, and in the hall above a woman awaited him. she was clad in black. "you wouldn't know me, would you?" she inquired. "say, i scarcely know myself. i used to wear this dress at pratt's, with white collars and cuffs and--well, i just put it on again. i had it in the bottom of my trunk, and i guessed you'd like it." "i didn't know you at first," he said, and the pleasure in his face was her reward. the transformation, indeed, was more remarkable than he could have believed possible, for respectability itself would seem to have been regained by a costume, and the abundance of her remarkable hair was now repressed. the absence of paint made her cheeks strangely white, the hollows under the eyes darker. the eyes themselves alone betrayed the woman of yesterday; they still burned. "why," he exclaimed, looking around him, "you have been busy, haven't you?" "i've been up since six," she told him proudly. the flat had been dismantled of its meagre furniture, the rug was rolled up and tied, and a trunk strapped with rope was in the middle of the floor. her next remark brought home to him the full responsibility of his situation. she led him to the window, and pointed to a spot among the drenched weeds and rubbish in the yard next door. "do you see that bottle? that's the first thing i did--flung it out there. it didn't break," she added significantly, "and there are three drinks in it yet." once more he confined his approval to his glance. "now you must come and have some breakfast," he said briskly. "if i had thought about it i should have waited to have it with you." "i'm not hungry." in the light of his new knowledge, he connected her sudden dejection with the sight of the bottle. "but you must eat. you're exhausted from all this work. and a cup of coffee will make all the difference in the world." she yielded, pinning on her hat. and he led her, holding the umbrella over her, to a restaurant in tower street, where a man in a white cap and apron was baking cakes behind a plate-glass window. she drank the coffee, but in her excitement left the rest of the breakfast almost untasted. "say," she asked him once, "why are you doing this?" "i don't know," he answered, "except that it gives me pleasure." "pleasure?" "yes. it makes me feel as if i were of some use." she considered this. "well," she observed, reviled by the coffee, "you're the queerest minister i ever saw." when they had reached the pavement she asked him where they were going. "to see a friend of mine, and a friend of yours," he told her. "he does net live far from here." she was silent again, acquiescing. the rain had stopped, the sun was peeping out furtively through the clouds, the early loiterers in dalton street stared at them curiously. but hodder was thinking of that house whither they were bound with a new gratitude, a new wonder that it should exist. thus they came to the sheltered vestibule with its glistening white paint, its polished name plate and doorknob. the grinning, hospitable darky appeared in answer to the rector's ring. "good morning, sam," he said; "is mr. bentley in?" sam ushered them ceremoniously into the library, and gate marcy gazed about her with awe, as at something absolutely foreign to her experience: the new barrington hotel, the latest pride of the city, recently erected at the corner of tower and jefferson and furnished in the french style, she might partially have understood. had she been marvellously and suddenly transported and established there, existence might still have evinced a certain continuity. but this house! . . mr. bentley rose from the desk in the corner. "oh, it's you, hodder," he said cheerfully, laying his hand on the rector's arm. "i was just thinking about you." "this is miss marcy, mr. bentley," hodder said. mr. bentley took her hand and led her to a chair. "mr. hodder knows how fond i am of young women," he said. "i have six of them upstairs,--so i am never lonely." mr. bentley did not appear to notice that her lips quivered. hodder turned his eyes from her face. "miss marcy has been lonely," he explained, "and i thought we might get her a room near by, where she might see them often. she is going to do embroidery." "why, sally will know of a room," mr. bentley replied. "sam!" he called. "yessah--yes, mistah ho'ace." sam appeared at the door. "ask miss sally to come down, if she's not busy." kate marcy sat dumbly in her chair, her hands convulsively clasping its arms, her breast heaving stormily, her face becoming intense with the effort of repressing the wild emotion within her: emotion that threatened to strangle her if resisted, or to sweep her out like a tide and drown her in deep waters: emotion that had no one mewing, and yet summed up a life, mysteriously and overwhelmingly aroused by the sight of a room, and of a kindly old gentleman who lived in it! mr. bentley took the chair beside her. "why, i believe it's going to clear off, after all," he exclaimed. "sam predicted it, before breakfast. he pretends to be able to tell by the flowers. after a while i must show you my flowers, miss marcy, and what dalton street can do by way of a garden--mr. hodder could hardly believe it, even when he saw it." thus he went on, the tips of his fingers pressed together, his head bent forward in familiar attitude, his face lighted, speaking naturally of trivial things that seemed to suggest themselves; and careful, with exquisite tact that did not betray itself, to address both. a passing automobile startled her with the blast of its horn. "i'm afraid i shall never get accustomed to them," he lamented. "at first i used to be thankful there were no trolley cars on this street, but i believe the automobiles are worse." a figure flitted through the hall and into the room, which hodder recognized as miss grower's. she reminded him of a flying shuttle across the warp of mr. bentley's threads, weaving them together; swift, sure, yet never hurried or flustered. one glance at the speechless woman seemed to suffice her for a knowledge of the situation. "mr. hodder has brought us a new friend and neighbour, sally,--miss kate marcy. she is to have a room near us, that we may see her often." hodder watched miss grower's procedure with a breathless interest. "why, mrs. mcquillen has a room--across the street, you know, mr. bentley." sally perched herself on the edge of the armchair and laid her hand lightly on kate marcy's. even sally grover was powerless to prevent the inevitable, and the touch of her hand seemed the signal for the release of the pent-up forces. the worn body, the worn nerves, the weakened will gave way, and kate marcy burst into a paroxysm of weeping that gradually became automatic, convulsive, like a child's. there was no damming this torrent, once released. kindness, disinterested friendship, was the one unbearable thing. "we must bring her upstairs," said sally grover, quietly, "she's going to pieces." hodder helping, they fairly carried her up the flight, and laid her on sally grover's own bed. that afternoon she was taken to mrs. mcquillen's. the fiends are not easily cheated. and during the nights and days that followed even sally grower, whose slight frame was tireless, whose stoicism was amazing, came out of the sick room with a white face and compressed lips. tossing on the mattress, kate marcy enacted over again incident after incident of her past life, events natural to an existence which had been largely devoid of self-pity, but which now, clearly enough, tested the extreme limits of suffering. once more, in her visions, she walked the streets, wearily measuring the dark, empty blocks, footsore, into the smaller hours of the night; slyly, insinuatingly, pathetically offering herself--all she possessed--to the hovering beasts of prey. and even these rejected her, with gibes, with obscene jests that sprang to her lips and brought a shudder to those who heard. sometimes they beheld flare up fitfully that mysterious thing called the human spirit, which all this crushing process had not served to extinguish. she seemed to be defending her rights, whatever these may have been! she expostulated with policemen. and once, when hodder was present, she brought back vividly to his mind that first night he had seen her, when she had defied him and sent him away. in moments she lived over again the careless, reckless days when money and good looks had not been lacking, when rich food and wines had been plentiful. and there were other events which sally grower and the good-natured irishwoman, mrs. mcquillen, not holding the key, could but dimly comprehend. education, environment, inheritance, character--what a jumble of causes! what judge was to unravel them, and assign the exact amount of responsibility? there were other terrible scenes when, more than semiconscious, she cried out piteously for drink, and cursed them for withholding it. and it was in the midst of one of these that an incident occurred which made a deep impression upon young dr. giddings, hesitating with his opiates, and assisting the indomitable miss grower to hold his patient. in the midst of the paroxysm mr. bentley entered and stood over her by the bedside, and suddenly her struggles ceased. at first she lay intensely still, staring at him with wide eyes of fear. he sat down and took her hand, and spoke to her, quietly and naturally, and her pupils relaxed. she fell into a sleep, still clinging to his fingers. it was sally who opposed the doctor's wish to send her to a hospital. "if it's only a question of getting back her health, she'd better die," she declared. "we've got but one chance with her, dr. giddings, to keep her here. when she finds out she's been to a hospital, that will be the end of it with her kind. we'll never get hold of her again. i'll take care of mrs. mcquillen." doctor giddings was impressed by this wisdom. "you think you have a chance, miss grower?" he asked. he had had a hospital experience. miss grower was wont to express optimism in deeds rather than words. "if i didn't think so, i'd ask you to put a little more in your hypodermic next time," she replied. and the doctor went away, wondering . . . . drink! convalescence brought little release for the watchers. the fiends would retire, pretending to have abandoned the field, only to swoop down again when least expected. there were periods of calm when it seemed as though a new and bewildered personality were emerging, amazed to find in life a kindly thing, gazing at the world as one new-born. and again, mrs. mcquillen or ella finley might be seen running bareheaded across the street for miss grower. physical force was needed, as the rector discovered on one occasion; physical force, and something more, a dauntlessness that kept sally grower in the room after the other women had fled in terror. then remorse, despondency, another fear . . . . as the weeks went by, the relapses certainly became fewer. something was at work, as real in its effects as the sunlight, but invisible. hodder felt it, and watched in suspense while it fought the beasts in this woman, rending her frame in anguish. the frame might succumb, the breath might leave it to moulder, but the struggle, he knew, would go until the beasts were conquered. whence this knowledge?--for it was knowledge. on the quieter days of her convalescence she seemed, indeed, more madonna than magdalen as she sat against the pillows, her red-gold hair lying in two heavy plaits across her shoulders, her cheeks pale; the inner, consuming fires that smouldered in her eyes died down. at such times her newly awakened innocence (if it might be called such--pathetic innocence, in truth!) struck awe into hodder; her wonder was matched by his own. could there be another meaning in life than the pursuit of pleasure, than the weary effort to keep the body alive? such was her query, unformulated. what animated these persons who had struggled over her so desperately, sally grower, mr. bentley, and hodder himself? thus her opening mind. for she had a mind. mr. bentley was the chief topic, and little by little he became exalted into a mystery of which she sought the explanation. "i never knew anybody like him," she would exclaim. "why, i'd seen him on dalton street with the children following him, and i saw him again that day of the funeral. some of the girls i knew used to laugh at him. we thought he was queer. and then, when you brought me to him that morning and he got up and treated me like a lady, i just couldn't stand it. i never felt so terrible in my life. i just wanted to die, right then and there. something inside of me kept pressing and pressing, until i thought i would die. i knew what it was to hate myself, but i never hated myself as i have since then. "he never says anything about god, and you don't, but when he comes in here he seems like god to me. he's so peaceful,--he makes me peaceful. i remember the minister in madison,--he was a putty-faced man with indigestion,--and when he prayed he used to close his eyes and try to look pious, but he never fooled me. he never made me believe he knew anything about god. and don't think for a minute he'd have done what you and miss grower and mr. bentley did! he used to cross the street to get out of the way of drunken men--he wouldn't have one of them in his church. and i know of a girl he drove out of town because she had a baby and her sweetheart wouldn't marry her. he sent her to hell. hell's here--isn't it?" these sudden remarks of hers surprised and troubled him. but they had another effect, a constructive effect. he was astonished, in going over such conversations afterwards, to discover that her questions and his efforts to answer them in other than theological terms were both illuminating and stimulating. sayings in the gospels leaped out in his mind, fired with new meanings; so simple, once perceived, that he was amazed not to have seen them before. and then he was conscious of a palpitating joy which left in its wake a profound thankfulness. he made no attempt as yet to correlate these increments, these glimpses of truth into a system, but stored them preciously away. he taxed his heart and intellect to answer her sensible and helpfully, and thus found himself avoiding the logic, the greek philosophy, the outworn and meaningless phrases of speculation; found himself employing (with extraordinary effect upon them both) the simple words from which many of these theories had been derived. "he that hath seen me hath seen the father." what she saw in horace bentley, he explained, was god. god wished us to know how to live, in order that we might find happiness, and therefore christ taught us that the way to find happiness was to teach others how to live,--once we found out. such was the meaning of christ's incarnation, to teach us how to live in order that we might find god and happiness. and hodder translated for her the word incarnation. now, he asked, how were we to recognize god, how might we know how he wished us to live, unless we saw him in human beings, in the souls into which he had entered? in mr. bentley's soul? was this too deep? she pondered, with flushed face. "i never had it put to me like that," she said, presently. "i never could have known what you meant if i hadn't seen mr. bentley." here was a return flash, for him. thus, teaching he taught. from this germ he was to evolve for himself the sublime truth that the world grown better, not through automatic, soul-saving machinery, but by personality. on another occasion she inquired about "original sin;"--a phrase which had stuck in her memory since the stormings of the madison preacher. here was a demand to try his mettle. "it means," he replied after a moment, "that we are all apt to follow the selfish, animal instincts of our matures, to get all we can for ourselves without thinking of others, to seek animal pleasures. and we always suffer for it." "sure," she agreed. "that's what happened to me." "and unless we see and know some one like mr. bentley," he went on, choosing his words, "or discover for ourselves what christ was, and what he tried to tell us, we go on 'suffering, because we don't see any way out. we suffer because we feel that we are useless, that other persons are doing our work." "that's what hell is!" she was very keen. "hell's here," she repeated. "hell may begin here, and so may heaven," he answered. "why, he's in heaven now!" she exclaimed, "it's funny i never thought of it before." of course she referred to mr. bentley. thus; by no accountable process of reasoning, he stumbled into the path which was to lead him to one of the widest and brightest of his vistas, the secret of eternity hidden in the parable of the talents! but it will not do to anticipate this matter . . . . the divine in this woman of the streets regenerated by the divine in her fellow-creatures, was gasping like a new-born babe for breath. and with what anxiety they watched her! she grew strong again, went with sally drover and the other girls on sunday excursions to the country, applied herself to her embroidery with restless zeal for days, only to have it drop from her nerveless fingers. but her thoughts were uncontrollable, she was drawn continually to the edge of that precipice which hung over the waters whence they had dragged her, never knowing when the vertigo would seize her. and once sally drover, on the alert for just such an occurrence, pursued her down dalton street and forced her back . . . justice to miss drover cannot be done in these pages. it was she who bore the brunt of the fierce resentment of the reincarnated fiends when the other women shrank back in fear, and said nothing to mr. bentley or hodder until the incident was past. it was terrible indeed to behold this woman revert--almost in the twinkling of an eye--to a vicious wretch crazed for drink, to feel that the struggle had to be fought all over again. unable to awe sally drover's spirit, she would grow piteous. "for god's sake let me go--i can't stand it. let me go to hell--that's where i belong. what do you bother with me for? i've got a right." once the doctor had to be called. he shook his head but his eye met miss grower's, and he said nothing. "i'll never be able to pull out, i haven't got the strength," she told hodder, between sobs. "you ought to have left me be, that was where i belonged. i can't stand it, i tell you. if it wasn't for that woman watching me downstairs, and sally grower, i'd have had a drink before this. it ain't any use, i've got so i can't live without it--i don't want to live." and then remorse, self-reproach, despair,--almost as terrible to contemplate. she swore she would never see mr. bentley again, she couldn't face him. yet they persisted, and gained ground. she did see mr. bentley, but what he said to her, or she to him, will never be known. she didn't speak of it . . . . little by little her interest was aroused, her pride in her work stimulated. none was more surprised than hodder when sally grower informed him that the embroidery was really good; but it was thought best, for psychological reasons, to discard the old table-cover with its associations and begin a new one. on occasional evenings she brought her sewing over to mr. bentley's, while sally read aloud to him and the young women in the library. miss grower's taste in fiction was romantic; her voice (save in the love passages, when she forgot herself ) sing-song, but new and unsuspected realms were opened up for kate marcy, who would drop her work and gaze wide-eyed out of the window, into the darkness. and it was sally who must be given credit for the great experiment, although she took mr. bentley and hodder into her confidence. on it they staked all. the day came, at last, when the new table-cover was finished. miss grower took it to the woman's exchange, actually sold it, and brought back the money and handed it to her with a smile, and left her alone. an hour passed. at the end of it kate marcy came out of her room, crossed the street, and knocked at the door of mr. bentley's library. hodder happened to be there. "come in," mr. bentley said. she entered, breathless, pale. her eyes, which had already lost much of the dissipated look, were alight with exaltation. her face bore evidence of the severity of the hour of conflict, and she was perilously near to tears. she handed mr. bentley the money. "what's this, kate?" he asked, in his kindly way. "it's what i earned, sir," she faltered. "miss grower sold the table-cover. i thought maybe you'd put it aside for me, like you do for the others. "i'll take good care of it," he said. "oh, sir, i don't ever expect to repay you, and miss grower and mr. hodder! "why, you are repaying us," he replied, cutting her short, "you are making us all very happy. and sally tells me at the exchange they like your work so well they are asking for more. i shouldn't have suspected," he added, with a humorous glance at the rector, "that mr. hodder knew so much about embroidery." he rose, and put the money in his desk,--such was his genius for avoiding situations which threatened to become emotional. "i've started another one," she told them, as she departed. a few moments later miss grower appeared. "sally," said mr. bentley, "you're a wise woman. i believe i've made that remark before. you have managed that case wonderfully." "there was a time," replied miss grower, thoughtfully, when it looked pretty black. we've got a chance with her now, i think." "i hope so. i begin to feel so," mr. bentley declared. "if we succeed," miss grower went on, "it will be through the heart. and if we lose her again, it will be through the heart." hodder started at this proof of insight. "you know her history, mr. hodder?" she asked. "yes," he said. "well, i don't. and i don't care to. but the way to get at kate marcy, light as she is in some respects, is through her feelings. and she's somehow kept 'em alive. we've got to trust her, from now on--that's the only way. and that's what god does, anyhow." this was one of miss grover's rare references to the deity. turning over that phrase in his mind, hodder went slowly back towards the parish house. god trusted individuals--even such as kate marcy. what did that mean? individual responsibility! he repeated it. was the world on that principle, then? it was as though a search-light were flung ahead of him and he saw, dimly, a new order--a new order in government and religion. and, as though spoken by a voice out of the past, there sounded in his ears the text of that sermon which had so deeply moved him, "i will arise and go to my father." the church was still open, and under the influence of the same strange excitement which had driven him to walk in the rain so long ago, he entered and went slowly up the marble aisle. through the gathering gloom he saw the figure on the cross. and as he stood gazing at it, a message for which he had been waiting blazed up within him. he would not leave the church! chapter xviii the riddle of causation i in order to portray this crisis in the life of kate marcy, the outcome of which is still uncertain, other matters have been ignored. how many persons besides john hodder have seemed to read--in crucial periods--a meaning into incidents having all the outward appearance of accidents! what is it that leads us to a certain man or woman at a certain time, or to open a certain book? order and design? or influence? the night when he had stumbled into the cafe in dalton street might well have been termed the nadir of hodder's experience. his faith had been blotted out, and, with it had suddenly been extinguished all spiritual sense, the beast had taken possession. and then, when it was least expected,--nay, when despaired of, had come the glimmer of a light; distant, yet clear. he might have traced the course of his disillusionment, perhaps, but cause and effect were not discernible here. they soon became so, and in the weeks that followed he grew to have the odd sense of a guiding hand on his shoulder,--such was his instinctive interpretation of it, rather than the materialistic one of things ordained. he might turn, in obedience to what seemed a whim, either to the right or left, only to recognize new blazes that led him on with surer step; and trivial accidents became events charged with meaning. he lived in continual wonder. one broiling morning, for instance, he gathered up the last of the books whose contents he had a month before so feverishly absorbed, and which had purged him of all fallacies. at first he had welcomed them with a fierce relief, sucked them dry, then looked upon them with loathing. now he pressed them gratefully, almost tenderly, as he made his way along the shady side of the street towards the great library set in its little park. he was reminded, as he passed from the blinding sunlight into the cool entrance hall, with its polished marble stairway and its statuary, that eldon parr's munificence had made the building possible: that some day mr. parr's bust would stand in that vestibule with that of judge henry goodrich--philip goodrich's grandfather--and of other men who had served their city and their commonwealth. upstairs, at the desk, he was handing in the volumes to the young woman whose duty it was to receive them when he was hailed by a brisk little man in an alpaca coat, with a skin like brown parchment. "why, mr. hodder," he exclaimed cheerfully, with a trace of german accent, "i had an idea you were somewhere on the cool seas with our friend, mr. parr. he spoke, before he left, of inviting you." it had been eldon parr, indeed, who had first brought hodder to the library, shortly after the rector's advent, and mr. engel had accompanied them on a tour of inspection; the financier himself had enjoined the librarian to "take good care" of the clergyman. mr. waring, mr. atterbury; and mr. constable were likewise trustees. and since then, when talking to him, hodder had had a feeling that mr. engel was not unconscious of the aura--if it may be called such--of his vestry. mr. engel picked up one of the books as it lay on the counter, and as he read the title his face betrayed a slight surprise. "modern criticism!" he exclaimed. "you have found me out," the rector acknowledged, smiling. "came into my room, and have a chat," said the librarian, coaxingly. it was a large chamber at the corner of the building, shaded by awnings, against which brushed the branches of an elm which had belonged to the original park. in the centre of the room was a massive oak desk, one whole side of which was piled high with new volumes. "look there," said the librarian, with a quick wave of his hand, "those are some which came in this week, and i had them put here to look over. two-thirds of 'em on religion, or religious philosophy. does that suggest anything to you clergymen?" "do many persons read them, mr. engel?" said the rector, at length. "read them!" cried mr. engel, quizzically. "we librarians are a sort of weather-vanes, if people only knew enough to consult us. we can hardly get a sufficient number of these new religious books the good ones, i mean--to supply the demand. and the lord knows what trash is devoured, from what the booksellers tell me. it reminds me of the days when this library was down on fifth street, years ago, and we couldn't supply enough darwins and huxleys and spencers and popular science generally. that was an agnostic age. but now you'd be surprised to see the different kinds of men and women who come demanding books on religion --all sorts and conditions. they're beginning to miss it out of their lives; they want to know. if my opinion's worth anything, i should not hesitate to declare that we're on the threshold of a greater religious era than the world has ever seen." hodder thrust a book back into the pile, and turned abruptly, with a manner that surprised the librarian. no other clergyman to whom he had spoken on this subject had given evidence of this strong feeling, and the rector of st. john's was the last man from whom he would have expected it. "do you really think so?" hodder demanded. "why, yes," said mr. engel, when he had recovered from his astonishment. "i'm sure of it. i think clergymen especially--if you will pardon me --are apt to forget that this is a reading age. that a great many people who used to get what instruction they had--ahem--from churches, for instance, now get it from books. i don't want to say anything to offend you, mr. hodder--" "you couldn't," interrupted the rector. he was equally surprised at the discovery that he had misjudged mr. engel, and was drawn towards him now with a strong sympathy and curiosity. "well," replied mr. engel, "i'm glad to hear you say that." he restrained a gasp. was this the orthodox mr. hodder of st. john's? "why," said hodder, sitting down, "i've learned, as you have, by experience. only my experience hasn't been so hopeful as yours--that is, if you regard yours as hopeful. it would be hypocritical of me not to acknowledge that the churches are losing ground, and that those who ought to be connected with them are not. i am ready to admit that the churches are at fault. but what you tell me of people reading these books gives me more courage than i have had for--for some time." "is it so!" ejaculated the little man, relapsing into the german idiom of his youth. "it is," answered the rector, with an emphasis not to be denied. "i wish you would give me your theory about this phenomenon, and speak frankly." "but i thought--" the bewildered librarian began. "i saw you had been reading those books, but i thought--" "naturally you did," said holder, smiling. his personality, his ascendency, his poise, suddenly felt by the other, were still more confusing. "you thought me a narrow, complacent, fashionable priest who had no concern as to what happened outside the walls of his church, who stuck obstinately to dogmas and would give nothing else a hearing. well, you were right." "ah, i didn't think all that," mr. engel protested, and his parchment skin actually performed the miracle of flushing. "i am not so stupid. and once, long ago when i was young, i was going to be a minister myself." "what prevented you?" asked holder, interested. "you want me to be frank--yes, well, i couldn't take the vows." the brown eyes of the quiet, humorous, self-contained and dried-up custodian of the city's reading flamed up. "i felt the call," he exclaimed. "you may not credit it to look at me now, mr. hodder. they said to me, 'here is what you must swear to believe before you can make men and women happier and more hopeful, rescue them from sin and misery!' you know what it was." hodder nodded. "it was a crime. it had nothing to do with religion. i thought it over for a year--i couldn't. oh, i have since been thankful. i can see now what would have happened to me--i should have had fatty degeneration of the soul." the expression was not merely forcible, it was overwhelming. it brought up before holder's mind, with sickening reality, the fate he had himself escaped. fatty degeneration of the soul! the little man, seeing the expression on the rector's face, curbed his excitement, and feared he had gone too far. "you will pardon me!" he said penitently, "i forget myself. i did not mean all clergymen." "i have never heard it put so well," holder declared. "that is exactly what occurs in many cases." "yes, it is that," said engel, still puzzled, but encouraged, eyeing the strong face of the other. "and they lament that the ministry hasn't more big men. sometimes they get one with the doctrinal type of mind --a newman--but how often? and even a newman would be of little avail to-day. it is eucken who says that the individual, once released from external authority, can never be turned back to it. and they have been released by the hundreds of thousands ever since luther's time, are being freed by the hundreds of thousands to-day. democracy, learning, science, are releasing them, and no man, no matter how great he may be, can stem that tide. the able men in the churches now--like your phillips brooks, who died too soon--are beginning to see this. they are those who developed after the vows of the theological schools were behind them. remove those vows, and you will see the young men come. young men are idealists, mr. hodder, and they embrace other professions where the mind is free, and which are not one whit better paid than the ministry. "and what is the result," he cried, "of the senseless insistence on the letter instead of the spirit of the poetry of religion? matthew arnold was a thousand times right when he inferred that jesus christ never spoke literally and yet he is still being taken literally by most churches, and all the literal sayings which were put into his mouth are maintained as gospel truth! what is the result of proclaiming christianity in terms of an ancient science and theology which awaken no quickening response in the minds and hearts of to-day? that!" the librarian thrust a yellow hand towards the pile of books. "the new wine has burst the old skin and is running all over the world. ah, my friend, if you could only see, as i do, the yearning for a satisfying religion which exists in this big city! it is like a vacuum, and those books are rushing to supply it. i little thought," he added dreamily, "when i renounced the ministry in so much sorrow that one day i should have a church of my own. this library is my church, and men and women of all creeds come here by the thousands. but you must pardon me. i have been carried away--i forgot myself." "mr. engel," replied the rector, "i want you to regard me as one of your parishioners." the librarian looked at him mutely, and the practical, desiccated little person seemed startlingly transformed into a mediaeval, german mystic. "you are a great man, mr. hodder," he said. "i might have guessed it." it was one of the moments when protest would have been trite, superfluous. and hodder, in truth, felt something great swelling within him, something that was not himself, and yet strangely was. but just what--in view of his past strict orthodoxy and limited congregation --mr. engel meant, he could not have said. had the librarian recognized, without confession on his part, the change in him? divined his future intentions? "it is curious that i should have met you this morning, mr. engel," he said. "i expressed surprise when you declared this was a religious age, because you corroborated something i had felt, but of which i had no sufficient proof. i felt that a great body of unsatisfied men and women existed, but that i was powerless to get in touch with them; i had discovered that truth, as you have so ably pointed out, is disguised and distorted by ancient dogmas; and that the old authority, as you say, no longer carries weight." "have you found the new one?" mr. engel demanded. "i think i have," the rector answered calmly, "it lies in personality. i do not know whether you will agree with me that the church at large has a future, and i will confess to you that there was a time when i thought she had not. i see now that she has, once given to her ministers that freedom to develop of which you speak. in spite of the fact that truth has gradually been revealed to the world by what may be called an apostolic succession of personalities,--augustine, dante, francis of assisi, luther, shakespeare, milton, and our own lincoln and phillips brooks,--to mention only a few,--the church as a whole has been blind to it. she has insisted upon putting the individual in a straitjacket, she has never recognized that growth is the secret of life, that the clothes of one man are binding on another." "ah, you are right--a thousand times right," cried the librarian. "you have read royce, perhaps, when he says, 'this mortal shall put on individuality--'" "no," said the rector, outwardly cool, but inwardly excited by the coruscation of this magnificent paraphrase of paul's sentence, by the extraordinary turn the conversation had taken. "i am ashamed to own that i have not followed the development of modern philosophy. the books i have just returned, on historical criticism," he went on, after a moment's hesitation, "infer what my attitude has been toward modern thought. we were made acquainted with historical criticism in the theological seminary, but we were also taught to discount it. i have discounted it, refrained from reading it,--until now. and yet i have heard it discussed in conferences, glanced over articles in the reviews. i had, you see, closed the door of my mind. i was in a state where arguments make no impression." the librarian made a gesture of sympathetic assent, which was also a tribute to the clergyman's frankness. "you will perhaps wonder how i could have lived these years in an atmosphere of modern thought and have remained uninfluenced. well, i have recently been wondering--myself." hodder smiled. "the name of royce is by no means unfamiliar to me, and he taught at harvard when i was an undergraduate. but the prevailing philosophy of that day among the students was naturalism. i represent a revolt from it. at the seminary i imbibed a certain amount of religious philosophy--but i did not continue it, as thousands of my more liberal fellow-clergymen have done. my religion 'worked' during the time, at least, i remained in my first parish. i had no interest in reconciling, for instance, the doctrine of evolution with the argument for design. since i have been here in this city," he added, simply, "my days have been filled with a continued perplexity--when i was not too busy to think. yes, there was an unacknowledged element of fear in my attitude, though i comforted myself with the notion that opinions, philosophical and scientific, were in a state of flux." "yes, yes," said mr. engel, "i comprehend. but, from the manner in which you spoke just now, i should have inferred that you have been reading modern philosophy--that of the last twenty years. ah, you have something before you, mr. hodder. you will thank god, with me, for that philosophy. it has turned the tide, set the current running the other way. philosophy is no longer against religion, it is with it. and if you were to ask me to name one of the greatest religious teachers of our age, i should answer, william james. and there is royce, of whom i spoke,--one of our biggest men. the dominant philosophies of our times have grown up since arnold wrote his 'literature and dogma,' and they are in harmony with the quickening social spirit of the age, which is a religious spirit--a christian spirit, i call it. christianity is coming to its own. these philosophies, which are not so far apart, are the flower of the thought of the centuries, of modern science, of that most extraordinary of discoveries, modern psychology. and they are far from excluding religion, from denying the essential of christ's teachings. on the other hand, they grant that the motive-power of the world is spiritual. "and this," continued mr. engel, "brings me to another aspect of authority. i wonder if it has struck you? in mediaeval times, when a bishop spoke ex cathedra, his authority, so far as it carried weight, came from two sources. first, the supposed divine charter of the church to save and damn. that authority is being rapidly swept away. second, he spoke with all the weight of the then accepted science and philosophy. but as soon as the new science began to lay hold on people's minds, as --for instance--when galileo discovered that the earth moved instead of the sun (and the pope made him take it back), that second authority began to crumble too. in the nineteenth century science had grown so strong that the situation looked hopeless. religion had apparently irrevocably lost that warrant also, and thinking men not spiritually inclined, since they had to make a choice between science and religion, took science as being the more honest, the more certain. "and now what has happened? the new philosophies have restored your second authority, and your first, as you properly say, is replaced by the conception of personality. personality is nothing but the rehabilitation of the prophet, the seer. get him, as hatch says, back into your church. the priests with their sacrifices and automatic rites, the logicians, have crowded him out. why do we read the old testament at all? not for the laws of the levites, not for the battles and hangings, but for the inspiration of the prophets. the authority of the prophet comes through personality, the source of which is in what myers calls the infinite spiritual world--in god. it was christ's own authority. "and as for your other authority, your ordinary man, when he reads modern philosophy, says to himself, this does not conflict with science? but he gets no hint, when he goes to most churches, that there is, between the two, no real quarrel, and he turns away in despair. he may accept the pragmatism of james, the idealism of royce, or even what is called neo realism. in any case, he gains the conviction that a force for good is at worn in the world, and he has the incentive to become part of it..... but i have given you a sermon!" "for which i can never be sufficiently, grateful," said hodder, with an earnestness not to be mistaken. the little man's eyes rested admiringly, and not without emotion, on the salient features of the tall clergyman. and when he spoke again, it was in acknowledgment of the fact that he had read hodder's purpose. "you will have opposition, my friend. they will fight you--some persons we know. they do not wish--what you and i desire. but you will not surrender--i knew it." mr. engel broke off abruptly, and rang a bell on his desk. "i will make out for you a list. i hope you may come in again, often. we shall have other talks,--yes? i am always here." then it came to pass that hodder carried back with him another armful of books. those he had brought back were the levellers of the false. these were the builders of the true. ii hodder had known for many years that the writings of josiah royce and of william james had "been in the air," so to speak, and he had heard them mentioned at dinner parties by his more intellectual parishioners, such as mrs. constable and martha preston. now he was able to smile at his former attitude toward these moderns, whose perusal he had deprecated as treason to the saints! and he remembered his horror on having listened to a fellow-clergyman discuss with calmness the plan of the "varieties of religious experiences." a sacrilegious dissection of the lives of these very saints! the scientific process, the theories of modern psychology applied with sang-froid to the workings of god in the human soul! science he had regarded as the proclaimed enemy of religion, and in these days of the apotheosis of science not even sacred things were spared. now hodder saw what the little librarian had meant by an authority restored. the impartial method of modern science had become so firmly established in the mind of mankind by education and reading that the ancient unscientific science of the roman empire, in which orthodox christianity was clothed, no longer carried authority. in so far as modern science had discovered truth, religion had no quarrel with it. and if theology pretended to be the science of religion, surely it must submit to the test of the new science! the dogged clinging to the archaic speculations of apologists, saints, and schoolmen had brought religion to a low ebb indeed. one of the most inspiring books he read was by an english clergyman of his own church whom he had formerly looked upon as a heretic, with all that the word had once implied. it was a frank yet reverent study of the self-consciousness of christ, submitting the life and teachings of jesus to modern criticism and the scientific method. and the saviour's divinity, rather than being lessened, was augmented. hodder found it infinitely refreshing that the so-called articles of christian belief, instead of being put first and their acceptance insisted upon, were made the climax of the investigation. religion, he began to perceive, was an undertaking, are attempt to find unity and harmony of the soul by adopting, after mature thought, a definite principle in life. if harmony resulted,--if the principle worked, it was true. hodder kept an open mind, but he became a pragmatist so far. science, on the other hand, was in a sphere by herself, and need have no conflict with religion; science was not an undertaking, but an impartial investigation by close observation of facts in nature. her object was to discover truths by these methods alone. she had her theories, indeed, but they must be submitted to rigorous tests. this from a book by professor perry, an advocate of the new realism. on the other hand there were signs that modern science, by infinitesimal degrees, might be aiding in the solution of the mystery . . . . but religion, hodder saw, was trusting. not credulous, silly trusting, but thoughtful trusting, accepting such facts as were definitely known. faith was trusting. and faith without works was dead simply because there could be no faith without works. there was no such thing as belief that did not result in act. a paragraph which made a profound impression on hodder at that time occurs in james's essay, "is life worth living?" "now-what do i mean by i trusting? is the word to carry with it license to define in detail an invisible world, and to authorize and excommunicate those whose trust is different? . . our faculties of belief were not given us to make orthodoxies and heresies withal; they were given us to live by. and to trust our religions demands men first of all to live in the light of them, and to act as if the invisible world which they suggest were real. it is a fact of human nature that man can live and die by the help of a sort of faith that goes without a single dogma and definition." yet it was not these religious philosophies which had saved him, though the stimulus of their current had started his mind revolving like a motor. their function, he perceived now, was precisely to compel him to see what had saved him, to reenforce it with the intellect, with the reason, and enable him to save others. the current set up,--by a thousand suggestions of which he made notes,--a personal construction, coordination, and he had the exhilaration of feeling, within him, a creative process all his own. behold a mystery 'a paradox'--one of many. as his strength grew greater day by day, as his vision grew clearer, he must exclaim with paul: "yet not i, but the grace of god which was with me!" he, hodder, was but an instrument transmitting power. and yet--oh paradox!--the instrument continued to improve, to grow stronger, to develop individuality and personality day by day! life, present and hereafter, was growth, development, the opportunity for service in a cause. to cease growing was to die. he perceived at last the form all religion takes is that of consecration to a cause,--one of god's many causes. the meaning of life is to find one's cause, to lose one's self in it. his was the liberation of the word,--now vouchsafed to him; the freeing of the spark from under the ashes. the phrase was alison's. to help liberate the church, fan into flame the fire which was to consume the injustice, the tyranny, the selfishness of the world, until the garvins, the kate marcys, the stunted children, and anaemic women were no longer possible. it was royce who, in one illuminating sentence, solved for him the puzzle, pointed out whence his salvation had come. "for your cause can only be revealed to you through some presence that first teaches you to love the unity of the spiritual life. . . you must find it in human shape." horace bentley! he, hodder, had known this, but known it vaguely, without sanction. the light had shone for him even in the darkness of that night in dalton street, when he thought to have lost it forever. and he had awakened the next morning, safe,--safe yet bewildered, like a half drowned man on warm sands in the sun. "the will of the spiritual world, the divine will, revealed in man." what sublime thoughts, as old as the cross itself, yet continually and eternally new! iii there was still another whose face was constantly before him, and the reflection of her distressed yet undaunted soul,--alison parr. the contemplation of her courage, of her determination to abide by nothing save the truth, had had a power over him that he might not estimate, and he loved her as a man loves a woman, for her imperfections. and he loved her body and her mind. one morning, as he walked back from mrs. bledsoe's through an unfrequented, wooded path of the park, he beheld her as he had summoned her in his visions. she was sitting motionless, gazing before her with clear eyes, as at the fates. . . she started on suddenly perceiving him, but it was characteristic of her greeting that she seemed to feel no surprise at the accident which had brought them together. "i am afraid," he said, smiling, "that i have broken in on some profound reflections." she did not answer at once, but looked up at him, as he stood over her, with one of her strange, baffling gazes, in which there was the hint of a welcoming smile. "reflection seems to be a circular process with me," she answered. "i never get anywhere--like you." "like me!" he exclaimed, seating himself on the bench. apparently their intercourse, so long as it should continue, was destined to be on the basis of intimacy in which it had begun. it was possible at once to be aware of her disturbing presence, and yet to feel at home in it. "like you, yes," she said, continuing to examine him. "you've changed remarkably." in his agitation, at this discovery of hers he again repeated her words. "why, you seem happier, you look happier. it isn't only that, i can't explain how you impress me. it struck me when you were talking to mr. bentley the other day. you seem to see something you didn't see when i first met you, that you didn't see the first time we were at mr. bentley's together. your attitude is fixed--directed. you have made a decision of some sort--a momentous one, i rather think." "yes," he replied, "you are right. it's more than remarkable that you should have guessed it." she remained silent "i have decided," he found himself saying abruptly, "to continue in the church." still she was silent, until he wondered whether she would answer him. he had often speculated to himself how she would take this decision, but he could make no surmise from her expression as she stared off into the wood. presently she turned her head, slowly, and looked into his face. still she did not speak. "you are wondering how i can do it," he said. "yes," she acknowledged, in a low voice. "i should like you to know--that is why i spoke of it. you have never asked me, and i have never told you that the convictions i formerly held i lost. and with them, for a while, went everything. at least so i believed." "i knew it," she answered, "i could see that, too." "when i argued with you, that afternoon,--the last time we talked together alone,--i was trying to convince myself, and you--" he hesitated, "--that there was something. the fact that you could not seem to feel it stimulated me." he read in her eyes that she understood him. and he dared not, nor did he need to emphasize further his own intense desire that she should find a solution of her own. "i wish you to know what i am telling you for two reasons," he went on. "it was you who spoke the words that led to the opening of my eyes to the situation into which i had been drifting for two years, who compelled me to look upon the inconsistencies and falsities which had gradually been borne in upon me. it was you, i think, who gave me the courage to face this situation squarely, since you possess that kind of courage yourself." "oh, no," she cried. "you would have done it anyway." he paused a moment, to get himself in hand. "for this reason, i owed it to you to speak--to thank you. i have realized, since that first meeting, that you became my friend then, and that you spoke as a friend. if you had not believed in my sincerity, you would not have spoken. i wish you to know that i am fully aware and grateful for the honour you did me, and that i realize it is not always easy for you to speak so--to any one." she did not reply. "there is another reason for my telling you now of this decision of mine to remain a clergyman," he continued. "it is because i value your respect and friendship, and i hope you will believe that i would not take this course unless i saw my way clear to do it with sincerity." "one has only to look at you to see that you are sincere," she said gently, with a thrill in her voice that almost unmanned him. "i told you once that i should never have forgiven myself if i had wrecked your life. i meant it. i am very glad." it was his turn to be silent. "just because i cannot see how it would be possible to remain in the church after one had been--emancipated, so to speak,"--she smiled at him,--"is no reason why you may not have solved the problem." such was the superfine quality of her honesty. yet she trusted him! he was made giddy by a desire, which he fought down, to justify himself before her. his eye beheld her now as the goddess with the scales in her hand, weighing and accepting with outward calm the verdict of the balance . . . . outward calm, but inner fire. "it makes no difference," she pursued evenly, bent on choosing her words, "that i cannot personally understand your emancipation, that mine is different. i can only see the preponderance of evil, of deception, of injustice--it is that which shuts out everything else. and it's temperamental, i suppose. by looking at you, as i told you, i can see that your emancipation is positive, while mine remains negative. you have somehow regained a conviction that the good is predominant, that there is some purpose in the universe." he assented. once more she relapsed into thought, while he sat contemplating her profile. she turned to him again with a tremulous smile. "but isn't a conviction that the good is predominant, that there is a purpose in the universe, a long way from the positive assertions in the creeds?" she asked. "i remember, when i went through what you would probably call disintegration, and which seemed to me enlightenment, that the creeds were my first stumbling-blocks. it seemed wrong to repeat them." "i am glad you spoke of this," he replied gravely. "i have arrived at many answers to that difficulty--which did not give me the trouble i had anticipated. in the first place, i am convinced that it was much more of a difficulty ten, twenty, thirty years ago than it is to-day. that which i formerly thought was a radical tendency towards atrophy, the drift of the liberal party in my own church and others, as well as that which i looked upon with some abhorrence as the free-thinking speculation of many modern writers, i have now come to see is reconstruction. the results of this teaching of religion in modern terms are already becoming apparent, and some persons are already beginning to see that the creeds express certain elemental truths in frankly archaic language. all this should be explained in the churches and the sunday schools,--is, in fact, being explained in some, and also in books for popular reading by clergymen of my own church, both here and in england. we have got past the critical age." she followed him closely, but did not interrupt. "i do not mean to say that the creeds are not the sources of much misunderstanding, but in my opinion they do not constitute a sufficient excuse for any clergyman to abandon his church on account of them. indeed there are many who interpret them by modern thought--which is closer to the teachings of christ than ancient thought--whose honesty cannot be questioned. personally, i think that the creeds either ought to be taken out of the service; or changed, or else there should be a note inserted in the service and catechism definitely permitting a liberal interpretation which is exactly what so many clergymen, candidly, do now. "when i was ordained a deacon, and then a priest, i took vows which would appear to be literally conflicting. compelled to choose between these vows, i accept that as supreme which i made when i affirmed that i would teach nothing which i should be persuaded might not be concluded and affirmed by the scripture. the creeds were derived from the scripture --not the scripture from the creeds. as an individual among a body of christians i am powerless to change either the ordinal vows or the creeds, i am obliged to wait for the consensus of opinion. but if, on the whole, i can satisfy my conscience in repeating the creeds and reading the service, as other honest men are doing--if i am convinced that i have an obvious work to do in that church, it would be cowardly for me to abandon that work." her eyes lighted up. "i see what you mean," she said, "by staying in you can do many things that you could not do, you can help to bring about the change, by being frank. that is your point of view. you believe m the future of the church." "i believe in an universal, christian organization," he replied. "but while stronger men are honest," she objected, "are not your ancient vows and ancient creeds continually making weaker men casuists?" "undoubtedly," he agreed vigorously, and thought involuntarily of mr. engel's phrased fatty degeneration of the soul. "yet i can see the signs, on all sides, of a gradual emancipation, of which i might be deemed an example." a smile came into his eyes, like the sun on a grey-green sea. "oh, you could never be a casuist!" she exclaimed, with a touch of vehemence. "you are much too positive. it is just that note, which is characteristic of so many clergymen, that note of smoothing-over and apology, which you lack. i could never feel it, even when you were orthodox. and now--" words failed her as she inspected his ruggedness. "and now," he took her up, to cover his emotion, "now i am not to be classified!" still examining him, she reflected on this. "classified?" isn't it because you're so much of an individual that one fails to classify you? you represent something new to my experience, something which seems almost a contradiction--an emancipated church." "you imagined me out of the church,--but where?" he demanded. "that's just it," she wondered intimately, "where? when i try, i can see no other place for you. your place as in the pulpit." he uttered a sharp exclamation, which she did not heed. "i can't imagine you doing institutional work, as it is called,--you're not fitted for it, you'd be wasted in it. you gain by the historic setting of the church, and yet it does not absorb you. free to preach your convictions, unfettered, you will have a power over people that will be tremendous. you have a very strong personality." she set his heart, his mind, to leaping by this unexpected confirmation on her part of his hopes, and yet the man in him was intent upon the woman. she had now the air of detached judgment, while he could not refrain from speculating anxiously on the effect of his future course on her and on their intimate relationship. he forbore from thinking, now, of the looming events which might thrust them apart,--put a physical distance between them,--his anxiety was concerned with the possible snapping of the thread of sympathy which had bound them. in this respect, he dreaded her own future as much as his own. what might she do? for he felt, in her, a potential element of desperation; a capacity to commit, at any moment, an irretrievable act. "once you have made your ideas your own," she mused, "you will have the power of convincing people." "and yet--" "and yet"--she seized his unfinished sentence, "you are not at all positive of convincing me. i'll give you the credit of forbearing to make proselytes." she smiled at him. thus she read him again. "if you call making proselytes a desire to communicate a view of life which gives satisfaction--" he began, in his serious way. "oh, i want to be convinced!" she exclaimed, penitently, "i'd give anything to feel as you feel. there's something lacking in me, there must be, and i have only seen the disillusionizing side. you infer that the issue of the creeds will crumble,--preach the new, and the old will fall away of itself. but what is the new? how, practically, do you deal with the creeds? we have got off that subject." "you wish to know?" he asked. "yes--i wish to know." "the test of any doctrine is whether it can be translated into life, whether it will make any difference to the individual who accepts it. the doctrines expressed in the creeds must stand or fall by the test. consider, for instance, the fundamental doctrine in the creeds, that of the trinity, which has been much scoffed at. a belief in god, you will admit, has an influence on conduct, and the trinity defines the three chief aspects of the god in whom christians believe. of what use to quarrel with the word person if god be conscious? and the character of god has an influence on conduct. the ancients deemed him wrathful, jealous, arbitrary, and hence flung themselves before him and propitiated him. if the conscious god of the universe be good, he is spoken of as a father. he is as once, in this belief, father and creator. and inasmuch as it is known that the divine qualities enter into man, and that one man, jesus, whose composite portrait--it is agreed--could not have been factitiously invented, was filled with them, we speak of god in man as the son. and the spirit of god that enters into the soul of man, transforming, inspiring, and driving him, is the third person, so-called. there is no difficulty so far, granted the initial belief in a beneficent god. "if we agree that life has a meaning, and, in order to conform to the purpose of the spirit of the universe, must be lived in one way, we certainly cannot object to calling that right way of living, that decree of the spirit, the word. "the incarnate word, therefore, is the concrete example of a human being completely filled with the spirit, who lives a perfect life according to its decree. ancient greek philosophy called this decree, this meaning of life, the logos, and the nicene creed is a confession of faith in that philosophy. although this creed is said to have been, scandalously forced through the council of nicaea by an emperor who had murdered his wife and children, and who himself was unbaptized, against a majority of bishops who would, if they had dared constantine's displeasure, have given the conscience freer play, to-day the difficulty has, practically disappeared. the creed is there in the prayer book, and so long as it remains we are at liberty to interpret the ancient philosophy in which it is written--and which in any event could not have been greatly improved upon at that time--in our own modern way, as i am trying to explain it to you. "christ was identified with the logos, or word, which must have had a meaning for all time, before and after its, complete revelation. and this is what the nicene creed is trying to express when it says, 'begotten of his father before all worlds.' in other words, the purpose which christ revealed always existed. the awkward expression of the ancients, declaring that he 'came down' for our salvation (enlightenment) contains a fact we may prove by experience, if we accept the meaning he put upon existence, and adopt this meaning as our scheme of life. but we: must first be quite clear, as: to this meaning. we may and do express all this differently, but it has a direct bearing on life. it is the doctrine of the incarnation. we begins to perceive through it that our own incarnations mean something, and that our task is to discover what they do mean--what part in the world purpose we are designed to play here. "incarnate by the holy ghost of the virgin mary is an emphasis on the fact that man born of woman may be divine. but the ignorant masses of the people of the roman empire were undoubtedly incapable of grasping a theory of the incarnation put forward in the terms of greek philosophy; while it was easy for them, with their readiness to believe in nature miracles, to accept the explanation of christ's unique divinity as due to actual, physical generation by the spirit. and the wide belief in the empire in gods born in this way aided such a conception. many thousands were converted to christianity when a place was found in that religion for a feminine goddess, and these abandoned the worship of isis, demeter, and diana for that of the virgin mary. thus began an evolution which is still going on, and we see now that it was impossible that the world should understand at once the spiritual meaning of life as christ taught it--that material facts merely symbolize the divine. for instance, the gospel of john has been called the philosophical or spiritual gospel. and in spite of the fact that it has been assailed and historically discredited by modern critics, for me it serves to illuminate certain truths of christ's message and teaching that the other gospels do not. mark, the earliest gospel, does not refer to the miraculous birth. at the commencements of matthew and luke you will read of it, and it is to be noted that the rest of these narratives curiously and naively contradict it. now why do we find the miraculous birth in these gospels if it had not been inserted in order to prove, in a manner acceptable to simple and unlettered minds, the theory of the incarnation, christ's preexistence? i do not say the insertion was deliberate. and it is difficult for us moderns to realize the polemic spirit in which the gospels were written. they were clearly not written as history. the concern of the authors, i think, was to convert their readers to christ. "when we turn to john, what do we find? in the opening verses of this gospel the incarnation is explained, not by a virgin birth, but in a manner acceptable to the educated and spiritually-minded, in terms of the philosophy of the day. and yet how simply! 'in the beginning was the word, and the word was with god, and the word was god.' i prefer john's explanation. "it is historically true that, in the earlier days when the apostles' creed was put forth, the phrase 'born of they virgin mary' was inserted for the distinct purpose of laying stress on the humanity of christ, and to controvert the assertion of the gnostic sect that he was not born at all, but appeared in the world in some miraculous way. "thus to-day, by the aid of historical research, we are enabled to regard the creeds in the light of their usefulness to life. the myth of the virgin birth probably arose through the zeal of some of the writers of the gospels to prove that the prophecy of isaiah predicted the advent of the jewish messiah who should be born of a virgin. modern scholars are agreed that the word olmah which isaiah uses does not mean virgin, but young woman. there is quite a different hebrew word for 'virgin.' the jews, at the time the gospels were written, and before, had forgotten their ancient hebrew. knowing this mistake, and how it arose, we may repeat the word virgin mary in the sense used by many early christians, as designating the young woman who was the mother of christ. "i might mention one or two other phrases, archaic and obscure. 'the resurrection of the body' may refer to the phenomenon of christ's reappearance after death, for which modern psychology may or may not account. a little reflection, however, convinces one that the phenomenon did take place in some manner, or else, i think, we should never have heard of christ. you will remember that the apostles fled after his death on the cross, believing what he had told them was all only a dream. they were human, literal and cowardly, and they still needed some kind of inner, energizing conviction that the individuality persisted after death, that the solution of human life was victory over it, in order to gain the courage to go out and preach the gospel and face death themselves. and it was paul who was chiefly instrumental in freeing the message from the narrow bounds of palestine and sending it ringing down the ages to us. the miracle doesn't lie in what paul saw, but in the whole man transformed, made incandescent, journeying tirelessly to the end of his days up and down the length and breadth of the empire, labouring, as he says, more abundantly than they all. it is idle to say that the thing which can transform a man's entire nature and life is not a reality." she had listened, motionless, as under the spell of his words. self-justification, as he proceeded, might easily have fused itself into a desire to convince her of the truth of his beliefs. but he was not deceived, he knew her well enough to understand, to feel the indomitable spirit of resistance in her. swayed she could be, but she would mot easily surrender. "there is another phrase," she said after a moment, "which i have never heard explained, 'descended into hell.'" "it was merely a matter of controverting those who declared christ was taken from the cross before he died. in the childish science of the time, to say that one descended into hell was to affirm that he was actually dead, since the souls of the departed were supposed to go at once to hell. hell and heaven were definite places. to say that christ ascended to heaven and sat on the right hand of the father is to declare one's faith that his responsible work in the spiritual realm continues." "and the atonement? doesn't that imply a sacrifice of propitiation?" "atonement may be pronounced at-one-ment," hodder replied. "the old idea, illustrated by a reference to the sacrifice of the ancients, fails to convey the truth to modern minds. and moreover, as i have inferred, these matters had to be conveyed in symbols until mankind were prepared to grasp the underlying spiritual truths which christ sought to convey. orthodox christianity has been so profoundly affected by the ancient jewish religion that the conception of god as wrathful and jealous--a god wholly outside--has persisted to our times. the atonement means union with the spirit of the universe through vicarious suffering, and experience teaches us that our own sufferings are of no account unless they be for a cause, for the furtherance of the design of the beneficent spirit which is continually at work. christ may be said to have died for humanity because he had to suffer death itself in order to reveal the complete meaning of life. you once spoke to me about the sense of sin --of being unable to feel it." she glanced at him quickly, but did not speak. "there is a theory concerning this," he continued, "which has undoubtedly helped many people, and which may be found in the writings of certain modern psychologists. it is that we have a conscious, or lower, human self, and a subconscious, or better self. this subconscious self stretches down, as it were, into the depths of the universe and taps the source of spiritual power. and it is through the subconscious self that every man is potentially divine. potentially, because the conscious self has to reach out by an effort of the will to effect this union with the spiritual in the subconscious, and when it is effected, it comes from the response of the subconscious. apparently from without, as a gift, and therefore, in theological language, it is called grace. this is what is meant by being born again, the incarnation of the spirit in the conscious, or human. the two selves are no longer divided, and the higher self assumes control,--takes the reins, so to speak. "it is interesting, as a theory. and the fact that it has been seriously combated by writers who deny such a function of the subconscious does not at all affect the reality of the experience. "once we have had a vision of the true meaning of life a vision which stirs the energies of our being, what is called 'a sense of sin' inevitably follows. it is the discontent, the regret, in the light of a higher knowledge, for the: lost opportunities, for a past life which has been uncontrolled by any unifying purpose, misspent in futile undertakings, wasted, perhaps, in follies and selfish caprices which have not only harmed ourselves but others. although we struggle, yet by habit, by self-indulgence, by lack of a sustained purpose, we have formed a character from which escape seems hopeless. and we realize that in order to change ourselves, an actual regeneration of the will is necessary. for awhile, perchance, we despair of this. the effort to get out of the rut we have made for ourselves seems of no avail. and it is not, indeed, until we arrive, gradually or otherwise, and through a proper interpretation of the life of christ, at the conviction that we may even never become useful in the divine scheme that we have a sense of what is called 'the forgiveness of sins.' this conviction, this grace, this faith to embark on the experiment accomplishes of itself the revival of the will, the rebirth which we had thought impossible. we discover our task, high or humble,--our cause. we grow marvellously at one with god's purpose, and we feel that our will is acting in the same direction as his. and through our own atonement we see the meaning of that other atonement which led christ to the cross. we see that our conviction, our grace, has come through him, and how he died for our sins." "it's quite wonderful how logical and simple you make it, how thoroughly you have gone into it. you have solved it for yourself--and you will solve it for others many others." she rose, and he, too, got to his feet with a medley of feelings. the path along which they walked was already littered with green acorns. a gray squirrel darted ahead of them, gained a walnut and paused, quivering, halfway up the trunk, to gaze back at them. and the glance she presently gave him seemed to partake of the shyness of the wild thing. "thank you for explaining it to me," she said. "i hope you don't think--" he began. "oh, it isn't that!" she cried, with unmistakable reproach. "i asked you --i made you tell me. it hasn't seemed at all like--the confessional," she added, and smiled and blushed at the word. "you have put it so nicely, so naturally, and you have given me so much to think about. but it all depends--doesn't it?--upon whether one can feel the underlying truth of which you spoke in the first place; it rests upon a sense of the prevailing goodness of things. it seems to me cruel that what is called salvation, the solution of the problem of life, should depend upon an accidental discovery. we are all turned loose with our animal passions and instincts, of self-preservation, by an indifferent creator, in a wilderness, and left to find our way out as best we can. you answer that christ showed us the way. there are elements in his teaching i cannot accept--perhaps because i have been given a wrong interpretation of them. i shall ask you more questions some day. "but even then," she continued, "granted that christ brought the complete solution, as you say, why should so many millions have lived and died, before and after his coming, who had suffered so, and who had never heard of him? that is the way my reason works, and i can't help it. i would help it if i could." "isn't it enough," he asked, "to know that a force is at work combating evil,--even if you are not yet convinced that it is a prevailing force? can you not trust that it will be a prevailing force, if your sympathies are with it, without demanding a revelation of the entire scheme of the universe? of what use is it to doubt the eternal justice?" "oh, use!" she cried, "i grant you its uselessness. doubt seems an ingrained quality. i can't help being a fatalist." "and yet you have taken your life in your own hands," he reminded her, gently. "only to be convinced of its futility," she replied. again, momentarily thrust back into himself, he wondered jealously once more what the disillusionments had been of that experience from before which she seemed, at times, ready to draw back a little the veil. "a sense of futility is a sense of incompleteness," he said, "and generally precedes a sense of power." "ah, you have gained that! yet it must always have been latent in you --you make one feel it. but now!" she exclaimed, as though the discovery had just dawned on her, "now you will need power, now you will have to fight as you have never fought in your life." he found her enthusiasm as difficult to withstand as her stoicism. "yes, i shall have to fight," he admitted. her partisanship was sweet. "when you tell them what you have told me," she continued, as though working it out in her own mind, "they will never submit to it, if they can help it. my father will never submit to it. they will try to put you out, as a heretic,--won't they?" "i have an idea that they will," he conceded, with a smile. "and won't they succeed? haven't they the power?" "it depends,--in the first place, on whether the bishop thinks me a heretic." "have you asked him?" "no." "but can't they make you resign?" "they can deprive me of my salary." she did not press this. "you mustn't think me a martyr," he pleaded, in a lighter tone. she paid no heed to this protest, but continued to regard him with a face lighted by enthusiasm. "oh, that's splendid of you!" she cried. "you are going to speak the truth as you see it, and let them do their worst. of course, fundamentally, it isn't merely because they're orthodox that they won't like it, although they'll say so, and perhaps think so. it will be because if you have really found the truth--they will instinctively, fear its release. for it has a social bearing, too--hasn't it?--although you haven't explained that part of it." "it has a distinct social bearing," he replied, amazed at the way her mind flew forward and grasped the entire issue, in spite of the fact that her honesty still refused to concede his premises. such were the contradictions in her that he loved. and, though she did not suspect it, she had in her the crusader's spirit. "i have always remembered what you once said, that many who believed themselves christians had an instinctive feeling that there is a spark in christianity which, if allowed to fly, would start a conflagration beyond their control. and that they had covered the spark with ashes. i, too," he added whimsically, "was buried under the ashes." "and the spark," she demanded, "is not socialism--their nightmare?" "the spark is christianity itself--but i am afraid they will not be able to distinguish it from socialism. the central paradox in christianity consists in the harmonizing of the individual and socialistic spirit, and this removes it as far from the present political doctrine of socialism as it is possible to be. christianity, looked at from a certain viewpoint,--and i think the proper viewpoint,--is the most individualistic of religions, since its basic principle is the development of the individual into an autonomous being." they stood facing each other on an open stretch of lawn. the place was deserted. through the trees, in the near distance, the sightless front of the ferguson mansion blazed under the september sun. "individualistic!" she repeated, as though dazed by the word applied to the religion she had discarded. "i can't understand. do you think i ever can understand?" she asked him, simply. "it seems to me you understand more than you are willing to give yourself credit for," he answered seriously. "you don't take into account your attitude." "i see what you mean--a willingness to take the right road, if i can find it. i am not at all sure that i want to take it. but you must tell me more--more of what you have discovered. will you?" he just hesitated. she herself appeared to acknowledge no bar to their further intimacy--why should he? "i will tell you all i know," he said. suddenly, as if by a transference of thought, she voiced what he had in mind. "you are going to tell them the truth about themselves!" she exclaimed. "--that they are not christians!" his silence was an admission. "you must see," he told her, after the moment they had looked into each other's faces, "that this is the main reason why i must stay at st. john's, in the church, if i conscientiously can." "i see. the easier course would be to resign, to have scruples. and you believe there is a future for the church." "i believe it," he assented. she still held his eyes. "yes, it is worth doing. if you see it that way it is more worth doing than anything else. please don't think," she said, "that i don't appreciate why you have told me all this, why you have given me your reasons. i know it hasn't been easy. it's because you wish me to have faith in you for my own sake, not for yours. and i am grateful." "and if that faith is justified, as you will help to justify it, that it may be transferred to a larger sphere," he answered. she gave him her hand, but did not reply. chapter xix mr. goodrich becomes a partisan i in these days of his preparation, she haunted him continually. in her he saw typified all those who possessed the: divine discontent, the yearning unsatisfied,--the fatalists and the dreamers. and yet she seemed to have risen through instinct to share the fire of his vision of religion revealed to the countless ranks of strugglers as the hidden motive-power of the world, the impetus of scientist, statesman, artist, and philanthropist! they had stood together on the heights of the larger view, whence the whole of the battle-line lay disclosed. at other and more poignant moments he saw her as waving him bravely on while he steamed out through towering seas to safety. the impression was that of smiling at her destiny. had she fixed upon it? and did she linger now only that she might inspire him in his charge? she was capable, he knew, of taking calmly the irrevocable step, of accepting the decree as she read it. the thought tortured, the desire to save her from herself obsessed him; with true clairvoyance she had divined him aright when she had said that he wished her to have faith in him for her own sake. could he save her in spite of herself? and how? he could not see her, except by chance. was she waiting until he should have crossed the bar before she should pay some inexorable penalty of which he knew nothing? thus he speculated, suffered, was at once cast down and lifted up by the thought of her. to him, at least, she was one of those rare and dauntless women, the red stars of history, by whom the dantes and leonardos are fired to express the inexpressible, and common clay is fused and made mad: one of those women who, the more they reveal, become the more inscrutable. divinely inarticulate, he called her; arousing the passion of the man, yet stirring the sublimer efforts of the god. what her feelings toward him, whether she loved him as a woman loves a man he could not say, no man being a judge in the supreme instance. she beheld him emancipated, perhaps, from what she might have called the fetters of an orthodoxy for which she felt an instinctive antagonism; but whether, though proclaiming himself free, the fact of his continuation in the ministry would not of itself set up in her a reaction, he was unable to predict. her antipathy to forms, he saw, was inherent. her interest --her fascinated absorption, it might be called--in his struggle was spiritual, indeed, but it also had mixed in it the individualistic zeal of the nonconformist. she resented the trammels of society; though she suffered from her efforts to transcend them. the course he had determined upon appeared to her as a rebellion not only against a cut-and-dried state of mind, but also against vested privilege. yet she had in her, as she confessed, the craving for what privilege brings in the way of harmonious surroundings. he loved her for her contradictions. thus he was utterly unable to see what the future held for him in the way of continued communion with her, to evolve any satisfactory theory as to why she remained in the city. she had told him that the gardens were an excuse. she had come, by her own intimation, to reflect, to decide some momentous question. marriage? he found this too agitating to dwell upon, summoning, as it did, conjectures of the men she might have known; and it was perhaps natural, in view of her attitude, that he could only think of such a decision on her part as surrender. that he had caught and held her attention, although by no conscious effort of his own, was clear to him. but had he not merely arrested her? would she not presently disappear, leaving only in his life the scarlet thread which she had woven into it for all time? would he not fail to change, permanently, the texture of hers? such were his hopes and fears concerning her, and they were mingled inextricably with other hopes and fears which had to do with the great venture of his life. he dwelt in a realm of paradoxes, discovered that exaltation was not incompatible with anxiety and dread. he had no thought of wavering; he had achieved to an extent he would not have believed possible the sense of consecration which brings with it indifference to personal fortunes, and the revelation of the inner world, and yet he shrank from the wounds he was about to receive--and give. outwardly controlled, he lived in the state of intense excitement of the leader waiting for the time to charge. ii the moment was at hand. september had waned, the nights were cooling, his parishioners were returning from the east. one of these was eleanor goodrich, whom he met on a corner, tanned and revived from her long summer in massachusetts. she had inherited the kindly shrewdness of glance characteristic of gentlefolk, the glance that seeks to penetrate externals in its concern for the well-being of those whom it scrutinizes. and he was subtly aware, though she greeted him cordially, that she felt a change in him without being able to account for it. "i hear you have been here all summer," she said reproachfully. "mother and father and all of us were much disappointed that you did not come to us on the cape." "i should have come, if it had been possible," he replied. "it seems to have done you a world of good." "oh, i!" she seemed slightly embarrassed, puzzled, and did not look at him. "i am burned as disgracefully as evelyn. phil came on for a month. "he tells me he hasn't seen you, but that isn't surprising, for he hasn't been to church since june--and he's a vestryman now, too." she was in mourning for her father-in-law, who had died in the spring. phil goodrich had taken his place. eleanor found the conversation, somehow, drifting out of her control. it was not at all what she would have desired to say. her colour heightened. "i have not been conducting the services, but i resume them next sunday," said the rector. "i ought to tell you," he went on, regarding her, "in view of the conversation we have had, that i have changed my mind concerning a great many things we have talked about--although i have not spoken of this as yet to any of the members of the congregation." she was speechless, and could only stare at him blankly. "i mean," he continued, with a calmness that astonished her afterwards, "that i have changed my whole conception as to the functions and future of the church, that i have come to your position, that we must make up our minds for ourselves, and not have them made up for us. and that we must examine into the truth of all statements, and be governed accordingly." her attitude was one of mingled admiration, concern, and awe. and he saw that she had grasped something of the complications which his course was likely to bring about. "but you are not going to leave us!" she managed to exclaim. "not if it is possible to remain," he said, smiling. "i am so glad." she was still overpowered by the disclosure. "it is good of you to tell me. do you mind my telling phil?" "not at all," he assured her. "will you forgive me," she asked, after a slight pause during which she had somewhat regained her composure, "if i say that i always thought, or rather hoped you would change? that your former beliefs seemed so--unlike you?" he continued to smile at her as she stepped forward to take the car. "i'll have to forgive you," he answered, "because you were right--" she was still in such a state of excitement when she arrived down town that she went direct to her husband's law office. "i like this!" he exclaimed, as, unannounced, she opened the door of his sanctuary. "you might have caught me with one of those good-looking clients of mine." "oh, phil!" she cried, "i've got such a piece of news, i couldn't resist coming to tell you. i met mr. hodder--and he's changed." "changed!" phil repeated, looking up at her flushed face beside him. instead of a law-book, he flung down a time table in which he had been investigating the trains to a quail shooting club in the southern part of the state: the transition to mr. hodder was, therefore, somewhat abrupt. "why, nell, to look at you, i thought it could be nothing else than my somewhat belated appointment to the united states supreme court. how has hodder changed? i always thought him pretty decent." "don't laugh at me," she begged, "it's really serious--and no one knows it yet. he said i might tell you. do you remember that talk we had at father's, when he first came, and we likened him to a modern savonarola?" "and george bridges took the floor, and shocked mother and lucy and laureston," supplied phil. "i don't believe mother really was as much shocked as she appeared to be," said eleanor. "at any rate, the thing that had struck us--you and me--was that mr. hodder looked as though he could say something helpful, if he only would. and then i went to see him afterwards, in the parish house--you remember?--after we had been reading modern criticism together, and he told me that the faith which had come down from the fathers was like an egg? it couldn't be chipped. i was awfully disappointed--and yet i couldn't help liking him, he was so honest. and the theological books he gave me to read--which were so mediaeval and absurd! well, he has come around to our point of view. he told me so himself." "but what is our point of view, nell?" her husband asked, with a smile. "isn't it a good deal like professor bridges', only we're not quite so learned? we're just ordinary heathens, as far as i can make out. if hodder has our point of view, he ought to go into the law or a trust company." "oh, phil!" she protested, "and you're on the vestry! i do believe in something, and so do you." "something," he observed, "is hardly a concrete and complete theology." "why do you make me laugh," she reproached him, "when the matter is so serious? what i'm trying to tell you is that i'm sure mr. hodder has worked it out. he's too sincere to remain in the church and not have something constructive and satisfying. i've always said that he seemed to have a truth shut up inside of him which he could not communicate. well, now he looks as though he were about to communicate it, as though he had discovered it. i suppose you think me silly, but you'll grant, whatever mr. hodder may be, he isn't silly. and women can feel these things. you know i'm not given to sentimentality, but i was never so impressed by the growth in any personality as i was this morning by his. he seems to have become himself, as i always imagined him. and, phil, he was so fine! he's absolutely incapable of posing, as you'll admit, and he stood right up and acknowledged that he'd been wrong in our argument. he hasn't had the services all summer, and when he resumes them next sunday i gathered that he intends to make his new position clear." mr. goodrich thrust his hands in his pockets and gave a low whistle. "i guess i won't go shooting saturday, after all," he declared. "i wouldn't miss hodder's sermon for all the quail in harrington county." "it's high time you did go to church," remarked eleanor, contemplating, not without pride, her husband's close-cropped, pugnacious head. your judgments are pretty sound, nell. i'll do you that credit. and i've always owned up that hodder would be a fighter if he ever got started. it's written all over him. what's more, i've a notion that some of our friends are already a little suspicious of him." "you mean mr. parr?" she asked, anxiously. "no, wallis plimpton." "oh!" she exclaimed, with disdain in her voice. "mr. parr only got back yesterday, and wallis told me that hodder had refused to go on a yachting trip with him. not only foolishness, but high treason." phil smiled. "plimpton's the weather-vane, the barometer of that crowd--he feels a disturbance long before it turns up--he's as sensitive as the stock market." "he is the stock market," said eleanor. "it's been my opinion," phil went on reflectively, "that they've all had just a trace of uneasiness about hodder all along, an idea that nelson langmaid slipped up for the first time in his life when he got him to come. oh, the feeling's been dormant, but it existed. and they've been just a little afraid that they couldn't handle him if the time ever came. he's not their type. when i saw plimpton at the country club the other day he wondered, in that genial, off-hand manner of his, whether hodder would continue to be satisfied with st. john's. plimpton said he might be offered a missionary diocese. oh we'll have a fine old row." "i believe," said eleanor, "that that's the only thing that interests you." "well, it does please me," he admitted, when i think of gordon atterbury and everett constable and a few others,--eldon parr,--who believe that religion ought to be kept archaic and innocuous, served in a form that won't bother anybody. by the way, nell, do you remember the verse the professor quoted about the pharisees, and cleansing the outside of the cup and platter?" "yes," she answered, "why?" "well--hodder didn't give you any intimation as to what he intended to do about that sort of thing, did he?" "what sort of thing?" "about the inside of eldon parr's cup,--so to speak. and the inside of wallis plimpton's cup, and everett constable's cup, and ferguson's cup, and langmaid's. did it ever strike you that, in st. john's, we have the sublime spectacle of eldon parr, the pharisee in chief, conducting the church of christ, who, uttered that denunciation? that's what george bridges meant. there's something rather ironical in such a situation, to say the least." "i see," said eleanor, thoughtfully. "and what's more, it's typical," continued phil, energetically, "the big baptist church on the boulevard is run by old sedges, as canny a rascal as you could find in the state. the inside of has cup has never been touched, though he was once immersed in the mississippi, they say, and swallowed a lot of water." "oh, phil!" "hodder's been pretty intimate with eldon parr--that always puzzled me," phil went on. "and yet i'm like you, i never doubted hodder's honesty. i've always been curious to know what would happen when he found out the kind of thing eldon parr is doing every day in his life, making people stand and deliver in the interest of what he would call national prosperity. why, that fellow, funk, they sent to the penitentiary the other day for breaking into the addicks' house isn't a circumstance to eldon parr. he's robbed his tens of thousands, and goes on robbing them right along. by the way, mr. parr took most of addicks' money before funk got his silver." "phil, you have such a ridiculous way of putting things! but i suppose it's true." "true! i should say it was! there was mr. bentley--that was mild. and there never was a hold-up of a western express that could compare to the consolidated tractions. some of these big fellows have the same kind of brain as the professional thieves. well, they are professional thieves --what's the use of mincing matters! they never try the same game twice. mr. parr's getting ready to make another big haul right now. i know, because plimpton said as much, although he didn't confide in me what this particular piece of rascality is. he knows better." phil goodrich looked grim. "but the law?" exclaimed his wife. "there never was a law that nelson langmaid couldn't drive a horse and carriage through." "and mr. langmaid's one of the nicest men i know!" "what i wonder," mused phil, "is whether this is a mere doctrinal revolt on hodder's part, or whether he has found out a few things. there are so many parsons in these days who don't seem to see any inconsistency in robbing several thousand people to build settlement houses and carved marble altars, and who wouldn't accept a christmas box from a highwayman. but i'll do hodder the justice to say he doesn't strike me as that kind. and i have an idea that eldon parr and wallis plimpton and the rest know he isn't, know that he'd be a tartar if he ever get started, and that's what makes them uneasy." "then it isn't his change of religious opinions they would care about?" said eleanor. "oh, i don't say that eldon parr won't try to throw him out if he questions the faith as delivered by the saints." "phil, what a way of putting it!" "any indication of independence, any approach to truth would be regarded as dangerous," phil continued. and of course gordon atterbury and others we could mention, who think they believe in the unchipped egg theory, will be outraged. but it's deeper than that. eldon parr will give orders that hodder's to go." "give orders?" "certainly. that vestry, so far as mr. parr is concerned, is a mere dummy board of directors. he's made langmaid, and plimpton, and even everett constable, who's the son of an honourable gentleman, and ought to know better. and he can ruin them by snapping his fingers. he can even make the financial world too hot for ferguson. i'll say this for gordon atterbury, that mr. parr can't control him, but he's got a majority without him, and gordon won't vote for a heretic. who are left, except father-in-law waring and myself?" "he can't control either of you!" said eleanor, proudly. "when it comes to that, nell--we'll move into canada and buy a farm." "but can he hurt you, phil--either of you?" she asked, after a moment. "i'd like to see him try it," phil goodrich declared and his wife thought, as she looked at him, that she would like to see mr. parr try it, too. iii phil goodrich had once said that mr. plimpton's translation of the national motto e pluribus unum, was "get together," and it was true that not the least of mr. plimpton's many gifts was that of peace making. such was his genius that he scented trouble before it became manifest to the world, and he stoutly declared that no difference of opinion ever existed between reasonable men that might not be patched up before the breach became too wide--provided that a third reasonable man contributed his services. the qualifying word "reasonable" is to be noted. when mr. bedloe hubbell had undertaken, in the name of reform, to make a witch's cauldron of the city's politics, which mr. beatty had hitherto conducted so smoothly from the back room of his saloon, mr. plimpton had unselfishly offered his services. bedloe hubbell, although he had been a playmate of mr. plimpton's wife's, had not proved "reasonable," and had rejected with a scorn only to be deemed fanatical the suggestion that mr. hubbell's interests and mr. beatty's interests need not clash, since mr. hubbell might go to congress! and mr. plimpton was the more hurt since the happy suggestion was his own, and he had had no little difficulty in getting mr. beatty to agree to it. yet mr. plimpton's career in the ennobling role of peacemaker had, on the whole, been crowned with such success as to warrant his belief in the principle. mr. parr, for instance,--in whose service, as in that of any other friend, mr. plimpton was always ready to act--had had misunderstandings with eminent financiers, and sometimes with united states senators. mr. plimpton had made many trips to the capitol at washington, sometimes in company with mr. langmaid, sometimes not, and on one memorable occasion had come away smiling from an interview with the occupant of the white house himself. lest mr. plimpton's powers of premonition seem supernatural, it may be well to reveal the comparative simplicity of his methods. genius, analyzed, is often disappointing, mr. plimpton's was selective and synthetic. to illustrate in a particular case, he had met mr. parr in new york and had learned that the reverend mr. hodder had not only declined to accompany the banker on a yachting trip, but had elected to remain in the city all summer, in his rooms in the parish house, while conducting no services. mr. parr had thought this peculiar. on his return home mr. plimpton had one day dropped in to see a mr. gaines, the real estate agent for some of his property. and mr. plimpton being hale-fellow-well-met, mr. gaines had warned him jestingly that he would better not let his parson know that he owned a half interest in a certain hotel in dalton street, which was leased at a profitable rate. if mr. plimpton felt any uneasiness, he did not betray it. and he managed to elicit from the agent, in an entirely casual and jovial manner, the fact that mr. hodder, a month or so before, had settled the rent of a woman for a dalton street flat, and had been curious to discover the name of the owner. mr. gaines, whose business it was to recognize everybody, was sure of mr. hodder, although he had not worn clerical clothes. mr. plimpton became very thoughtful when he had left the office. he visited nelson langmaid in the parr building. and the result of the conference was to cause mr. langmaid to recall, with a twinge of uneasiness, a certain autumn morning in a room beside bremerton lake when he had been faintly yet distinctly conscious of the, admonitory whisperings of that sixth sense which had saved him on other occasions. "dash it!" he said to himself, after mr. plimpton had departed, and he stood in the window and gazed across at the flag on the roof of 'ferguson's.' "it would serve me right for meddling in this parson business. why did i take him away from jerry whitely, anyhow?" it added to nelson langmaid's discomfort that he had a genuine affection, even an admiration for the parson in question. he might have known by looking at the man that he would wake up some day,--such was the burden of his lament. and there came to him, ironically out of the past, the very words of mr. parr's speech to the vestry after dr. gilman's death, that succinct list of qualifications for a new rector which he himself, nelson langmaid, had humorously and even more succinctly epitomized. their "responsibility to the parish, to the city, and to god" had been to find a rector "neither too old nor too young, who would preach the faith as we received it, who was not sensational, and who did not mistake socialism for christianity." at the "socialism" a certain sickly feeling possessed the lawyer, and he wiped beads of perspiration from his dome-like forehead. he didn't pretend to be versed in theology--so he had declared--and at the memory of these words of his the epithet "ass," self applied, passed his lips. "you want a parson who will stick to his last, not too high or too low or too broad or too narrow, who has intellect without too much initiative . . . and will not get the church uncomfortably full of strangers and run you out of your pews." thus he had capped the financier. well, if they had caught a tartar, it served him, nelson langmaid, right. he recalled his talk with gerald whitely, and how his brother-in-law had lost his temper when they had got on the subject of personality . . . . perhaps wallis plimpton could do something. langmaid's hopes of this were not high. it may have been that he had suspicions of what mr. plimpton would have called hodder's "reasonableness." one thing was clear--that mr. plimpton was frightened. in the sanctuaries, the private confessionals of high finance (and nelson langmaid's office may be called so), the more primitive emotions are sometimes exhibited. "i don't see what business it is of a clergyman, or of any one else, whether i own property in dalton street," mr. plimpton had said, as he sat on the edge of the lawyer's polished mahogany desk. "what does he expect us to do,--allow our real estate to remain unproductive merely for sentimental reasons? that's like a parson, most of 'em haven't got any more common sense than that. what right has he got to go nosing around dalton street? why doesn't he stick to his church?" "i thought you fellows were to build him a settlement house there," langmaid observed. "on the condition that he wouldn't turn socialist." "you'd better have stipulated it in the bond," said the lawyer, who could not refrain, even at this solemn moment, from the temptation of playing upon mr. plimpton's apprehensions. "i'm afraid he'll make it his business, wallis, to find out whether you own anything in dalton street. i'll bet he's got a list of dalton street property in his pocket right now." mr. plimpton groaned. "thank god i don't own any of it!" said langmaid. "what the deuce does he intend to do?" the other demanded. "read it out in church," langmaid suggested. "it wouldn't sound pretty, wallis, to be advertised in the post on monday morning as owning that kind of a hotel." "oh, he's a gentleman," said mr. plimpton, "he wouldn't do anything as low as that!" "but if he's become a socialist?" objected langmaid. "he wouldn't do it," his friend reiterated, none too confidently. "i shouldn't be surprised if he made me resign from the vestry and forced me to sell my interest. it nets me five thousand a year." "what is the place?" langmaid asked sympathetically, "harrod's?" mr. plimpton nodded. "not that i am a patron," the lawyer explained somewhat hastily. "but i've seen the building, going home." "it looks to me as if it would burn down some day, wallis." "i wish it would," said mr. plimpton. "if it's any comfort to you--to us," langmaid went on, after a moment, "eldon parr owns the whole block above thirteenth, on the south side --bought it three years ago. he thinks the business section will grow that way." "i know," said mr. plimpton, and they looked at each other. the name predominant in both minds had been mentioned. "i wonder if hodder really knows what he's up against." mr. plimpton sometimes took refuge in slang. "well, after all, we're not sure yet that he's 'up against anything,'" replied langmaid, who thought the time had come for comfort. "it may all be a false alarm. there's no reason, after all, why a christian clergyman shouldn't rescue women in dalton street, and remain in the city to study the conditions of the neighbourhood where his settlement house is to be. and just, because you or i would not be able to resist an invitation to go yachting with eldon parr, a man might be imagined who had that amount of moral courage." "that's just it. hodder seems to me, now i come to think of it, just the kind of john brown type who wouldn't hesitate to get into a row with eldon parr if he thought it was right, and pull down any amount of disagreeable stuff about our ears." "you're mixing your heroes, wallis," said langmaid. "i can't help it. you'd catch it, too, nelson. what in the name of sense possessed you to get such a man?" this being a question the lawyer was unable to answer, the conversation came to another pause. and it was then that mr. plimpton's natural optimism reasserted itself. "it isn't done,--the thing we're afraid of, that's all," he proclaimed, after a turn or two about the room. "hodder's a gentleman, as i said, and if he feels as we suspect he does he'll resign like a gentleman and a christian. i'll have a talk with him--oh, you can trust me! i've got an idea. gordon atterbury told me the other day there is a vacancy in a missionary diocese out west, and that hodder's name had been mentioned, among others, to the bishops for the place. he'd make a rattling missionary bishop, you know, holding services in saloons and knocking men's heads together for profanity, and he boxes like a professional. now, a word from eldon parr might turn the trick. every parson wants to be a bishop." langmaid shook his head. "you're getting out of your depths, my friend. the church isn't wall street. and missionary bishops aren't chosen to make convenient vacancies." "i don't mean anything crude," mr. plimpton protested. "but a word from the chief layman of a diocese like this, a man who never misses a general convention, and does everything handsomely, might count,--particularly if they're already thinking of hodder. the bishops would never suspect we wanted to get rid of him." "well," said langmaid, "i advise you to go easy, all along the line." "oh, i'll go easy enough," mr. plimpton assented, smiling. "do you remember how i pulled off old senator matthews when everybody swore he was dead set on voting for an investigation in the matter of those coal lands mr. parr got hold of in his state?" "matthews isn't hodder, by a long shat," said langmaid. "if you ask me my opinion, i'll tell you frankly that if hodder has made up his mind to stay in st. john's a ton of dynamite and all the eldon parrs in the nation can't get him out." "can't the vestry make him resign?" asked mr. plimpton, uncomfortably. "you'd better, go home and study your canons, my friend. nothing short of conviction for heresy can do it, if he doesn't want to go." "you wouldn't exactly call him a heretic," mr. plimpton said ruefully. "would you know a heretic if you saw one?" demanded langmaid. "no, but my wife would, and gordon atterbury and constable would, and eldon parr. but don't let's get nervous." "well, that's sensible at any rate," said langmaid . . . . so mr. plimpton had gone off optimistic, and felt even more so the next morning after he had had his breakfast in the pleasant dining room of the gore mansion, of which he was now master. as he looked out through the open window at the sunshine in the foliage of waverley place, the prospect of his being removed from that position of dignity and influence on the vestry of st. john's, which he had achieved, with others, after so much walking around the walls, seemed remote. and he reflected with satisfaction upon the fact that his wife, who was his prime minister, would be home from the east that day. two heads were better than one, especially if one of the two were charlotte gore's. and mr. plimpton had often reflected upon the loss to the world, and the gain to himself, that she was a woman. it would not be gallant to suggest that his swans were geese. iv the successful navigation of lower tower street, at noonday, required presence of mind on the part of the pedestrian. there were currents and counter-currents, eddies and backwaters, and at the corner of vine a veritable maelstrom through which two lines of electric cars pushed their way, east and weft, north and south, with incessant clanging of bells; followed by automobiles with resounding horns, trucks and delivery wagons with wheels reverberating on the granite. a giant irish policeman, who seemed in continual danger of a violent death, and wholly indifferent to it, stood between the car tracks and halted the rush from time to time, driving the people like sheep from one side to the other. through the doors of ferguson's poured two conflicting streams of humanity, and wistful groups of young women, on the way from hasty lunches, blocked the pavements and stared at the finery behind the plate-glass windows. the rector, slowly making his way westward, permitted himself to be thrust hither and thither, halted and shoved on again as he studied the faces of the throng. and presently he found himself pocketed before one of the exhibits of feminine interest, momentarily helpless, listening to the admiring and envious chorus of a bevy of diminutive shop-girls on the merits of a paris gown. it was at this moment that he perceived, pushing towards him with an air of rescue, the figure of his vestryman, mr. wallis plimpton. "well, well, well!" he cried, as he seized hodder by the arm and pulled him towards the curb. "what are you doing herein the marts of trade? come right along with me to the eyrie, and we'll have something, to eat." the eyrie was a famous lunch club, of limited membership, at the top of the parr building, where financial affairs of the first importance were discussed and settled. hodder explained that he had lunched at half-past twelve. "well, step into my office a minute. it does me good, to see you again, upon my word, and i can't let you get by without a little pow-wow." mr. plimpton's trust company, in vine street, resembled a greek temple. massive but graceful granite columns adorned its front, while within it was partitioned off with polished marble and ornamental grills. in the rear, guarded by the desks and flanked by the compartments of various subordinates, was the president's private sanctum, and into this holy of holies mr. plimpton led the way with the simple, unassuming genial air of the high priest of modern finance who understands men. the room was eloquent almost to affectation of the system and order of great business, inasmuch as it betrayed not the least sign of a workshop. on the dark oak desk were two leather-bound books and a polished telephone. the walls were panelled, there was a stone fireplace with andirons set, a deep carpet spread over the tessellated floor, and three leather-padded armchairs, one of which mr. plimpton hospitably drew forward for the rector. he then produced a box of cigars. "you don't smoke, mr. hodder. i always forget. that's the way you manage to keep yourself in such good shape." he drew out a gold match box and seated himself with an air of gusto opposite his guest. "and you haven't had a vacation, they tell me." "on the contrary," said the rector, "mccrae has taken the services all summer." "but you've been in the city!" mr. plimpton exclaimed, puffing at his cigar. "yes, i've been in the city." "well, well, i'll bet you haven't been idle. just between us, as friends, mr. hodder, i've often wondered if you didn't work too hard --there's such a thing as being too conscientious, you know. and i've an idea that the rest of the vestry think so. mr. parr, for instance. we know when we've got a good thing, and we don't want to wear you out. oh, we can appreciate your point of view, and admire it. but a little relaxation--eh? it's too bad that you couldn't have seen your way to take that cruise--mr. parr was all cut up about it. i guess you're the only man among all of us fairly close to him, who really knows him well," said mr. plimpton, admiringly. "he thinks a great deal of you, mr. hodder. by the way, have you seen him since he got back?" "no," hodder answered. "the trip did him good. i thought he was a little seedy in the spring --didn't you? wonderful man! and when i think how he's slandered and abused it makes me hot. and he never says anything, never complains, lives up there all alone, and takes his medicine. that's real patriotism, according to my view. he could retire to-morrow --but he keeps on--why? because he feels the weight of a tremendous responsibility on his shoulders, because he knows if it weren't for him and men like him upon whom the prosperity of this nation depends, we'd have famine and anarchy on our hands in no time. and look what he's done for the city, without ostentation, mind you! he never blows his own horn-never makes a speech. and for the church! but i needn't tell you. when this settlement house and chapel are finished, they'll be coming out here from new york to get points. by the way, i meant to have written you. have our revised plans come yet? we ought to break ground in november, oughtn't we?" "i intend to lay my views on that matter before the vestry at the next meeting, the rector said. "well," declared mr. plimpton, after a scarcely perceptible pause, "i've no doubt they'll be worth listening to. if i were to make a guess," he continued, with a contemplative smile, blowing a thin stream of smoke towards the distant ceiling, "i should bet that you have spent your summer looking over the ground. i don't say that you have missed your vocation, mr. hodder, but i don't mind telling you that for a clergyman, for a man absorbed in spiritual matters, a man who can preach the sermons you preach, you've got more common-sense and business thoroughness than any one i have ever run across in your profession." "looking over the ground?" hodder repeated, ignoring the compliment. "sure," said mr. plimpton, smiling more benignly than ever. "you mustn't be modest about it. dalton street. and when that settlement house is built, i'll guarantee it will be run on a business basis. no nonsense." "what do you mean by nonsense?" hodder asked. he did not make the question abrupt, and there was even the hint of a smile in his eyes, which mr. plimpton found the more disquieting. "why, that's only a form of speech. i mean you'll be practical, efficient, that you'll get hold of the people of that neighbourhood and make 'em see that the world isn't such a bad place after all, make 'em realize that we in st. john's want to help 'em out. that you won't make them more foolishly discontented than they are, and go preaching socialism to them." "i have no intention of preaching socialism," said hodder. but he laid a slight emphasis on the word which sent a cold shiver down mr. plimpton's spine, and made him wonder whether there might not be something worse than socialism. "i knew you wouldn't," he declared, with all the heartiness he could throw into his voice. "i repeat, you're a practical, sensible man. i'll yield to none in my belief in the church as a moral, uplifting, necessary spiritual force in our civilization, in my recognition of her high ideals, but we business men, mr. hodder,--as--i am sure you must agree, --have got to live, i am sorry to say, on a lower plane. we've got to deal with the world as we find it, and do our little best to help things along. we can't take the gospel literally, or we should all be ruined in a day, and swamp everybody else. you understand me? "i understand you," said the rector. mr. plimpton's cigar had gone out. in spite of himself, he had slipped from the easy-going, casual tone into one that was becoming persuasive, apologetic, strenuous. although the day was not particularly warm, he began to perspire a little; and he repeated the words over to himself, "i understand you." what the deuce did the rector know? he had somehow the air of knowing everything--more than mr. plimpton did. and mr. plimpton was beginning to have the unusual and most disagreeable feeling of having been weighed in the balance and found wanting. he glanced at his guest, who sat quite still, the head bent a trifle, the disturbing gray eyes fixed contemplatively an him--accusingly. and yet the accusation did not seem personal with the clergyman, whose eyes were nearly the medium, the channels of a greater, an impersonal ice. it was true that the man had changed. he was wholly baffling to mr. plimpton, whose sense of alarm increased momentarily into an almost panicky feeling as he remembered what langmaid had said. was this inscrutable rector of st. john's gazing, knowingly, at the half owner of harrods hotel in dalton street, who couldn't take the gospel literally? there was evidently no way to find out at once, and suspense would be unbearable, in vain he told himself that these thoughts were nonsense, the discomfort persisted, and he had visions of that career in which he had become one of the first citizens and the respected husband of charlotte gore clashing down about his ears. why? because a clergyman should choose to be quixotic, fanatical? he did not took quixotic, fanatical, mr. plimpton had to admit,--but a good deal saner than he, mr. plimpton, must have appeared at that moment. his throat was dry, and he didn't dare to make the attempt to relight his cigar. "there's nothing like getting together--keeping in touch with people, mr. hodder," he managed to say. "i've been out of town a good deal this summer--putting on a little flesh, i'm sorry to admit. but i've been meaning to drop into the parish house and talk over those revised plans with you. i will drop in--in a day or two. i'm interested in the work, intensely interested, and so is mrs. plimpton. she'll help you. i'm sorry you can't lunch with me." he had the air, now, of the man who finds himself disagreeably and unexpectedly closeted with a lunatic; and his language, although he sought to control it, became even a trifle less coherent. "you must make allowances for us business men, mr. hodder. i mean, of course, we're sometimes a little lax in our duties--in the summer, that is. don't shoot the pianist, he's doing his--ahem! you know the story. "by the way, i hear great things of you; i'm told it's on the cards that you're to be made a bishop." "oh," answered the rector, "there are better men mentioned than i!" "i want you to know this," said his vestryman, as he seized hodder's hand, "much as we value you here, bitterly as we should hate to lose you, none of us, i am sure, would stand in the way of such a deserved advancement." "thank you, mr. plimpton," said the rector. mr. plimpton watched the vigorous form striding through the great chamber until it disappeared. then he seized his hat and made his way as rapidly as possible through the crowds to the parr building. at the entrance of the open-air roof garden of the eyrie he ran into nelson langmaid. "you're the very man i'm after," said mr. plimpton, breathlessly. "i stopped in your office, and they said you'd gone up." "what's the matter, wallis?" inquired the lawyer, tranquilly. "you look as if you'd lost a couple of bonds." i've just seen hodder, and he is going to do it." "do what?" "sit down here, at this table in the corner, and i'll tell you." for a practical man, it must be admitted that mr. plimpton had very little of the concrete to relate. and it appeared on cross-examination by mr. langmaid, who ate his cold meat and salad with an exasperating and undiminished appetite--that the only definite thing the rector had said was that he didn't intend to preach socialism. this was reassuring. "reassuring!" exclaimed mr. plimpton, whose customary noonday hunger was lacking, "i wish you could have heard him say it!" "the wicked," remarked the lawyer, "flee when no man pursueth. don't shoot the pianist!" langmaid set down his beer, and threw back his head and laughed. "if i were the reverend mr. hodder, after such an exhibition as you gave, i should immediately have suspected the pianist of something, and i should have gone off by myself and racked my brains and tried to discover what it was. he's a clever man, and if he hasn't got a list of dalton street property now he'll have one by to-morrow, and the story of some of your transactions with tom beatty and the city council." "i believe you'd joke in the electric chair," said mr. a plimpton, resentfully. "i'll tell you this,--and my experience backs me up, --if you can't get next to a man by a little plain talk, he isn't safe. i haven't got the market sense for nothing, and i'll give you this tip, nelson,--it's time to stand from under. didn't i warn you fellows that bedloe hubbell meant business long before he started in? and this parson can give hubbell cards and spades. hodder can't see this thing as it is. he's been thinking, this summer. and a man of that kind is downright dangerous when he begins to think. he's found out things, and he's put two and two together, and he's the uncompromising type. he has a notion that the gospel can be taken literally, and i could feel all the time i was talking to him he thought i was a crook." "perhaps he was right," observed the lawyer. "that comes well from you," mr. plimpton retorted. "oh, i'm a crook, too," said langmaid. "i discovered it some time ago. the difference between you and me, wallis, is that i am willing to acknowledge it, and you're not. the whole business world, as we know it, is crooked, and if we don't cut other people's throats, they'll cut ours." "and if we let go, what would happen to the country?" his companion demanded. langmaid began to shake with silent laughter. "your solicitude about the country, wallis, is touching. i was brought up to believe that patriotism had an element of sacrifice in it, but i can't see ours. and i can't imagine myself, somehow, as a hercules bearing the burden of our constitution. from mr. hodder's point of view, perhaps,--and i'm not sure it isn't the right one, the pianist is doing his damnedest, to the tune of--dalton street. we might as well look this thing in the face, my friend. you and i really don't believe in another world, or we shouldn't be taking so much trouble to make this one as we'd like to have it." "i never expected to hear you talk this way," said mr. plimpton. "well, it's somewhat of a surprise to me," the lawyer admitted. "and i don't think you put it fairly," his friend contended. "i never can tell when you are serious, but this is damned serious. in business we have to deal with crooks, who hold us up right and left, and if we stood back you know as well as i do that everything would go to pot. and if we let the reformers have their way the country would be bedlam. we'd have anarchy and bloodshed, revolution, and the people would be calling us, the strong men, back in no time. you can't change human nature. and we have a sense of responsibility--we support law and order and the church, and found institutions, and give millions away in charity." the big lawyer listened to this somewhat fervent defence of his order with an amused smile, nodding his head slightly from side to side. "if you don't believe in it," demanded mr. plimpton, why the deuce don't you drop it?" "it's because of my loyalty," said langmaid. "i wouldn't desert my pals. i couldn't bear, wallis, to see you go to the guillotine without me." mr. plimpton became unpleasantly silent. "well, you may think it's a joke," he resumed, after a moment, "but there will be a guillotine if we don't look out. that confounded parson is getting ready to spring something, and i'm going to give mr. parr a tip. he'll know how to handle him. he doesn't talk much, but i've got an idea, from one or two things he let drop, that he's a little suspicious of a change in hodder. but he ought to be waived." "you're in no condition to talk to mr. parr, or to anyone else, except your wife, walks," langmaid said. "you'd better go home, and let me see mr. parr. i'm responsible for mr. hodder, anyway." "all right," mr. plimpton agreed, as though he had gained some shred of comfort from this thought. "i guess you're in worse than any of us." the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . ix. the divine discontent x. the messenger in the church xi. the lost parishioner xii. the woman of the song chapter ix the divine discontent i it was the last sunday in may, and in another week the annual flight to the seashore and the mountains would have begun again. the breezes stealing into the church through the open casements wafted hither and thither the odours of the chancel flowers, and mingled with those fainter and subtler perfumes set free by the rustling of summer gowns. as on this day he surveyed his decorous and fashionable congregation, hodder had something of that sense of extremity which the great apostle to the gentiles himself must have felt when he stood in the midst of the areopagus and made his vain yet sublime appeal to athenian indifference and luxury. "and the times of this ignorance god winked at; but now commandeth all men everywhere to repent." . . some, indeed, stirred uneasily as the rector paused, lowering their eyes before the intensity of his glance, vaguely realizing that the man had flung the whole passion of his being into the appeal. heedlessness--that was god's accusation against them, against the age. materialism, individualism! so absorbed were they in the pursuit of wealth, of distraction, so satisfied with the current philosophy, so intent on surrounding themselves with beautiful things and thus shutting out the sterner view, that they had grown heedless of the divine message. how few of them availed themselves of their spiritual birthright to renew their lives at the altar rail! and they had permitted their own children to wander away . . . . repent! there was a note of desperation in his appeal, like that of the hermit who stands on a mountain crag and warns the gay and thoughtless of the valley of the coming avalanche. had they heard him at last? there were a few moments of tense silence, during which he stood gazing at them. then he raised his arm in benediction, gathered up his surplice, descended the pulpit steps, and crossed swiftly the chancel . . . . he had, as it were, turned on all the power in a supreme effort to reach them. what if he had failed again? such was the misgiving that beset him, after the service, as he got out of his surplice, communicated by some occult telepathy . . . . mr. parr was awaiting him, and summoning his courage, hope battling against intuition, he opened the door into the now empty church and made his way toward the porch, where the sound of voices warned him that several persons were lingering. the nature of their congratulations confirmed his doubts. mrs. plimpton, resplendent and looking less robust than usual in one of her summer paris gowns, greeted him effusively. "oh, mr. hodder, what a wonderful sermon!" she cried. "i can't express how it made me feel--so delinquent! of course that is exactly the effect you wished. and i was just telling wallis i was so glad i waited until tuesday to go east, or i should have missed it. you surely must come on to hampton and visit us, and preach it over again in our little stone church there, by the sea. good-by and don't forget! i'll write you, setting the date, only we'd be glad to have you any time." "one of the finest i ever heard--if not the finest," mr. plimpton declared, with a kind of serious 'empressement', squeezing his hand. others stopped him; everett constable, for one, and the austere mrs. atterbury. hodder would have avoided the ever familiar figure of her son, gordon, in the invariable black cutaway and checked trousers, but he was standing beside mr. parr. "ahem! why, mr. hodder," he exclaimed, squinting off his glasses, "that was a magnificent effort. i was saying to mr. parr that it isn't often one hears a sermon nowadays as able as that, and as sound. many clergymen refrain from preaching them, i sometimes think, because they are afraid people won't like them." "i scarcely think it's that," the rector replied, a little shortly. "we're afraid people won't heed them." he became aware, as he spoke, of a tall young woman, who had cast an enigmatic glance first at gordon atterbury, and then at himself. "it was a good sermon," said mr. parr. "you're coming to lunch, hodder?" the rector nodded. "i'm ready when you are," he answered. "the motor's waiting," said the banker, leading the way down the steps to the sidewalk, where he turned. "alison, let me introduce mr. hodder. this is my daughter," he added simply. this sudden disclosure of the young woman's identity had upon hodder a certain electric effect, and with it came a realization of the extent to which--from behind the scenes, so to speak--she had gradually aroused him to a lively speculation. she seemed to have influenced, to a greater or less degree, so many lives with which he had come into touch! compelled persons to make up their minds about her! and while he sympathized with eldon parr in his abandonment, he had never achieved the full condemnation which he felt--an impartial christian morality would have meted out. as he uttered the conventional phrase and took her hand, he asked himself whether her personality justified his interest. her glance at gordon atterbury in the midst of that gentleman's felicitations on the sermon had been expressive, hodder thought, of veiled amusement slightly tinctured with contempt; and he, hodder, felt himself to have grown warm over it. he could not be sure that alison parr had not included, in her inner comment, the sermon likewise, on which he had so spent himself. what was she doing at church? as her eyes met his own, he seemed to read a challenge. he had never encountered a woman--he decided--who so successfully concealed her thought, and at the same time so incited curiosity about it. the effect of her reappearance on gordon atterbury was painfully apparent, and mrs. larrabbee's remark, "that he had never got over it," recurred to hodder. he possessed the virtue of being faithful, at least, in spite of the lady's apostasy, and he seemed to be galvanized into a tenfold nervousness as he hustled after them and handed her, with the elaborate attention little men are apt to bestow upon women, into the motor. "er--how long shall you be here, alison?" he asked. "i don't know," she answered, not unkindly, but with a touch of indifference. "you treat us shamefully," he informed her, "upon my word! but i'm coming to call." "do," said alison. hodder caught her eye again, and this time he was sure that she surprised in him a certain disdain of mr. atterbury's zeal. her smile was faint, yet unmistakable. he resented it. indeed, it was with a well-defined feeling of antagonism that he took his seat, and this was enhanced as they flew westward, mr. parr wholly absorbed with the speaking trumpet, energetically rebuking at every bounce. in the back of the rector's mind lay a weight, which he identified, at intervals, with what he was now convinced was the failure of his sermon. . . alison took no part in the casual conversation that began when they reached the boulevard and mr. parr abandoned the trumpet, but lay back in silence and apparently with entire comfort in a corner of the limousine. at the lunch-table mr. parr plunged into a discussion of some of the still undecided details of the new settlement house, in which, as the plan developed, he had become more and more interested. he had made himself responsible, from time to time, for additional sums, until the original estimate had been almost doubled. most of his suggestions had come from hodder, who had mastered the subject with a thoroughness that appealed to the financier: and he had gradually accepted the rector's idea of concentrating on the children. thus he had purchased an adjoining piece of land that was to be a model playground, in connection with the gymnasium and swimming-pool. the hygienic department was to be all that modern science could desire. "if we are going to do the thing," the banker would, remark, "we may as well do it thoroughly; we may as well be leaders and not followers." so, little by little, the scheme had grown to proportions that sometimes appalled the rector when he realized how largely he had been responsible for the additions,--in spite of the lukewarmness with which he had begun. and yet it had occasionally been mr. parr who, with a sweep of his hand, had added thousands to a particular feature: thus the dance-hall had become, in prospect, a huge sun-parlour at the top of the building, where the children were to have their kindergartens and games in winter; and which might be shaded and opened up to the breezes in summer. what had reconciled hodder to the enterprise most of all, however, was the chapel --in the plan a beautiful gothic church--whereby he hoped to make the religious progress keep pace with the social. mr. parr was decidedly in sympathy with this intention, and referred to it now. "i was much impressed by what you said in your sermon to-day as to the need of insisting upon authority in religious matters," he declared, "and i quite agree that we should have a chapel of some size at the settlement house for that reason. those people need spiritual control. it's what the age needs. and when i think of some of the sermons printed in the newspapers to-day, and which are served up as christianity, there is only one term to apply to them--they are criminally incendiary." "but isn't true christianity incendiary, in your meaning of the word?" it was alison who spoke, in a quiet and musical voice that was in striking contrast to the tone of mr. parr, which the rector had thought unusually emphatic. it was the first time she had shown an inclination to contribute to the talk. but since hodder had sat down at the table her presence had disturbed him, and he had never been wholly free from an uncomfortable sense that he was being measured and weighed. once or twice he had stolen a glance at her as she sat, perfectly at ease, and asked himself whether she had beauty, and it dawned upon him little by little that the very proportion she possessed made for physical unobtrusiveness. she was really very tall for a woman. at first he would have said her nose was straight, when he perceived that it had a delicate hidden curve; her eyes were curiously set, her dark hair parted in the middle, brought down low on each side of the forehead and tied in a grecian knot. thus, in truth, he observed, were seemingly all the elements of the classic, even to the firm yet slender column of the neck. how had it eluded him? her remark, if it astonished hodder, had a dynamic effect on eldon parr. and suddenly the rector comprehended that the banker had not so much been talking to him as through him; had been, as it were, courting opposition. "what do you mean by christianity being incendiary?" he demanded. "incendiary, from your point of view--i made, the qualification," alison replied, apparently unmoved by his obvious irritation. "i don't pretend to be a christian, as you know, but if there is one element in christianity that distinguishes it, it is the brotherhood of man. that's pure nitroglycerin, though it's been mixed with so much sawdust. incendiary is a mild epithet. i never read the sermons you refer to; i dare say they're crude, but they're probably attempts to release an explosive which would blow your comfortable social system and its authority into atoms." hodder, who had listened in amazement, glanced at the banker. he had never before heard him opposed, or seen him really angry. "i've heard that doctrine," cried mr. parr. "those who are dissatisfied with things as they are because they have been too stupid or too weak or self-indulgent to rise, find it easy to twist the principles of christianity into revolutionary propaganda. it's a case of the devil quoting scripture. the brotherhood of man! there has never been an age when philanthropy and organized charity were on such a scale as to-day." a certain gallant, indomitable ring crept into alison's voice; she did not seem in the least dismayed or overborne. "but isn't that just where most so-called christians make their mistake?" she asked. "philanthropy and organized charity, as they exist to-day, have very little to do with the brotherhood of man. mightn't it be you who are fooling yourselves instead of the incendiaries fooling themselves so long as you can make yourselves believe that this kind of charity is a logical carrying out of the christian principles, so long are your consciences satisfied with the social system which your class, very naturally, finds so comfortable and edifying. the weak and idiotic ought to be absurdly grateful for what is flung to them, and heaven is gained in the throwing. in this way the rich inevitably become the elect, both here and hereafter, and the needle's eye is widened into a gap." there was on mr. parr's lips a smile not wholly pleasant to see. indeed, in the last few minutes there had been revealed to hodder a side of the banker's character which had escaped him in the two years of their acquaintance. "i suppose," said mr. parr, slowly, drumming on the table, "you would say that of the new settlement house of st. john's, whereby we hope to raise a whole neighbourhood." "yes, i should," replied alison, with spirit. "the social system by which you thrive, and which politically and financially you strive to maintain, is diametrically opposed to your creed, which is supposed to be the brotherhood of man. but if that were really your creed, you would work for it politically and financially. you would see that your church is trying to do infinitesimally what the government, but for your opposition, might do universally. your true creed is the survival of the fittest. you grind these people down into what is really an economic slavery and dependence, and then you insult and degrade them by inviting them to exercise and read books and sing hymns in your settlement house, and give their children crackers and milk and kindergartens and sunlight! i don't blame them for not becoming christians on that basis. why, the very day i left new york a man over eighty, who had been swindled out of all he had, rather than go to one of those christian institutions deliberately forged a check and demanded to be sent to the penitentiary. he said he could live and die there with some self-respect." "i might have anticipated that you would ultimately become a socialist, alison," mr. parr remarked--but his voice trembled. "i don't know whether i'm a socialist or an anarchist," she answered. hodder thought be detected a note of hopelessness in her voice, and the spirit in it ebbed a little. not only did she seem indifferent to her father's feeling--which incidentally added fuel to it--but her splendid disregard of him, as a clergyman, had made an oddly powerful appeal. and her argument! his feelings, as he listened to this tremendous arraignment of eldon parr by his daughter, are not easily to be described. to say that she had compelled him, the rector of st. john's, at last to look in the face many conditions which he had refused to recognize would be too definite a statement. nevertheless, some such thing had occurred. refutations sprang to his lips, and died there, though he had no notion of uttering them. he saw that to admit her contentions would be to behold crumble into ruins the structure that he had spent a life in rearing; and yet something within him responded to her words--they had the passionate, convincing ring of truth. by no means the least of their disturbing effects was due to the fact that they came as a climax to, as a fulfilment of the revelation he had had at the fergusons', when something of the true nature of mr. plimpton and others of his congregation had suddenly been laid bare. and now hodder looked at eldon parr to behold another man from the one he had known, and in that moment realized that their relationship could never again be the same. . . were his sympathies with the daughter? "i don't know what i believe," said alison, after a pause. "i've ceased trying to find out. what's the use!" she appeared now to be addressing no one in particular. a servant entered with a card, and the banker's hand shook perceptibly as he put down his claret and adjusted his glasses. "show him into my office upstairs, and tell him i'll see him at once," he said, and glanced at the rector. but it was alison whom he addressed. "i must leave mr. hodder to answer your arguments," he added, with an attempt at lightness; and then to the rector: "perhaps you can convince her that the church is more sinned against than sinning, and that christians are not such terrible monsters after all. you'll excuse me?" "certainly." hodder had risen. ii "shall we have coffee in the garden?" alison asked. "it's much nicer outside this time of year." for an instant he was at a loss to decide whether to accede, or to make an excuse and leave the house. wisdom seemed to point to flight. but when he glanced at her he saw to his surprise that the mood of abstraction into which she had fallen still held her; that the discussion which had aroused eldon parr to such dramatic anger had left her serious and thoughtful. she betrayed no sense of triumph at having audaciously and successfully combated him, and she appeared now only partially to be aware of hodder's presence. his interest, his curiosity mounted suddenly again, overwhelming once more the antagonism which he had felt come and go in waves; and once more his attempted classification of her was swept away. she had relapsed into an enigma. "i like the open air," he answered, "and i have always wished to see the garden. i have admired it from the windows." "it's been on my mind for some years," she replied, as she led the way down a flight of steps into the vine-covered pergola. "and i intend to change parts of it while i am out here. it was one of my first attempts, and i've learned more since." "you must forgive my ignorant praise," he said, and smiled. "i have always thought it beautiful: but i can understand that an artist is never satisfied." she turned to him, and suddenly their eyes met and held in a momentary, electric intensity that left him warm and agitated. there was nothing coquettish in the glance, but it was the first distinct manifestation that he was of consequence. she returned his smile, without levity. "is a clergyman ever satisfied?" she asked. "he ought not to be," replied hodder, wondering whether she had read him. "although you were so considerate, i suppose you must have thought it presumptuous of me to criticize your, profession, which is religion." "religion, i think, should be everybody's," he answered quietly. she made no reply. and he entered, as into another world, the circular arbour in which the pergola ended, so complete in contrast was its atmosphere to that of the house. the mansion he had long since grown to recognize as an expression of the personality of its owner, but this classic bower was as remote from it as though it were in greece. he was sensitive to beauty, yet the beauty of the place had a perplexing quality, which he felt in the perfect curves of the marble bench, in the marble basin brimming to the tip with clear water,--the surface of which, flecked with pink petals, mirrored the azure sky through the leafy network of the roof. in one green recess a slender mercury hastily adjusted his sandal. was this, her art, the true expression of her baffling personality? as she had leaned back in the corner of the automobile she had given him the impression of a languor almost oriental, but this had been startlingly dispelled at the lunch-table by the revelation of an animation and a vitality which had magically transformed her. but now, as under the spell of a new encompassment of her own weaving, she seemed to revert to her former self, sinking, relaxed, into a wicker lounge beside the basin, one long and shapely hand in the water, the other idle in her lap. her eyes, he remarked, were the contradiction in her face. had they been larger, and almond-shaped, the illusion might have been complete. they were neither opaque nor smouldering,--but western eyes, amber-coloured, with delicately stencilled rays and long lashes. and as they gazed up at him now they seemed to reflect, without disclosing the flitting thoughts behind them. he felt antagonism and attraction in almost equal degree --the situation transcended his experience. "you don't intend to change this?" he asked, with an expressive sweep of his hand. "no," she said, "i've always liked it. tell me what you feel about it." he hesitated. "you resent it," she declared. "why do you say that?" he demanded quickly. "i feel it," she answered calmly, but with a smile. "'resent' would scarcely be the proper word," he contended, returning her smile, yet hesitating again. "you think it pagan," she told him. "perhaps i do," he answered simply, as though impressed by her felicitous discovery of the adjective. alison laughed. "it's pagan because i'm pagan, i suppose." "it's very beautiful--you have managed to get an extraordinary atmosphere," he continued, bent on doing himself an exact justice. but i should say, if you pressed me, that it represents to me the deification of beauty to the exclusion of all else. you have made beauty the alpha and omega." "there is nothing else for me," she said. the coffee-tray arrived and was deposited on a wicker table beside her. she raised herself on an elbow, filled his cup and handed it to him. "and yet," he persisted, "from the manner in which you spoke at the table--" "oh, don't imagine i haven't thought? but thinking isn't--believing." "no," he admitted, with a touch of sadness, "you are right. there were certain comments you made on the christian religion--" she interrupted him again. "as to the political side of it, which is socialism, so far as i can see. if there is any other side, i have never been able to discover it. it seems to me that if christians were logical, they should be socialists. the brotherhood of man, cooperation--all that is socialism, isn't it? it's opposed to the principle of the survival of the fittest, which so many of these so-called christians practise. i used to think, when i came back from paris, that i was a socialist, and i went to a lot of their meetings in new york, and to lectures. but after a while i saw there was something in socialism that didn't appeal to me, something smothering,--a forced cooperation that did not leave one free. i wanted to be free, i've been striving all my life to be free," she exclaimed passionately, and was silent an instant, inspecting him. "perhaps i owe you an apology for speaking as i did before a clergyman--especially before an honest one." he passed over the qualification with a characteristic smile. "oh, if we are going to shut our ears to criticism we'd better give up being clergymen," he answered. "i'm afraid there is a great deal of truth in what you said." "that's generous of you!" she exclaimed, and thrilled him with the tribute. nor was the tribute wholly in the words: there had come spontaneously into her voice an exquisite, modulated note that haunted him long after it had died away . . . . "i had to say what i thought," she continued earnestly; "i stood it as long as i could. perhaps you didn't realize it, but my father was striking at me when he referred to your sermon, and spiritual control --and in other things he said when you were talking about the settlement-house. he reserves for himself the right to do as he pleases, but insists that those who surround him shall adopt the subserviency which he thinks proper for the rest of the world. if he were a christian himself, i shouldn't mind it so much." hodder was silent. the thought struck him with the force of a great wind. "he's a pharisee," alison went on, following the train of her thought. "i remember the first time i discovered that--it was when i was reading the new testament carefully, in the hope of finding something in christianity i might take hold of. and i was impressed particularly by the scorn with which christ treated the pharisees. my father, too, if he had lived in those days, would have thought christ a seditious person, an impractical, fanatical idealist, and would have tried to trip him up with literal questions concerning the law. his real and primary interest--is in a social system that benefits himself and his kind, and because this is so, he, and men like him, would have it appear that christianity is on the side of what they term law and order. i do not say that they are hypocritical, that they reason this out. they are elemental; and they feel intuitively that christianity contains a vital spark which, if allowed to fly, would start a conflagration beyond their control. the theologians have helped them to cover the spark with ashes, and naturally they won't allow the ashes to be touched, if they can help it." she lay very still. the rector had listened to her, at first with amazement, then with more complicated sensations as she thus dispassionately discussed the foremost member of his congregation and the first layman of the diocese, who was incidentally her own father. in her masterly analysis of eldon parr, she had brought hodder face to face with the naked truth, and compelled him to recognize it. how could he attempt to refute it, with honesty? he remembered mr. parr's criticism of alison. there had been hardness in that, though it were the cry of a lacerated paternal affection. in that, too, a lack of comprehension, an impotent anger at a visitation not understood, a punishment apparently unmerited. hodder had pitied him then--he still pitied him. in the daughter's voice was no trace of resentment. no one, seemingly, could be farther removed from him (the rector of st. john's) in her opinions and views of life, than allison parr; and yet he felt in her an undercurrent, deep and strong, which moved him strangely, strongly, irresistibly; he recognized a passionate desire for the truth, and the courage to face it at any cost, and a capacity for tenderness, revealed in flashes. "i have hurt you," she exclaimed. "i am sorry." he collected himself. "it is not you who have hurt me," he replied. "reflections on the contradictions and imperfections of life are always painful. and since i have been here, i have seen a great deal of your father." "you are fond of him!" he hesitated. it was not an ordinary conversation they were dealing with realities, and he had a sense that vital issues were at stake. he had, in that moment, to make a revaluation of his sentiments for the financier--to weigh the effect of her indictment. "yes," he answered slowly, "i am fond of him. he has shown me a side of himself, perhaps, that other men have not seen,--and he is very lonely." "you pity him." he started at her word. "i guessed that from an expression that crossed your face when we were at the table. but surely you must have observed the incongruity of his relationship with your church! surely, in preaching as you did this morning against materialism, individualism, absorption in the pursuit of wealth, you must have had my father in mind as the supreme example! and yet he listened to you as serenely as though he had never practised any of these things! "clergymen wonder why christianity doesn't make more progress to-day; well, what strikes the impartial observer who thinks about the subject at all, as one reason, is the paralyzing inconsistency of an alliance between those who preach the brotherhood of man and those who are opposed to it. i've often wondered what clergymen would say about it, if they were frank--only i never see any clergymen." he was strongly agitated. he did not stop--strangely enough--to reflect how far they had gone, to demand by what right she brought him to the bar, challenged the consistency of his life. for she had struck, with a ruthless precision, at the very core of his trouble, revealed it for what it was. "yes," he said, "i can see how we may be accused of inconsistency, and with much justice." his refusal to excuse and vindicate himself impressed her as no attempt at extenuation could have done. perhaps, in that moment, her quick instinct divined something of his case, something of the mental suffering he strove to conceal. contrition shone in her eyes. "i ought not to have said that," she exclaimed gently. "it is so easy for outsiders to criticize those who are sincere--and i am sure you are. we cannot know all the perplexities. but when we look at the church, we are puzzled by that--which i have mentioned--and by other things." "what other things?" he demanded. she hesitated in her turn. "i suppose you think it odd, my having gone to church, feeling as i do," she said. "but st. john's is now the only place vividly associated with my mother. she was never at home here, in this house. i always go at least once when i am out here. and i listened to your sermon intently." "yes." "i wanted to tell you this: you interested me as i had not been interested since i was twenty, when i made a desperate attempt to become a christian--and failed. do you know how you struck me? it was as a man who actually had a great truth which he was desperately trying to impart, and could not. i have not been in a church more than a dozen times in the last eight years, but you impressed me as a man who felt something --whatever it is." he did not speak. "but why," she cried, "do you insist on what you cell authority? as a modern woman who has learned to use her own mind, i simply can't believe, if the god of the universe is the moral god you assert him to be, that he has established on earth an agency of the kind you infer, and delegated to it the power of life and death over human souls. perhaps you do not go so far, but if you make the claim at all you must make it in its entirety. there is an idea of commercialism, of monopoly in that conception which is utterly repugnant to any one who tries to approach the subject with a fresh mind, and from an ideal point of view. and religion must be idealism--mustn't it? "your ancient monks and saints weren't satisfied until they had settled every detail of the invisible world, of the past and future. they mapped it out as if it were a region they had actually explored, like geographers. they used their reason, and what science they had, to make theories about it which the churches still proclaim as the catholic and final truth. you forbid us to use our reason. you declare, in order to become christians, that we have to accept authoritative statements. oh, can't you see that an authoritative statement is just what an ethical person doesn't want? belief--faith doesn't consist in the mere acceptance of a statement, but in something much higher--if we can achieve it. acceptance of authority is not faith, it is mere credulity, it is to shirk the real issue. we must believe, if we believe at all, without authority. if we knew, there would be no virtue in striving. if i choose a god," she added, after a pause, "i cannot take a consensus of opinion about him,--he must be my god." hodder did not speak immediately. strange as it may seem, he had never heard the argument, and the strength of it, reenforced by the extraordinary vitality and earnestness of the woman who had uttered it, had a momentary stunning effect. he sat contemplating her as she lay back among the cushions, and suddenly he seemed to see in her the rebellious child of which her father had spoken. no wonder eldon parr had misunderstood her, had sought to crush her spirit! she was to be dealt with in no common way, nor was the consuming yearning he discerned in her to be lightly satisfied. "the god of the individualist," he said at length--musingly, not accusingly. "i am an individualist," she admitted simply. "but i am at least logical in that philosophy, and the individualists who attend the churches to-day are not. the inconsistency of their lives is what makes those of us who do not go to church doubt the efficacy of their creed, which seems to have no power to change them. the majority of people in st. john's are no more christians than i am. they attend service once a week, and the rest of the time they are bent upon getting all they can of pleasure and profit for themselves. do you wonder that those who consider this spectacle come inevitably to the conclusion that either christianity is at fault, is outworn, or else that it is presented in the wrong way?" the rector rose abruptly, walked to the entrance of the arbour, and stood staring out across the garden. presently he turned and came back and stood over her. "since you ask me," he said slowly, "i do not wonder at it." she raised her eyes swiftly. "when you speak like that," she exclaimed with an enthusiasm that stirred him, despite the trouble of his mind, "i cannot think of you as a clergyman,--but as a man. indeed," she added, in the surprise of her discovery, "i have never thought of you as a clergyman--even when i first saw you this morning. i could not account then for a sense of duality about you that puzzled me. do you always preach as earnestly as that?" "why?" "i felt as if you were throwing your whole soul into the effort-=oh, i felt it distinctly. you made some of them, temporarily, a little uncomfortable, but they do not understand you, and you didn't change them. it seemed to me you realized this when gordon atterbury spoke to you. i tried to analyze the effect on myself--if it had been in the slightest degree possible for my reason to accept what you said you might, through sheer personality, have compelled me to reconsider. as it was, i found myself resisting you." with his hands clasped behind him, he paced across the arbour and back again. "have you ever definitely and sincerely tried to put what the church teaches into practice?" he asked. "orthodox christianity? penance, asceticism, self-abnegation--repression --falling on my knees and seeking a forgiveness out of all proportion to the trespass, and filled with a sense of total depravity? if i did that i should lose myself--the only valuable thing i've got." hodder, who had resumed his pacing, glanced at her involuntarily, and fought an inclination to agree with her. "i see no one upon whom i can rely but myself," she went on with the extraordinary energy she was able to summon at will, "and i am convinced that self-sacrifice--at least, indiscriminate, unreasoning self-sacrifice--is worse than useless, and to teach it is criminal ignorance. none of the so-called christian virtues appeals to me: i hate humility. you haven't it. the only happiness i can see in the world lies in self-expression, and i certainly shouldn't find that in sewing garments for the poor. "the last thing that i could wish for would be immortality as orthodox christianity depicts it! and suppose i had followed the advice of my christian friends and remained here, where they insisted my duty was, what would have happened to me? in a senseless self-denial i should gradually have, withered into a meaningless old maid, with no opinions of my own, and no more definite purpose in life than to write checks for charities. your christianity commands that women shall stay at home, and declares that they are not entitled to seek their own salvation, to have any place in affairs, or to meddle with the realm of the intellect. those forbidden gardens are reserved for the lordly sex. st. paul, you say, put us in our proper place some twenty centuries ago, and we are to remain there for all time." he felt sweeping through him the reverse current of hostility. "and what i preach," he asked, "has tended to confirm you in such a mean conception of christianity?" her eye travelled over the six feet of him--the kindling, reflecting eye of the artist; it rested for a moment on the protesting locks of his hair, which apparently could not be cut short enough to conform; on the hands, which were strong and sinewy; on the wide, tolerant mouth, with its rugged furrows, on the breadth and height of the forehead. she lay for a moment, inert, considering. "what you preach--yes," she answered, bravely meeting his look. "what you are--no. you and your religion are as far apart as the poles. oh, this old argument, the belief that has been handed down to the man, the authority with which he is clothed, and not the man himself! how can one be a factor in life unless one represents something which is the fruit of actual, personal experience? your authority is for the weak, the timid, the credulous,--for those who do not care to trust themselves, who run for shelter from the storms of life to a 'papier-mache' fortress, made to look like rock. in order to preach that logically you should be a white ascetic, with a well-oiled manner, a downcast look lest you stumble in your pride; lest by chance you might do something original that sprang out of your own soul instead of being an imitation of the saints. and if your congregation took your doctrine literally, i can see a whole army of white, meek christians. but you are not like that. can't you see it for yourself?" she exclaimed. "can't you feel that you are an individual, a personality, a force that might be put to great uses? that will be because you are open-minded, because there is room in you for growth and change?" he strove with all his might to quell the inner conflagration which she had fanned into leaping flames. though he had listened before to doubt and criticism, this woman, with her strange shifting moods of calm and passion, with her bewildering faculty of changing from passive to active resistance, her beauty (once manifest, never to be forgotten), her unique individuality that now attracted, now repelled, seemed for the moment the very incarnation of the forces opposed to him and his religion. holder, as he looked at her, had a flash of fierce resentment that now, of all times, she should suddenly have flung herself across his path. for she was to be reckoned with. why did he not tell her she was an egoist? why didn't he speak out, defend his faith, denounce her views as prejudiced and false? "have i made you angry?" he heard her say. "i am sorry." it was the hint of reproach in her tone to which the man in him instantly responded. and what he saw now was his portrait she had painted. the thought came to him: was he indeed greater, more vital than the religion he professed? god forbid! did he ring true, and it false? she returned his gaze. and gradually, under her clear olive skin, he saw the crimson colour mounting higher . . . . she put forth her hand, simply, naturally, and pressed his own, as though they had been friends for a lifetime . . . . chapter x the messenger in the church i the annual scourge of summer had descended pitilessly upon the city once more, enervating, depressing, stagnating, and people moved languidly in the penetrating heat that steamed from the pores of the surrounding river bottoms. the rector of st. john's realized that a crisis had come in his life, --a crisis he had tried to stave off in vain. and yet there was a period during which he pursued his shrunken duties as though nothing had happened to him; as a man who has been struck in battle keeps on, loath to examine, to acknowledge the gravity of his wound; fearing to, perhaps. sometimes, as his mind went back to the merciless conflict of his past, his experience at the law school, it was the unchaining of that other man he dreaded, the man he believed himself to have finally subdued. but night and day he was haunted by the sorrowful and reproachful face of truth. had he the courage, now, to submit the beliefs which had sustained him all these years to truth's inexorable inspection? did he dare to turn and open those books which she had inspired,--the new philosophies, the historical criticisms which he had neglected and condemned, which he had flattered himself he could do without,--and read of the fruit of knowledge? twice, thrice he had hesitated on the steps of the big library, and turned away with a wildly beating heart. day by day the storm increased, until from a cloud on the horizon it grew into a soul-shaking tempest. profoundly moved parr's he had been on that sunday afternoon, in eldon parr's garden, he had resolutely resolved to thrust the woman and the incident from his mind, to defer the consideration of the questions she had raised--grave though they were--to a calmer period. for now he was unable to separate her, to eliminate the emotion--he was forced to acknowledge--the thought of her aroused, from the problems themselves. who was she? at moments he seemed to see her shining, accusing, as truth herself, and again as a circe who had drawn him by subtle arts from his wanderings, luring him to his death; or, at other times, as the mutinous daughter of revolt. but when he felt, in memory, the warm touch of her hand, the old wildness of his nature responded, he ceased to speculate or care, and he longed only to crush and subdue her by the brute power of the man in him. for good or bad, she had woven her spell. here was the old, elemental, twofold contest, carnal and spiritual, thoroughly revived! . . . he recalled, in his musings, the little theological school surrounded by southern woods and fields, where he had sometime walked under autumn foliage with the elderly gentleman who had had such an influence on his life--the dean. mild-mannered and frail, patient in ordinary converse, --a lion for the faith. he would have died for it as cheerfully as any martyr in history. by the marvels of that faith holder had beheld, from his pew in the chapel, the little man transformed. he knew young men, their perplexities and temptations, and he dealt with them personally, like a father. holder's doubts were stilled, he had gained power of his temptations and peace for his soul, and he had gone forth inspired by the reminder that there was no student of whom the dean expected better things. where now were the thousands of which he had dreamed, and which he was to have brought into the church? . . . now, he asked himself, was it the dean, or the dean's theology through which his regeneration had come? might not the inherent goodness of the dean be one thing, and his theology quite another? personality again! he recalled one of the many things which alison parr had branded on his memory,--"the belief, the authority in which the man is clothed, and not the man!" the dean's god had remained silent on the subject of personality. or, at the best, he had not encouraged it; and there were --hodder could not but perceive--certain contradictions in his character, which were an anomalistic blending of that of the jealous god of moses and of the god of christ. there must be continuity--god could not change. therefore the god of infinite love must retain the wrath which visited sins of the fathers on the children, which demanded sacrifice, atonement,--an exact propitiation for his anger against mankind. an innocent life of sorrow and suffering! and again, "you and your religion are as far apart as the poles!" had he, hodder, outgrown the dean's religion, or had it ever been his own? was there, after all, such a thing as religion? might it not be merely a figment of the fertile imagination of man? he did not escape the terror of this thought when he paused to consider his labour of the past two years and the vanity of its results. and little by little the feeling grew upon him, such being the state of his mind, that he ought not to continue, for the present at least, to conduct the services. should he resign, or go away for a while to some quiet place before he made such a momentous decision? there was no one to whom he could turn; no layman, and no clergyman; not even the old bishop, whom he had more than once mentally accused of being, too broad and too tolerant! no, he did not wish a clergyman's solution. the significance of this thought flashed through him--that the world itself was no longer seeking clergymen's solutions. he must go off alone, and submit his faith to the impartial test. it was in a vigil of the night, when he lay in the hot darkness, unable to sleep, that he came at length to this resolve. and now that he had cut the knot he was too just to blame alison parr for having pointed out --with what often had seemed a pitiless cruelty--something of which he had had a constantly growing perception yet had continually sought to evade. and he reviewed, as the church bells recorded the silent hours, how, little by little, his confidence had crumbled before the shocks of the successive revelations--some of them so slight that they had passed unnoticed: comparisons, inevitably compelled; dalton street; the confessions of eleanor goodrich and mrs. constable; mr. plimpton and his views of life--eldon parr! even the slamming of the carriage doors in burton street had had a significance! might it not prove that this woman had let fall into the turbid waters of his soul the drop that was to clear them forever? he would go away. he would not see her again. over the sleeping city, unapprehended, stole the dawn. he arose, but instead of falling on his knees he went to the window and lifted his face to the whitening sky . . . . slowly out of the obscurity of the earth's shadow emerged the vague outlines of familiar things until they stood sharply material, in a silence as of death. a sparrow twittered, and suddenly the familiar, soot-grimed roofs were bathed in light, and by a touch made beautiful . . . . some hours later the city was wide awake. and hodder, bathed and dressed, stood staring down from his study window into the street below, full now of young men and girls; some with set faces, hurrying, intent, others romping and laughing as they dodged the trucks and trolley cars; all on their way to the great shoe factory around the corner, the huge funnels of which were belching forth smoke into the morning air. the street emptied, a bell rang, a whistle blew, the hum of distant machinery began . . . . ii later that morning hodder sat in his study. the shutters were closed, and the intensity of the tropical glare without was softened and diffused by the slanting green slats. his eye wandered over the long and comfortable room which had been his sanctuary in the feverish days of his ministry, resting affectionately on the hospitable chairs, the wide fireplace before which he had been wont to settle himself on winter nights, and even on the green matting--a cooling note in summer. and there, in the low cases along the walls, were the rows of his precious books,--his one hobby and extravagance. he had grown to love the room. would he ever come back to it? a step sounded in the hall, a knock, and the well-known gaunt form and spectacled face of mccrae appeared in the doorway. "ye wished to see me?" he asked. "mccrae," said the rector, "i am going off for a while." his assistant regarded him a moment in silence. although hodder had no intention of explaining his reasons, he had a curious conviction that it were superfluous to do so, that mccrae had guessed them. "why shouldn't ye? there's but a handful left to preach to in this weather." "i wouldn't go, in this sudden way, if it were not imperative," hodder added, trying to speak calmly. "why shouldn't ye?" mccrae repeated, almost fiercely. hodder smiled in spite of himself. "there's no reason," he said, "except the added work put on you without warning, and in this heat." "ye'll not need to worry," his assistant assured him, "the heat's nothing to me." mccrae hesitated, and then demanded abruptly, "ye'll not be visiting?" the question took hodder by surprise. "no," he answered quickly, and not quite steadily, and hesitated in his turn, "i shan't be visiting." "it's a rest ye need, i've been wanting to say it." mccrae took a step forward, and for a moment it seemed as though he were at last about to break the bonds of his reserve. perhaps he detected an instinctive shrinking on the rector's part. at any rate, there was another instant of silence, in which the two men faced each other across the desk, and mccrae held out his hand. "good luck to ye," he said, as hodder took it, "and don't have the pariah on your mind. stay till ye're rested, and come back to us." he left the room abruptly. hodder remained motionless, looking after him, and then, moved apparently by a sudden impulse, started toward the door,--only to halt and turn before he got to it. almost he had opened his lips to call his assistant back. he could not do it--the moment had come and fled when it might have been possible. did this man hide, under his brusqueness and brevity of speech, the fund of wisdom and the wider sympathy and understanding he suspected? hodder could have vouched for it, and yet he had kept his own counsel. and he was struck suddenly by the significance of the fact, often remarked, that mccrae in his brief and common-sense and by no means enlivening sermons had never once referred in any way to doctrine or dogma! he spent half an hour in collecting and bestowing in two large valises such articles as his simple needs would demand, and then set out for a railroad office in the business portion of the city, where he bought his ticket and berth. then, after a moment of irresolution on the threshold of the place, he turned to the right, thrusting his way through the sluggish crowds on tower street until he came to the large bookstore where he had been want to spend, from time to time, some of his leisure moments. a clerk recognized him, and was about to lead the way to the rear, where the precious editions were kept, when hodder stopped him. in casting about for a beginning in his venture over unknown seas, there had naturally come into his mind three or four works which were anathema to the orthodox; one of which, in seven volumes, went back to his seminary days, and had been the subject of a ringing, denunciatory sermon by the dean himself. three of them were by germans of established reputations, another by a professor of the university of paris. the habit of years is strong. and though he knew that many clergymen read these books, hodder found it impossible to overcome a nervous sense of adventure,--nay (knowing his resolution), of apostasy, almost of clandestine guilt when he mentioned them. and it seemed to him that the face of the clerk betrayed surprise. one of the works was not in stock; he would send the others that afternoon. mr. hodder would take them? they made a formidable parcel, but a little handle was supplied and the rector hurried out, swinging himself on a tower street car. it must not be thought that the whole of what is called modern criticism was new to hodder. this would indeed be too much of a reflection on the open-mindedness of the seminary from which he had graduated. but he found himself, now, pondering a little cynically on that "open-mindedness"; on that concession--if it had been a concession--to the methods of science. there had been in truth a course of lectures on this subject; but he saw now, very clearly, what a concerted effort had been put forward in the rest of the teaching to minimize and discredit it. even the professor who gave the lectures had had the air of deploring them. here it is, but on the whole one would better let it alone,--such was the inference. and he had let it alone, through all these years. in the seminary, too, volumes by semi-learned clergymen had been thrust into his hands, efforts which hodder recalled now, in spite of his mental state, with a smile. these invariably championed the doctrine of the virgin birth as the pillar on which the incarnation depended. a favourite argument declared that although the gospel texts in regard to it might be proven untrustworthy, the miraculous birth must have happened anyway! and one of these clerical authors whom he had more recently read, actually had had the audacity to turn the weapons of the archenemy, science, back upon itself. the virgin birth was an established fact in nature, and had its place in the social economy of the bee. and did not parthenogenesis occur in the silk moth? in brief, the conclusion impressed upon him by his seminary instruction was this: that historical criticism had corrected some ideas and put some things in their right place. what these things were remained sufficiently vague. but whenever it attacked a cherished dogma it was, on general principles, wrong. once again in his cool study, he cut the cord with a trembling hand, and while he was eating the lunch his housekeeper had prepared, dipped into one of the larger volumes. as he read again the critical disproofs he felt an acute, almost physical pain, as though a vital part of him were being cut away, as his mind dwelt upon those beautiful legends to which he had so often turned, and which had seemed the very fountain of his faith. legends! . . . . he closed the book. the clock on the mantel struck three; his train was to leave at five. he rose and went down into the silent church he had grown to love, seating himself in one of the carved stalls of the choir, his eye lingering in turn on each beautiful object: on the glowing landscape in the window in memory of eliza parr, portraying the delectable country, with the bewildered yet enraptured faces of the pilgrims in the foreground; on the graceful, shining lectern, the aspiring arches, the carved marble altar behind the rail, and above it the painting of the christ on the cross. the hours of greatest suffering are the empty hours. 'eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?' the hours when the mysterious sustaining and driving force is withdrawn, and a lassitude and despair comes over us like that of a deserted child: the hours when we feel we have reached the limit of service, when our brief span of usefulness is done. had god brought him, john hodder, to the height of the powers of his manhood only to abandon him, to cast him adrift on the face of the waters--led him to this great parish, with all its opportunities, only that he might fail and flee? he sat staring at the face of the man on the cross. did he, in his overwrought state, imagine there an expression he had never before remarked, or had the unknown artist of the seventies actually risen above the mediocrity of the figure in his portrayal of the features of the christ? the rector started, and stared again. there was no weakness in the face, no meekness, no suggestion of the conception of the sacrificed lamb, no hint of a beatific vision of opening heavens--and yet no accusation, no despair. a knowing--that were nearer--a knowing of all things through the experiencing of all things, the suffering of all things. for suffering without revelation were vain, indeed! a perfected wisdom that blended inevitably with a transcendent love. love and wisdom were one, then? to reach comprehension through conquering experience was to achieve the love that could exclaim, "they know not what they do!" human or divine? man or god? hodder found himself inwardly repeating the words, the controversy which had raged for nineteen hundred years, and not yet was stilled. perfection is divine. human! hodder repeated the word, as one groping on the threshold of a great discovery . . . . iii he was listening--he had for a long time been listening to a sound which had seemed only the natural accompaniment of the drama taking place in his soul, as though some inspired organist were expressing in exquisite music the undercurrent of his agony. only gradually did he become aware that it arose from the nave of the church, and, turning, his eyes fell upon the bowed head and shoulders of a woman kneeling in one of the pews. she was sobbing. his movement, he recalled afterward, did not come of a conscious volition, as he rose and descended the chancel steps and walked toward her; he stood for what seemed a long time on the white marble of the aisle looking down on her, his heart wrung by the violence of her grief, which at moments swept through her like a tempest. she seemed still young, but poverty had marked her with unmistakable signs. the white, blue-veined hands that clung to the railing of the pew were thin; and the shirtwaist, though clean, was cheap and frayed. at last she rose from her knees and raised a tear-stained face to his, staring at him in a dumb bewilderment. "can i do anything for you?" he said gently, "i am the rector here." she did not answer, but continued to stare uncomprehendingly. he sat down beside her in the pew. "you are in trouble," he said. "will you let me try to help you?" a sob shook her--the beginning of a new paroxysm. he waited patiently until it was over. suddenly she got rather wildly and unsteadily to her feet. "i must go!" she cried. "oh, god, what would i do if--if he wasn't there?" hodder rose too. she had thrust herself past him into the aisle, but if he had not taken her arm she would have fallen. thus they went together to the door of the church, and out into the white, burning sunlight. in spite of her weakness she seemed actually to be leading him, impelled by a strange force and fled down the steps of the porch to the sidewalk. and there she paused, seeing him still beside her. fortunately he had his hat in his hand. "where are you going?" she asked. "to take you home," he replied firmly, "you ought not to go alone." a look of something like terror came into her eyes. "oh, no!" she protested, with a vehemence that surprised him. "i am strong. oh, thank you, sir,--but i can go alone. it's dicky--my little boy. i've never left him so long. i had gone for the medicine and i saw the church. i used to go to church, sir, before we had our troubles--and i just went in. it suddenly came over me that god might help me--the doctor can do nothing." "i will go with you," he said. she ceased to resist, as one submitting to the fatality of a superior will. the pavements that afternoon, as hodder and the forlorn woman left the cool porticoes of st. john's, were like the floor of a stone oven, and the work horses wore little bonnets over their heads. keeping to the shady side, the rector and his companion crossed tower street with its trolley cars and its awninged stores, and came to that depressing district which had reproached him since the first sunday of his ministry when he had traversed it with eldon parr. they passed the once prosperous houses, the corner saloons pandering to two vices, decked with the flamboyant signs of the breweries. the trees were dying along the asphalt and in the yards, the iron fences broken here and there, the copings stained with rust and soot. hodder's thoughts might have been likened to the heated air that simmered above the bricks. they were in dalton street! she seemed to have forgotten his presence, her pace quickened as she turned into a gate and flew up a flight of dirty stone steps, broken and sagging. hodder took in, subconsciously, that the house was a dingy grey, of three stories and a mansard roof, with a bay window on the yard side, and a fly-blown sign, "rooms to rent" hanging in one window. across the street, on a lot that had once held a similar dignified residence, was the yellow brick building of the "albert hotel," and next door, on the east, a remodelled house of "apartments" with speaking tubes in the doorway. the woman led him up another flight of steps to the open door of the house, through a hallway covered with a ragged carpet, where a dilapidated walnut hat-rack stood, up the stairs, threading a dark passage that led into a low-ceiled, stifling room at the very back. a stout, slatternly person in a wrapper rose as they entered, but the mother cast herself down beside the lounge where the child was. hodder had a moment of fear that she was indeed too late, so still the boy lay, so pathetically wan was the little face and wasted the form under the cotton nightgown. the mother passed her hand across his forehead. "dicky!" she whispered fearfully, "dicky!" he opened his eyes and smiled at her; feebly. the, stout woman, who had been looking on with that intensity of sympathy of which the poor are capable, began waving gently the palm-leaf fan. she was german. "he is so good, is dicky. he smile at me when i fan him--once, twice. he complains not at all." the mother took the fan from her, hand. "thank you for staying with him, mrs. breitmann. i was gone longer than i expected." the fact that the child still lived, that she was again in his presence, the absorbing act of caring for him seemed to have calmed her. "it is nothing, what i do," answered mrs. breitmann, and turned away reluctantly, the tears running on her cheeks. "when you go again, i come always, mrs. garvin. ach!" her exclamation was caused by the sight of the tall figure and black coat of the rector, and as she left the room, mrs. garvin turned. and he noticed in her eyes the same expression of dread they had held when she had protested against his coming. "please don't think that i'm not thankful--" she faltered. "i am not offering you charity," he said. "can you not take from other human beings what you have accepted from this woman who has just left?" "oh, sir, it isn't that!" she cried, with a look of trust, of appeal that was new, "i would do anything--i will do anything. but my husband--he is so bitter against the church, against ministers! if he came home and found you here--" "i know--many people feel that way," he assented, "too many. but you cannot let a prejudice stand in the way of saving the boy's life, mrs. garvin." "it is more than that. if you knew, sir--" "whatever it is," he interrupted, a little sternly, "it must not interfere. i will talk to your husband." she was silent, gazing at him now questioningly, yet with the dawning hope of one whose strength is all but gone, and who has found at last a stronger to lean upon. the rector took the fan from her arrested hand and began to ply it. "listen, mrs. garvin. if you had come to the church half an hour later, i should have been leaving the city for a place far distant." "you were going away? you stayed on my account?" "i much prefer to stay, if i can be of any use, and i think i can. i am sure i can. what is the matter with the child?" "i don't know, sir--he just lies there listless and gets thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker. sometimes he feels sick, but not often. the doctor don't seem to know." what doctor have you?" "his name is welling. he's around the corner." "exactly," said the rector. "this is a case for dr. jarvis, who is the best child specialist in the city. he is a friend of mine, and i intend to send for him at once. and the boy must go to a hospital--" "oh, i couldn't, sir." he had a poignant realization of the agony behind the cry. she breathed quickly through her parted lips, and from the yearning in her tired eyes --as she gazed at the poor little form--he averted his glance. "now, mrs. garvin, you must be sensible," he said. "this is no place for a sick child. and it is such a nice little hospital, the one i have in mind, and so many children get well and strong there," he added, cheerfully. "he wouldn't hear of it." hodder comprehended that she was referring to her husband. she added inconsequently: "if i let him go, and he never came back! oh, i couldn't do it--i couldn't." he saw that it was the part of wisdom not to press her, to give her time to become accustomed to the idea. come back--to what? his eye wandered about the room, that bespoke the last shifts of poverty, for he knew that none but the desperate were driven to these dalton street houses, once the dwellings of the well-to-do, and all the more pitiful for the contrast. the heated air reeked with the smell of stale cooking. there was a gas stove at one side, a linoleum-covered table in the centre, littered with bottles, plates, and pitchers, a bed and chairs which had known better days, new obviously bruised and battered by many enforced movings. in one corner was huddled a little group of toys. he was suddenly and guiltily aware that the woman had followed his glance. "we had them in alder street," she said. "we might have been there yet, if we hadn't been foolish. it's a pretty street, sir--perhaps you know it--you take the fanshawe avenue cars to sherman heights. the air is like the country there, and all the houses are new, and dicky had a yard to play in, and he used to be so healthy and happy in it. . . we were rich then,--not what you'd call rich," she added apologetically, "but we owned a little home with six rooms, and my husband had a good place as bookkeeper in a grocery house, and every year for ten years we put something by, and the boy came. we never knew how well off we were, until it was taken away from us, i guess. and then richard--he's my husband--put his savings into a company--he thought it was so safe, and we were to get eight per cent--and the company failed, and he fell sick and lost his place, and we had to sell the house, and since he got well again he's been going around trying for something else. oh, he's tried so hard,--every day, and all day long. you wouldn't believe it, sir. and he's so proud. he got a job as porter, but he wasn't able to hold it--he wasn't strong enough. that was in april. it almost broke my heart to see him getting shabby--he used to look so tidy. and folks don't want you when you're shabby." . . . there sprang to hodder's mind a sentence in a book he had recently read: "our slums became filled with sick who need never have been sick; with derelicts who need never have been abandoned." suddenly, out of the suffocating stillness of the afternoon a woman's voice was heard singing a concert-hall air, accompanied by a piano played with vigour and abandon. and hodder, following the sound, looked out across the grimy yard--to a window in the apartment house opposite. "there's that girl again," said the mother, lifting her head. "she does sing nice, and play, poor thing! there was a time when i wouldn't have wanted to listen. but dicky liked it so . . . . it's the very tune he loved. he don't seem to hear it now. he don't even ask for mr. bentley any more." "mr. bentley?" the rector repeated. the name was somehow familiar to him. the piano and the song ceased abruptly, with a bang. "he lives up the street here a way--the kindest old gentleman you ever saw. he always has candy in his pockets for the children, and it's a sight to see them follow him up and down the sidewalk. he takes them to the park in the cars on saturday afternoons. that was all dicky could think about at first--would he be well enough to go with mr. bentley by saturday? and he was forever asking me to tell mr. bentley he was sick. i saw the old gentleman on the street to-day, and i almost went up to him. but i hadn't the courage." the child moaned, stirred, and opened his eyes, gazing at them feverishly, yet without seeming comprehension. she bent over him, calling his name . . . . hodder thrust the fan into her hand, and rose. "i am going to telephone dr. jarvis," he said, "and then i shall come back, in order to be here when he arrives." she looked up at him. "oh, thank you, sir,--i guess it's for the best--" her voice died away, and the rector, seeking for the cause, saw that a man had entered the room. he walked up to the couch and stood for a moment staring moodily at the child, while the woman watched him, transfixed. "richard!" she said. he paid no attention to her. she turned to hodder. "this is my husband, sir. . . . richard, i went into the church--just for a moment--i--i couldn't help it, and this gentleman--the minister--came home with me. he wanted to--he thought i was sick. and now he's going out to get the best doctor in the city for dicky." the man turned suddenly and confronted the rector. "why don't you let him die, you and your church people?" he asked. "you've done your worst to kill him." the woman put her hand fearfully, imploringly on the man's arm. "richard!" she whispered. but as hodder glanced from the derelict beside him a wave of comprehension passed through him that swept him clean of indignation, of resentment. and this man had been prosperous and happy! "there is but one way to save the boy's life, mr. garvin," he said, "and that is to put him in charge of dr. jarvis." the man made no reply, but went over to the window, staring out into the yard. there was something vaguely ominous in his attitude. the rector watched him a moment, and then turned to the mother. "you must not lose hope," he told her. she looked at him with terror-stricken eyes that sought to be grateful. he had picked up his hat from a corner of the littered table, and started to leave, when garvin, by a sudden movement, planted himself in the doorway. whether he had been drinking, or whether he were merely crazed by misfortune and the hopeless search in the heat for employment, and by lack of proper nourishment, hodder could not say. there was a light in his eyes like that in a wounded animal's; and although he was thin and slight, he had the concentrated power of desperation. "say, what church do you come from?" he demanded. "from st. john's," said the rector. "eldon parr's church?" hodder started, in spite of himself, at the name. "mr. parr is a member of the congregation." "come off! he owns it and runs it, the same as he does everything else in this town. maybe you don't think i read the sunday papers. say, i was respectable once, and had a good place. you wouldn't believe it, would you?" hodder hesitated. there was obviously no way to pass the man except by using physical force. "if you have anything to say to me, mr. garvin, i shall be glad to talk to you later. you must not stop me now," he said with a touch of severity. "you'll listen to me, right here and now," cried garvin. "if you think i am going to let eldon parr's minister, or any one else belonging to him, save that boy's life, you've got another guess comin'. that's all. i'd rather have him die--d'ye hear? i'd rather have him die." the woman behind them whimpered . . . . the name was ringing like a knell in hodder's head--eldon parr! coming, as it had, like a curse from the lips of this wretched, half-demented creature, it filled his soul with dismay. and the accusation had in it the profound ring of truth. he was eldon parr's minister, and it was eldon parr who stood between him and his opportunity. "why do you speak of mr. parr?" he asked, though the question cost him a supreme effort. "why do i speak of him? my god, because he ruined me. if it hadn't been for him, damn him, i'd have a home, and health and happiness to-day, and the boy would be well and strong instead of lying there with the life all but gone out of him. eldon parr did for me, and now he's murdered my son--that's why i mention him." in the sudden intensity of his feeling, hodder seized garvin by the arms --arms that were little more than skin and bone. the man might be crazed, he might be drunk: that he believed what he was saying there could be no question. he began to struggle violently, but the rector was strong. "be still," he commanded. and suddenly, overcome less by the physical power than by the aspect of the clergyman, an expression of bewilderment came into his eyes, and he was quiet. hodder dropped his arms. "i do not intend to go until i hear what you have to say. it would be useless, at any rate, since your child's life is at stake. tell me how mr. parr has ruined you." garvin stared at him, half in suspicion, half in amazement. "i guess you never knew of his ruining anybody, did you?" he demanded sullenly. "well, i'll tell you all right, and you can go and tell him. he won't care much--he's used to it by this time, and he gets square with god by his churches and charities. did you ever hear of a stock called consolidated tractions?" consolidated tractions! in contrast to the sordid misery and degradation of this last refuge of the desperate hodder saw the lofty, panelled smoking room at francis ferguson's, and was listening again to wallis plimpton's cynical amusement as to how he and everett constable and eldon parr himself had "gat out" before the crash; "got out" with all the money of the wretch who now stood before him! his parishioners! his christians! oh god! the man was speaking in his shrill voice. "well, i was a traction sucker, all right, and i guess you wouldn't have to walk more than two blocks to find another in this neighbourhood. you think eldon parr's a big, noble man, don't you? you're proud to run his church, ain't you? you wouldn't believe there was a time when i thought he was a big man, when i was kind of proud to live in the same city with him. she'll tell you how i used to come home from the store and talk about him after supper, and hope that the kid there would grow up into a financier like eldon parr. the boys at the store talked about him: he sort of laid hold on our imaginations with the library he gave, and elmwood park, and the picture of the big organ in your church in the newspapers--and sometimes, mary and me and the boy, in the baby carriage, on sunday afternoons we used to walk around by his house, just to look at it. you couldn't have got me to believe that eldon parr would put his name to anything that wasn't straight. "then consolidated tractions came along, with parr's, name behind it. everybody was talking about it, and how it was payin' eight per cent. from the start, and extra dividends and all, and what a marvel of finance it was. before the kid came, as soon as i married her, we began to save up for him. we didn't go to the theatres or nothing. well, i put it all, five thousand dollars, into consolidated. she'll tell you how we sat up half the night after we got the first dividend talking about how we'd send the kid to college, and after we went to bed we couldn't sleep. it wasn't more than a year after that we began to hear things--and we couldn't sleep for sure, and the dividends stopped and the stock tumbled. even then i wouldn't believe it of him, that he'd take poor people's money that way when he had more than he knew what to do with. i made up my mind if i went down to see him and told him about it, he'd make it right. i asked the boss for an hour off, and headed for the parr building--i've been there as much as fifty times since--but he don't bother with small fry. the clerks laugh when they see me comin' . . . i got sick worryin', and when i was strong enough to be around they'd filled my job at the grocery, and it wasn't long before we had to move out of our little home in alder street. we've been movin' ever since," he cried, and tears of weakness were in his eyes, "until we've come to this, and we'll have to get out of here in another week. god knows where we'll go then." hodder shuddered. "then i found out how he done it--from a lawyer. the lawyer laughed at me, too. say, do you wonder i ain't got much use for your church people? parr got a corporation lawyer named langmaid--he's another one of your millionnaire crooks--to fix it up and get around the law and keep him out of jail. and then they had to settle with tim beatty for something like three hundred thousand. you know who beatty is--he owns this city--his saloon's around here on elm street. all the crooks had to be squared. say," he demanded aggressively, "are parr and langmaid any better than beatty, or any of the hold-up men beatty covers? there's a street-walker over there in those flats that's got a million times more chance to get to heaven--if there is any--than those financiers, as they call 'emselves --i ain't much on high finance, but i've got some respect for a second story man now--he takes some risks! i'll tell you what they did, they bought up the short car lines that didn't pay and sold 'em to themselves for fifty times as much as they were worth; and they got controlling interests in the big lines and leased 'em to themselves with dividends guaranteed as high as eighteen per cent. they capitalized the consolidated for more millions than a little man like me can think of, and we handed 'em our money because we thought they were honest. we thought the men who listed the stock on the exchange were honest. and when the crash came, they'd got away with the swag, like any common housebreakers. there were dummy directors, and a dummy president. eldon parr didn't have a share--sold out everything when she went over two hundred, but you bet he kept his stock in the leased lines, which guarantee more than they earn. he cleaned up five million, they say.... my money--the money that might give that boy fresh air, and good doctors ....say, you believe in hell, don't you? you tell eldon parr to keep his charity,--he can't send any of it in here. and you'd better go back to that church of his and pray to keep his soul out of hell." . . . his voice, which had risen even to a higher pitch, fell silent. and all at once, without warning, garvin sank, or rather tumbled upon the bed, sobbing in a way that was terrible to see. the wife stole across the room, sat down beside him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. . . . in spite of the intensity of his own anguish, hodder was conscious of a curious detachment; and for months afterward particular smells, the sight of a gasoline stove, a certain popular tune gave him a sharp twinge of pain. the acid distilling in his soul etched the scene, the sounds, the odours forever in his memory: a stale hot wind from the alley rattled the shutter-slats, and blew the door to; the child stirred; and above the strident, irregular weeping rose main, in ironical contrast, the piano and the voice across the yard. in that glimpse he had into the heart of life's terrible mystery he momentarily understood many things: he knew that behind the abandon of the woman's song was the same terror which reigned in the room in which he stood . . . . there were voices in the passageway without, a woman saying in a german accent,--"it is here, sir." there was a knock at the door . . . . chapter xi the lost parishioner i hodder opened the door. in the dingy passageway he perceived a tall figure which immediately turned out to be that of an old gentleman. in spite of the heat, he wore a long coat and an old-fashioned, high collar, a black tie, under which was exposed a triangle of immaculate, pleated linen. in one hand he held a gold-headed stick, a large tall hat of which the silk nap was a little rubbed, a string sustaining a parcel, the brown paper wrapping of which was soaked: in the other, a manila bag containing lemons. his head was bent forward a little, the high dome of it was bald, but the white hair clustered thickly behind the temples. the face was clean-shaven, the cheeks touched with red, the nose high and dominating, distinctly philanthropic. and the blue eyes rested on the clergyman with a benevolence unfeigned. "good afternoon, sir," the old gentleman said; "i am told mrs. garvin lives here." before the rector could reply mrs. garvin herself stood between them. "it's mr. bentley!" she exclaimed. "i fear i'm intruding, ma'am," he said. "but some of dicky's little friends have just informed me that he is ill, and i have taken the liberty of calling to inquire." mr. bentley entered the room,--simple words to express that which was in some sort an event. he laid his parcels on the table, his hat and stick on a chair, and stood looking down in silence at the thin little form on the couch. presently he turned. "i'm afraid he's very ill, ma'am," he said gently. "you have your own doctor, no doubt. but if you will permit me, as a friend, to make a suggestion, we have in the city one of the best child specialists in the united states, who is never weary of curing these little ones,--dr. jarvis, and i shall be happy to ask him to come and see dicky." mrs. garvin glanced at hodder, who came forward. "i was just about to telephone for dr. jarvis, mr. bentley, when you arrived. i am mr. hodder, of st. john's." "how do you do, sir?" the kindly eyes, alight with a gentle flame, rested upon the rugged figure of the rector. "i am glad that you, too, agree that dr. jarvis is advisable, mr. hodder." there was a sound from the bed. garvin had got to his feet and was staring wildly, with reddened lids. "are you horace bentley?" he demanded. "that is my name, sir," mr. bentley replied. his expression of surprise was only momentary. and in all his life hodder had never beheld a greater contrast in human beings than between that gracious and courtly old man and the haggard, unkempt, unshaved, and starving outcast facing him. something like a film came over garvin's eyes. "he ruined you, too, twenty years back--eldon parr did for you, too. oh, i know his record, i've followed his trail--he got all the grantham stock that would have made you a millionnaire!" "ah," replied mr. bentley, smiling to humour him, "that's something i have no wish to be, sir,--a millionaire." he met the frightened gaze of the wife. "good day, ma'am. if you will allow me, i'll come to-morrow morning to learn what dr. jarvis will have had to say. have courage, ma'am, have courage. you may have faith in dr. jarvis." the poor woman was incapable of speech. mr. bentley picked up his hat and stick. "i've taken the liberty of bringing dicky a little ice and a few lemons." his eyes rested again on the couch by the window. then he turned to garvin, who stood mutely, staring. "good evening, sir," he said. "we must look for the best." ii they went down the stairs of the shabby and battered house, stairs by the side of which holes had been knocked through the faded wall-paper--scars of frequent movings. the sound and smell of frying came out of the open door of what once had been the parlour, and on the front steps a little girl darted past them with a pitcher of beer. when they reached the sidewalk mr. bentley halted. "if you were intending to telephone dr. jarvis, mr. hodder, there is a public station in the drug store just above here. i know that clergymen are busy persons, and i am passing it, if you are pressed for time." "my only concern is to get jarvis here," said the rector. "if i may go with you--" once again in the hot sunlight, reaction had set in. hodder was suddenly unstrung, and the kindly old gentleman beside him seemed for the instant the only fixture in a chaotic universe. it was not until later reflection that he realized mr. bentley might, by an intuitive sympathy, a depth of understanding, have drained something of his state, since the incidents which followed were to be accounted for on no other grounds. in such elemental moments the frail conventions are swept away: mr. bentley, whoever he might be, was no longer a stranger; and it seemed wholly natural to be walking with him up the street, to hear him saying, --not with perfunctory politeness but in a tone that was itself an invitation,--"with pleasure, sir, we'll go together. and let us trust that the doctor will be at home." nor did hodder stop to wonder, then, why mr. bentley should have sought in his conversation to dissipate something of the hideous blackness of a tragedy which must have moved him profoundly. how fortunate, he declared, that they should have arrived before it was too late! for it was plain to be seen that these garvins were good people who had been broken by adversity . . . . the boy had struck him particularly--a lovable, merry little fellow whose clothes, mr. bentley observed, were always neatly mended, betokening a mother with self-respect and character. he even spoke of garvin: adversity, worry, the heat, constant brooding over a happier past and an uncertain future--was it surprising that the poor man's mind had become unhinged? they must make some plan for garvin, said mr. bentley, get the man and his wife into the country for a while amongst kindly people. this might no doubt be arranged.... "here we are, sir." the familiar smell of drugs, the sound of the trickling water in the soda fountain roused hodder to reality, to action, and he hurried into the telephone booth, fumbled in the dog-eared book, got dr. jarvis's number and called it. an eternity seemed to elapse before he had a reply, heard his coin jangling in the bog, recognized the voice of the great doctor's secretary. yes, the doctor was in would he speak to mr. hodder, of st. john's? . . . an interval, during which hodder was suddenly struck with this designation of himself. was he still of st. john's, then? an aeon might have elapsed since he had walked down the white marble of its aisle toward the crouching figure in the pew. he was not that man, but another--and still mr. hodder, of st. john's. . . . then he heard the specialist say, "hello, mr. hodder, what can i do for you?" heard his own voice in reply, explaining the case. could the doctor find time? the doctor could: he was never too busy to attend to the poor,--though he did not say so: he would be there--by half-past six. the rector hung up the receiver, opened the door of the booth and mopped his brow, for the heat was stifling. "the doctor will go," he explained in answer to mr. bentley's inquiring look. "now, sir," said the old gentleman, when they were out of the store, "we have done all that we can for the time being. i do not live far from here. perhaps you would give me the pleasure of taking supper with me, if you have no other engagement." no other engagement! not until then did hodder remember his empty rooms in the parish house, and the train which was to have borne him away from all this already speeding northward. he accepted gratefully, nor did he pause to speculate upon the mystery by which the stream of his life seemed so suddenly to have been diverted. he had, indeed, no sense of mystery in the presence of this splendidly sane, serene old man, any more than the children who ran after him from the dingy yards and passages, calling his name, clinging to the skirts of his coat. these accepted him simply as an anomalous fact in their universe, grinned at his pleasantries, and held up grimy little hands for the kidney-shaped candy beans he drew forth from his capacious pockets. in the intervals he reminisced to the rector about the neighbourhood. "it seems but a short while ago when the trees met overhead--magnificent trees they were. the asphalt and the soot killed them. and there were fruit trees in that yard"--he pointed with his stick to a littered sun parched plot adjoining a battered mansion--"all pink and white with blossoms in the spring. mr. hadley lived there--one of our forgotten citizens. he is dead and gone now and his family scattered. that other house, where the boy lies, belonged to mr. villars, a relation of the atterbury family, and i can recall very well a little girl with a pink sash and a white dress who used to come running out to meet me with flowers in her hands. incredible as it may seem, she picked them in that yard. i thought of her as i went in, how fresh and happy she used to be, and what a different place this was for children then. she must have some of her own by this time." the character of the street had changed to what might be called shabby-genteel, and they stopped before a three-story brick house--one of a row--that showed signs of scrupulous care. the steps were newly scrubbed, the woodwork neatly painted. "this is where i live, sir," said mr. bentley, opening the door with a latchkey and leading the way into a high room on the right, darkened and cool, and filled with superb, old-fashioned rosewood furniture. it was fitted up as a library, with tall shelves reaching almost to the ceiling. an old negro appeared, dressed in a swallow-tailed coat. his hair was as white as his master's, and his face creased with age. "sam," said mr. bentley, "i have brought home a gentleman for supper." "yassah, misteh ho'ace. i was jest agwine to open up de blin's." he lifted the wire screens and flung back the shutters, beamed on the rector as he relieved him of his hat, and noiselessly retired. curiosity, hitherto suppressed by more powerful feelings, awoke in hodder speculations which ordinarily would have been aroused before: every object in the room bespoke gentility, was eloquent of a day when wealth was honoured and respected: photographs, daguerreotypes in old-fashioned frames bore evidence of friendships of the past, and over the marble mantel hung a portrait of a sweet-faced woman in the costume of the thirties, whose eyes reminded hodder of mr. bentley's. who was she? hodder wondered. presently he found himself before a photograph on the wall beyond, at which he had been staring unconsciously. "ah, you recognize it," said mr. bentley. "st. john's!" "yes," mr. bentley repeated, "st. john's." he smiled at hodder's glance of bewilderment, and put his hand on the younger man's arm. "that picture was taken before you were born, sir, i venture to say--in . i am very fond of it, for it gives the church in perspective, as you see. that was mr. gore's house"--he indicated a square, heavily corniced mansion--"where the hotel now stands, and that was his garden, next the church, where you see the trees above the wall." the rector turned again and looked at his host, who, was gazing at the picture thoughtfully. "i ought to have remembered," he said. "i have seen your name in the church records, sir, and i have heard mr. waring speak of you." "my dear mr. hodder, there is no reason why you should have known me. a great many years have passed since i was a parishioner of st. john's --a great many years." "but it was you," the rector began, uncertainly, and suddenly spoke with conviction, "it was you who chose the architect, who did more than other men to make the church what it is." "whatever i may have done," replied mr. bentley, with simple dignity, "has brought its reward. to this day i have not ceased to derive pleasure from it, and often i go out of my way, through burton street, although the view is cramped. and sometimes," he added, with the hint of a twinkle in his eye, "i go in. this afternoon is not the first time i have seen you, mr. hodder." "but--?" said the rector. he stared at the other's face, and the question died on his lips. "you wonder why i am no longer a parishioner. the time came when i could not afford to be." there was no hint of reproach in his voice, of bitterness. he spoke regretfully, indeed, but as one stating an incontrovertible fact. "i lost my fortune, i could not keep my pew, so i deeded it back to the church. my old friends, mrs. dimock and asa waring, and others, too, were very kind. but i could not accept their hospitality." hodder bowed his head in silence. what thundered indictment of the church of christ could have been as severe, as wholly condemning as these few words so dispassionately uttered by the man beside him? the old darky entered, and announced supper. hodder had lost his way, yet a hand had been held out to him, and he seized it. with a sense of being led, psychically as well as physically, he followed mr. bentley into a large bedroom, where a high, four-posted bed lifted a pleated canopy toward the ceiling. and after he had washed his hands they entered a dining-room looking out upon a little yard in the rear, which had been transformed into a garden. roses, morning glories, and nasturtiums were growing against the walls; a hose lay coiled upon the path; the bricks, baked during the day, were splashed with water; the leaves and petals were wet, and the acrid odour of moist earth, mingling with perfumes, penetrated the room. hodder paused in the window. "sam keeps our flowers alive," he heard mr. bentley say, "i don't know how." "i scrubs 'em, sah," said sam. "yassah, i washes 'em like chilluns." he found himself, at mr. bentley's request, asking grace, the old darky with reverently bent head standing behind his master; sitting down at a mahogany table that reflected like a mirror the few pieces of old silver, to a supper of beaten biscuits that burned one's fingers, of 'broiled chicken and coffee, and sliced peaches and cream. mr. bentley was talking of other days--not so long gone by when the great city had been a village, or scarcely more. the furniture, it seemed, had come from his own house in what was called the wilderness road, not far from the river banks, over the site of which limited trains now rolled on their way eastward toward the northernmost of the city's bridges. he mentioned many names, some remembered, some forgotten, like his own; dwelt on pleasures and customs gone by forever. "a little while after i moved in here, i found that one old man could not fill the whole of this house, so i let the upper floors," he explained, smilingly. "some day i must introduce you to my tenants, mr. hodder." by degrees, as hodder listened, he became calm. like a child, he found himself distracted, talking, asking questions: and the intervals grew longer between the recurrent surges of fear when the memory rose before him of the events of the day,--of the woman, the child, and the man: of eldon parr and this deed he had done; hinting, as it did, of closed chambers of other deeds yet to be opened, of countless, hidden miseries still to be revealed: when he heard once more the tortured voice of the banker, and the question: "how would you like to live in this house --alone?" in contrast, now he beheld the peace in the face of the man whose worldly goods eldon parr had taken, and whom he had driven out of the church. surely, this man had found a solution! . . . what was it? hodder thought of the child, of the verdict of dr. jarvis, but he lingered on, loth to leave,--if the truth be told--afraid to leave; drawing strength from his host's calm, wondering as to the source of it, as to the life which was its expression; longing, yet not presuming, to question. the twilight deepened, and the old darky lit a lamp and led the way back to the library. "sam," said mr. bentley, "draw up the armchair for mr. hodder beside the window. it is cooler there." "i ought to go," hodder said. "i ought to see how the child is. jarvis will have been there by this time, and there may be necessaries--" "jarvis will have attended to that," mr. bentley replied. "sit down, mr. hodder. i am not sure that, for the present, we have not done all in this case that is humanly possible." "you mean," said the rector, "that they will accept nothing from me." it came from him, spontaneously, like a cry. he had not meant to say it. "i don't blame them. i don't blame them for losing their faith in god and man, in the church. i ought to have seen it before, but i was blind, incredibly blind--until it struck me in the face. you saw it, sir, and you left a church from which the poor are thrust out, which refuses to heed the first precept of its master." "i saw it," answered mr. bentley, "but i could do nothing. perhaps you can do--something." "ah!" hodder exclaimed sharply, "why do you say that? the church is paralyzed, chained. how can she reach these wretched people who are the victims of the ruthless individualism and greed of those who control her? you know--that man, mr. bentley." (hodder could not bring himself to pronounce eldon parr's name.) "i had an affection for him, i pitied him, because he suffers--" "yes," echoed mr. bentley, "he suffers." hodder was momentarily arrested by the sadness of his tone. "but he doesn't know why he suffers--he cannot be made to see," the rector went on. "and he is making others suffer,--hideously, while he imagines himself a christian. he is the church to that miserable, hopeless wretch we saw to-day, and to hundreds of the same kind whom he has driven to desperation. and i--who am supposed to be the vicar of god--i am powerless. they have a contempt for me, a just contempt. they thrust me out of their doors, bid me to return and minister to their oppressors. you were right to leave, and i should have left long since." he had not spoken with violence, or with a lack of control. he seemed rather to have regained a mastery of himself, and felt as a man from whom the shackles have been struck, proclaiming his freedom. mr. bentley's eyes lighted in involuntary response as he gazed at the figure and face before him. he pressed his hands together. "if you will forgive a curiosity, mr. hodder, that is somewhat due to my interest in a church with which i have many precious associations, may i ask if this is a sudden determination on your part?" "no," hodder said. "i have known ever since i came here that something was wrong, but at first i couldn't see it, and after that i wouldn't see it. that is about what happened, as i look back on it. "but the farther in i went," hodder continued, "the more tangled and bewildered i became. i was hypnotized, i think," he added with a gesture,--"hypnotized, as a man is who never takes his eyes from a pattern. i wanted to get at this neighbourhood--dalton street--i mean, and finally i agreed to the establishment of a settlement house over here, to be paid for largely by eldon parr and francis ferguson. i couldn't see the folly of such an undertaking--the supreme irony of it, until--until it was pointed out to me." he hesitated; the remembrance of alison parr ran through him, a thread of pain. "and even then i tried to dodge the issue, i tried to make myself believe that good might flow out of evil; that the church, which is supposed to be founded on the highest ideal ever presented to man, might compromise and be practical, that she might accept money which had been wrung from a trusting public by extortion, by thinly disguised thievery such as this consolidated tractions company fraud, and do good with it! and at last i made up my mind to go away, to-day, to a quiet place where i might be alone, and reflect, when by a singular circumstance i was brought into contact with this man, garvin. i see now, clearly enough, that if i had gone, i should never have come back." "and you still intend to go?" mr. bentley asked. hodder leaned his elbow against the mantel. the lamplight had a curious effect on mr. bentley's face. "what can i do?" he demanded. the question was not aimed directly at his host--it was in the nature of a renewed appeal to a tribunal which had been mute, but with which he now seemed vaguely aware of a certain contact. "even supposing i could bring myself to accept the compromise --now that i see it clearly, that the end justifies the means--what good could i accomplish? you saw what happened this afternoon--the man would have driven me out if, it hadn't been for you. this whole conception of charity is a crime against civilization--i had to have that pointed out to me, too,--this system of legalized or semi-legalized robbery and the distribution of largesse to the victims. the church is doing wrong, is stultifying herself in encouraging it. she should set her face rigidly against it, stand for morality and justice and christianity in government, not for pauperizing. it is her mission to enlighten these people, all people--to make them self-respecting, to give them some notion of the dignity of their souls and their rights before god and man." "aren't you yourself suggesting," said mr. bentley, "the course which will permit you to remain?" hodder was silent. the thought struck him with tremendous force. had he suggested it? and how--why? could it be done? could he do it or begin it? "we have met at last in a singular way," he heard mr. bentley going on, "in a way that has brushed aside the conventions, in a way--i am happy to say--that has enabled you to give me your confidence. and i am an old man,--that has made it easier. i saw this afternoon, mr. hodder, that you were troubled, although you tried to hide it." "i knew that you saw it," hodder said. "nor was it difficult for me to guess something of the cause of it. the same thing has troubled me." "you?" "yes," mr. bentley answered. "i left st. john's, but the habits and affections of a lifetime are not easily severed. and some time before i left it i began to have visions of a future for it. there was a question, many years ago, as to whether a new st. john's should not be built in the west end, on a site convenient to the parishioners, and this removal i opposed. mr. waring stood by me. we foresaw the day when this district would be--what it is now--the precarious refuge of the unfortunate in the battle of life, of just such unhappy families as the garvins, of miserable women who sell themselves to keep alive. i thought of st. john's, as you did, as an oasis in a desert of misery and vice. at that time i, too, believed in the system of charities which you have so well characterized as pauperizing." "and now?" mr. bentley smiled, as at a reminiscence. "my eyes were opened," he replied, and in these simple words summed up and condemned it all. "they are craving bread, and we fling them atones. i came here. it was a house i owned, which i saved from the wrecks, and as i look back upon what the world would call a misfortune, sir, i can see that it was a propitious event, for me. the street 'ran down,' as the saying goes. i grew gradually to know these people, my new neighbours, largely through their children, and i perceived many things i had not dreamed of--before then. i saw how the church was hampered, fettered; i saw why they disliked and distrusted it." "and yet you still believed that it had a mission?" hodder interrupted. he had been listening with rapt attention. "i still believed it," said mr. bentley. "my conception of that mission changed, grew, and yet it seemed further and further from fulfilment. and then you came to st. john's." "i!" the cry was involuntary. "you," mr. bentley repeated. "sometimes," he added whimsically, "i go there, as i have told you. i saw you, i heard you preach. i talked to my friend waring about you. i saw that your eyes were not opened, but i think i had a certain presentiment, for which i do not pretend to account, that they would be opened." "you mean," said the rector, "that if i believe in the mission of the church as i have partially stated it here tonight, i--should stay and fight for it." "precisely," mr. bentley replied. there was a note of enthusiasm, almost of militancy in the old gentleman's tone that surprised and agitated hodder. he took a turn up and down the room before he answered. "i ought to tell you that the view i expressed a moment ago is new to me. i had not thought of it before, and it is absolutely at variance with any previous ideas i have held. i can see that it must involve, if carried to its logical conclusion, a change in the conception of christianity i have hitherto held." he was too intent upon following up the thought to notice mr. bentley's expression of assent. "and suppose," he asked, "i were unable to come to any conclusion? i will be frank, mr. bentley, and confess to you that at present i cannot see my way. you have heard me preach--you know what my beliefs have been. they are shattered. and, while i feel that there is some definite connection between the view of the church which i mentioned and her message to the individual, i do not perceive it clearly. i am not prepared at present to be the advocate of christianity, because i do not know what christianity is. i thought i knew. "i shall have to begin all over again, as though i had never taken orders, submit to a thorough test, examine the evidence impartially. it is the only way. of this much i am sure, that the church as a whole has been engaged in a senseless conflict with science and progressive thought, that she has insisted upon the acceptance of facts which are in violation of reason and which have nothing to do with religion. she has taught them to me--made them, in fact, a part of me. i have clung to them as long as i can, and in throwing them over i don't know where i shall land." his voice was measured, his words chosen, yet they expressed a withering indignation and contempt which were plainly the culmination of months of bewilderment--now replaced by a clear-cut determination. "i do not blame any individual," he continued, "but the system by which clergymen are educated. "i intend to stay here, now, without conducting any services, and find out for myself what the conditions are here in dalton street. you know those people, mr. bentley, you understand them, and i am going to ask you to help me. you have evidently solved the problem." mr. bentley rose. and he laid a hand, which was not quite steady, on the rector's shoulder. "believe me, sir," he replied, "i appreciate something of what such a course must mean to you--a clergyman." he paused, and a look came upon his face, a look that might scarce have been called a smile--hodder remembered it as a glow--reminiscent of many things. in it a life was summed ups in it understanding, beneficence, charity, sympathy, were all expressed, yet seemingly blended into one. "i do not know what my testimony may be worth to you, my friend, but i give it freely. i sometimes think i have been peculiarly fortunate. but i have lived a great many years, and the older i get and the more i see of human nature the firmer has grown my conviction of its essential nobility and goodness." hodder marvelled, and was silent. "you will come here, often,--every day if you can. there are many men and women, friends of mine, whom i should like you to know, who would like to know you." "i will, and thank you," hodder answered. words were inadequate for the occasion . . . . chapter xii the woman of the song on leaving mr. bentley, hodder went slowly down dalton street, wondering that mere contact with another human being should have given him the resolution to turn his face once again toward the house whither he was bound. and this man had given him something more. it might hardly have been called faith; a new courage to fare forth across the unknown--that was it; hope, faint but revived. presently he stopped on the sidewalk, looked around him, and read a sign in glaring, electric letters, hotel albert. despite the heat, the place was ablaze with lights. men and women were passing, pausing--going in. a motor, with a liveried chauffeur whom he remembered having seen before, was standing in front of the rathskeller. the nightly carousal was beginning. hodder retraced his steps, crossed the street diagonally, came to the dilapidated gate he remembered so well, and looked up through the dusk at the house. if death had entered it, there was no sign: death must be a frequent visitor hereabouts. on the doorsteps he saw figures outlined, slatternly women and men in shirt-sleeves who rose in silence to make way for him, staring at him curiously. he plunged into the hot darkness of the hall, groped his way up the stairs and through the passage, and hesitated. a single gas jet burned low in the stagnant air, and after a moment he made out, by its dim light, a woman on her knees beside the couch, mechanically moving the tattered palm-leaf over the motionless little figure. the child was still alive. he drew a deep breath, and entered; at the sound of his step mrs. garvin suddenly started up. "richard!" she cried, and then stood staring at the rector. "have you seen my husband, sir? he went away soon after you left." hodder, taken by surprise, replied that he had not. her tone, her gesture of anxiety he found vaguely disquieting. "the doctor has been here?" he asked. "yes," she answered absently. "i don't know where he can be--richard. he didn't even wait to see the doctor. and he thinks so much of dicky, sir, he sits here of an evening--" hodder sat down beside her, and taking the palm-leaf from her hand, began himself to fan the child. something of her misgiving had communicated itself to him. "don't worry," he said. "remember that you have been through a great deal, and it is natural that you should be overwrought. your husband feels strongly. i don't blame him. and the sight of me this afternoon upset him. he has gone out to walk." "richard is proud," she answered simply. "he used to say he'd rather die than take charity--and now he's come to it. and it's--that man, sir, who's got on his brain, and changed him. he wasn't always like this, but now he can't seem to think of anything else. he wakes up in the night . . . . and he used to have such a sweet nature--you wouldn't have known him . . . and came home so happy in the evenings in alder street, often with a little fruit, or something he'd bought for us, and romp with dicky in the yard, and i'd stand and laugh at them. even after we'd lost our money, when he was sick that time, he didn't feel this way. it grew on him when he couldn't get work, and then he began to cut things out of the papers about mr. parr. and i have sometimes thought that that's kept him from getting work. he talks about it, and people don't know what to make of him. they don't know how hard he'd try if they'd give him something.". . . . "we shall find something," said the rector, striving to throw into his voice confidence and calm. he did not dare to look at her, but continued to move the fan. the child stirred a little. mrs. garvin put out her hand. "yes, the doctor was here. he was very kind. oh, sir," she exclaimed, "i hope you won't think us ungrateful--and that mr. bentley won't. dr. jarvis has hopes, sir,--he says--i forget the name he called it, what dicky has. it's something uncommon. he says it was--brought on by the heat, and want of food--good food. and he's coming himself in the morning to take him out to that hospital beyond the park--in an automobile, sir. i was just thinking what a pity it is dicky wouldn't realize it. he's always wanted to ride in one." suddenly her tears flowed, unheeded, and she clung to the little hand convulsively. "i don't know what i shall do without him, sir, i don't . . . . i've always had him . . . and when he's sick, among strangers." . . . the rector rose to the occasion. "now, mrs. garvin," he said firmly, "you must remember that there is only one way to save the boy's life. it will be easy to get you a room near the hospital, where you can see him constantly." "i know--i know, sir. but i couldn't leave his father, i couldn't leave richard." she looked around distractedly. "where is he?" "he will come back presently," said the rector. "if not, i will look for him." she did not reply, but continued to weep in silence. suddenly, above the confused noises of the night, the loud notes of a piano broke, and the woman whose voice he had heard in the afternoon began once more with appalling vigour to sing. the child moaned. mrs. garvin started up hysterically. "i can't stand it--i can't stand her singing that now," she sobbed. thirty feet away, across the yard, hodder saw the gleaming window from which the music came. he got to his feet. another verse began, with more of the brazen emphasis of the concert-hall singer than ever. he glanced at the woman beside him, irresolutely. "i'll speak to her," he said. mrs. garvin did not appear to hear him, but flung herself down beside the lounge. as he seized his hat and left the room he had the idea of telephoning for a nurse, when he almost ran into some one in the upper hall, and recognized the stout german woman, mrs. breitmann. "mrs. garvin"--he said, "she ought not to be left--" "i am just now going," said mrs. breitmann. "i stay with her until her husband come." such was the confidence with which, for some reason, she inspired him, that he left with an easier mind. it was not until the rector had arrived at the vestibule of the apartment house next door that something--of the difficulty and delicacy of the errand he had undertaken came home to him. impulse had brought him thus far, but now he stood staring helplessly at a row of bells, speaking tubes, and cards. which, for example, belonged to the lady whose soprano voice pervaded the neighbourhood? he looked up and down the street, in the vain hope of finding a messenger. the song continued: he had promised to stop it. hodder accused himself of cowardice. to his horror, hodder felt stealing over him, incredible though it seemed after the depths through which he had passed, a faint sense of fascination in the adventure. it was this that appalled him--this tenacity of the flesh,--which no terrors seemed adequate to drive out. the sensation, faint as it was, unmanned him. there were still many unexplored corners in his soul. he turned, once more contemplated the bells, and it was not until then he noticed that the door was ajar. he pushed it open, climbed the staircase, and stood in the doorway of what might be called a sitting room, his eyes fixed on a swaying back before an upright piano against the wall; his heart seemed to throb with the boisterous beat of the music. the woman's hair, in two long and heavy plaits falling below her waist, suddenly fascinated him. it was of the rarest of russet reds. she came abruptly to the end of the song. "i beg your pardon--" he began. she swung about with a start, her music dropping to the floor, and stared at him. her tattered blue kimono fell away at her elbows, her full throat was bare, and a slipper she had kicked off lay on the floor beside her. he recoiled a little, breathing deeply. she stared at him. "my god, how you scared me!" she exclaimed. evidently a second glance brought to her a realization of his clerical costume. "say, how did you get in here?" "i beg your pardon," he said again, "but there is a very sick child in the house next door and i came to ask you if you would mind not playing any more to-night." she did not reply at once, and her expression he found unsolvable. much of it might be traced to a life which had contracted the habit of taking nothing on trust, a life which betrayed itself in unmistakable traces about the eyes. and hodder perceived that the face, if the stamp of this expression could have been removed, was not unpleasing, although indulgence and recklessness were beginning to remould it. "quit stringin' me," she said. for a moment he was at a loss. he gathered that she did not believe him, and crossed to the open window. "if you will come here," he said, "i will show you the room where he lies. we hope to be able to take him to the hospital to-morrow." he paused a moment, and added: "he enjoyed your music very much when he was better." the comment proved a touchstone. "say," she remarked, with a smile that revealed a set of surprisingly good teeth, "i can make the box talk when i get a-goin'. there's no stopping me this side of grand opera,--that's no fable. i'm not so bad for an enginoo, am i?" thus directly appealed to, in common courtesy he assented. "no indeed," he said. "that's right," she declared. "but the managers won't have it at any price. those jays don't know anything, do they? they've only got a dream of what the public wants. you wouldn't believe it, but i've sung for 'em, and they threw me out. you wouldn't believe it, would you?" "i must own," said the rector, "that i have never had any experience with managers." she sat still considering him from the piano stool, her knees apart, her hands folded in her lap. mockery came into her eyes. "say, what did you come in here for, honest injun?" she demanded. he was aware of trying to speak sternly, and of failing. to save his life he could not, then, bring up before himself the scene in the little back room across the yard in its full terror and reality, reproduce his own feelings of only a few minutes ago which had impelled him hither. a month, a year might have elapsed. every faculty was now centred on the woman in front of him, and on her life. "why do you doubt me?" he asked. she continued to contemplate him. her eyes were strange, baffling, smouldering, yellow-brown, shifting, yet not shifty: eyes with a history. her laugh proclaimed both effrontery and uneasiness. "don't get huffy," she said. "the kid's sick--that's on the level, is it? you didn't come 'round to see me?" the insinuation was in her voice as well as in her words. he did not resent it, but felt an odd thrill of commingled pity and--fear. "i came for the reason i have given you," he replied; and added, more gently: "i know it is a good deal to ask, but you will be doing a great kindness. the mother is distracted. the child, as i told you, will be taken to the hospital in the morning." she reached out a hand and closed the piano softly. "i guess i can hold off for to-night," she said. "sometimes things get kind of dull--you know, when there's nothing doing, and this keeps me lively. how old is the kid?" "about nine," he estimated. "say, i'm sorry." she spoke with a genuineness of feeling that surprised him. he went slowly, almost apologetically toward the door. "good night," he said, "and thank you." her look halted him. "what's your hurry?" she demanded. "i'm sorry," he said hastily, "but i must be going." he was, in truth, in a panic to leave. "you're a minister, ain't you?" "yes," he said. "i guess you don't think much of me, do you?" she demanded. he halted abruptly, struck by the challenge, and he saw that this woman had spoken not for herself, but for an entire outlawed and desperate class. the fact that the words were mocking and brazen made no difference; it would have been odd had they not been so. with a shock of surprise he suddenly remembered that his inability to reach this class had been one of the causes of his despair! and now? with the realization, reaction set in, an overpowering feeling of weariness, a desire--for rest--for sleep. the electric light beside the piano danced before his eyes, yet he heard within him a voice crying out to him to stay. desperately tired though he was, he must not leave now. he walked slowly to the table, put his hat on it and sat down in a chair beside it. "why do you say that?" he asked. "oh, cut it out!" said the woman. "i'm on to you church folks." she laughed. "one of 'em came in here once, and wanted to pray. i made a monkey of him." "i hope," said the rector, smiling a little, "that is not the reason why you wish me to stay." she regarded him doubtfully. "you're not the same sort," she announced at length. "what sort was he?" "he was easy,--old enough to know better--most of the easy ones are. he marched in sanctimonious as you please, with his mouth full of salvation and bible verses." she laughed again at the recollection. "and after that," said the rector, "you felt that ministers were a lot of hypocrites." "i never had much opinion of 'em," she admitted, "nor of church people, either," she added, with emphasis. "there's ferguson, who has the department store,--he's 'way up' in church circles. i saw him a couple of months ago, one sunday morning, driving to that church on burton street, where all the rich folks go. i forget the name--" "st. john's," he supplied. he had got beyond surprise. "st. john's--that's it. they tell me he gives a lot of money to it --money that he steals from the girls he hires. oh, yes, he'll get to heaven--i don't think." "how do you mean that he steals money from the girls?" "say, you are innocent--ain't you! did you ever go down to that store? do you know what a floorwalker is? did you ever see the cheap guys hanging around, and the young swells waiting to get a chance at the girls behind the counters? why do you suppose so many of 'em take to the easy life? i'll put you next--because ferguson don't pay 'em enough to live on. that's why. he makes 'em sign a paper, when he hires 'em, that they live at home, that they've got some place to eat and sleep, and they sign it all right. that's to square up ferguson's conscience. but say, if you think a girl can support herself in this city and dress on what he pays, you've got another guess comin'." there rose up before him, unsummoned, the image of nan ferguson, in all her freshness and innocence, as she had stood beside him on the porch in park street. he was somewhat astonished to find himself defending his parishioner. "may it not be true, in order to compete with other department stores, that mr. ferguson has to pay the same wages?" he said. "forget it. i guess you know what galt house is? that's where women like me can go when we get all played out and there's nothing left in the game--it's on river street. maybe you've been there." hodder nodded. "well," she continued, "ferguson pays a lot of money to keep that going, and gets his name in the papers. he hands over to the hospitals where some of us die--and it's all advertised. he forks out to the church. now, i put it to you, why don't he sink some of that money where it belongs--in living wages? because there's nothing in it for him --that's why." the rector looked at her in silence. he had not suspected her of so much intellect. he glanced about the apartment, at the cheap portiere flung over the sofa; at the gaudy sofa cushions, two of which bore the names and colours of certain colleges. the gas log was almost hidden by dried palm leaves, a cigarette stump lay on the fender; on the mantel above were several photographs of men and at the other side an open door revealed a bedroom. "this is a nice place, ain't it?" she observed. "i furnished it when i was on velvet--nothing was too good for me. money's like champagne when you take the cork out, it won't keep. i was rich once. it was lively while it lasted," she added, with a sigh: "i've struck the down trail. i oughtn't, by rights, to be here fooling with you. there's nothing in it." she glanced at the clock. "i ought to get busy." as the realization of her meaning came to him, he quivered. "is there no way but that?" he asked, in a low voice. "say, you're not a-goin' to preach, are you?" "no," he answered, "god forbid! i was not asking the question of you." she stared at him. "of who, then?" he was silent. "you've left me at the station. but on the level, you don't seem to know much, that's a fact. you don't think the man who owns these flats is in it for charity, do you? 'single ladies,' like me, have to give up. and then there are other little grafts that wouldn't interest you. what church do you come from anyway?" "you mentioned it a little while ago." "st. john's!" she leaned back against the piano and laughed unrestrainedly. "that's a good one, to think how straight i've been talking to you." "i'm much obliged to you," he said. again she gazed at him, now plainly perplexed. "what are you giving me?" "i mean what i say," he answered. "i am obliged to you for telling me things i didn't know. and i appreciate--your asking me to stay." she was sitting upright now, her expression changed, her breath came more rapidly, her lips parted as she gazed at him. "do you know," she said, "i haven't had anybody speak to me like that for four years." her voice betrayed excitement, and differed in tone, and she had cast off unconsciously the vulgarity of speech. at that moment she seemed reminiscent of what she must once have been; and he found himself going through an effort at reconstruction. "like what?" he asked. "like a woman," she answered vehemently. "my name is john hodder," he said, "and i live in the parish house, next door to the church. i should like to be your friend, if you will let me. if i can be of any help to you now, or at any other time, i shall feel happy. i promise not to preach," he added. she got up abruptly, and went to the window. and when she turned to him again, it was with something of the old bravado. "you'd better leave me alone, i'm no good;" she said. "i'm much obliged to you, but i don't want any charity or probation houses in mine. and honest work's a thing of the past for me--even if i could get a job. nobody would have me. but if they would, i couldn't work any more. i've got out of the hang of it." with a swift and decisive movement she crossed the room, opened a cabinet on the wall, revealing a bottle and glasses. "so you're bent upon going--downhill?" he said. "what can you do to stop it?" she retorted defiantly, "give me religion ---i guess you'd tell me. religion's all right for those on top, but say, it would be a joke if i got it. there ain't any danger. but if i did, it wouldn't pay room-rent and board." he sat mute. once more the truth overwhelmed, the folly of his former optimism arose to mock him. what he beheld now, in its true aspect, was a disease of that civilization he had championed. . . she took the bottle from the cupboard and laid it on the table. "what's the difference?" she demanded. "it's all over in a little while, anyway. i guess you'd tell me there was a hell. but if that's so, some of your church folks'll broil, too. i'll take my chance on it, if they will." she looked at him, half in defiance, half in friendliness, across the table. "say, you mean all right, but you're only wastin' time here. you can't do me any good, i tell you, and i've got to get busy." "may we not at least remain friends?" he asked, after a moment. her laugh was a little harsh. "what kind of friendship would that be? you, a minister, and me a woman on the town?" "if i can stand it, i should think you might." "well, i can't stand it," she answered. he got up, and held out his hand. she stood seemingly irresolute, and then took it. "good night," he said. "good night," she repeated nonchalantly. as he went out of the door she called after him: "don't be afraid i'll worry the kid!" the stale odour of cigarette smoke with which the dim corridor was charged intoxicated, threatened to overpower him. it seemed to be the reek of evil itself. a closing door had a sinister meaning. he hurried; obscurity reigned below, the light in the lower hall being out; fumbled for the door-knob, and once in the street took a deep breath and mopped his brow; but he had not proceeded half a block before he hesitated, retraced his steps, reentered the vestibule, and stooped to peer at the cards under the speaking tubes. cheaply printed in large script, was the name of the tenant of the second floor rear,--miss kate marcy. . . . in crossing tower street he was frightened by the sharp clanging of a great electric car that roared past him, aflame with light. his brain had seemingly ceased to work, and he stumbled at the curb, for he was very tired. the events of the day no longer differentiated themselves in his mind but lay, a composite weight, upon his heart. at length he reached the silent parish house, climbed the stairs and searched in his pocket for the key of his rooms. the lock yielded, but while feeling for the switch he tripped and almost fell over an obstruction on the floor. the flooding light revealed his travelling-bags, as he had piled them, packed and ready to go to the station. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xiii. winterbourne xiv. a saturday afternoon xv. the crucible xvi. amid the encircling gloom chapter xiii winterbourne i hodder fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, awaking during the night at occasional intervals to recall chimerical dreams in which the events of the day before were reflected, but caricatured and distorted. alison parr was talking to the woman in the flat, and both were changed, and yet he identified both: and on another occasion he saw a familiar figure surrounded by romping, ragged children--a figure which turned out to be eldon parr's! finally he was aroused by what seemed a summons from the unknown--the prolonged morning whistle of the shoe factory. for a while he lay as one benumbed, and the gradual realization that ensued might be likened to the straining of stiffened wounds. little by little he reconstructed, until the process became unbearable, and then rose from his bed with one object in mind,--to go to horace bentley. at first--he seized upon the excuse that mr. bentley would wish to hear the verdict of dr. jarvis, but immediately abandoned it as dishonest, acknowledging the true reason, that in all the--world the presence of this one man alone might assuage in some degree the terror in his soul. for the first time in his life, since childhood, he knew a sense of utter dependence upon another human being. he felt no shame, would make no explanation for his early visit. he turned up tower, deliberately avoiding dalton street in its lower part, reached mr. bentley's door. the wrinkled, hospitable old darky actually seemed to radiate something of the personality with which he had so long been associated, and hodder was conscious of a surge of relief, a return of confidence at sight of him. yes, mr. bentley was at home, in the dining room. the rector said he would wait, and not disturb him. "he done tole me to bring you out, sah, if you come," said sam. "he expects me?" exclaimed hodder, with a shock of surprise. "that's what he done tole me, sah, to ax you kindly for to step out when you come." the sun was beginning to penetrate into the little back yard, where the flowers were still glistening with the drops of their morning bath; and mr. bentley sat by the window reading his newspaper, his spectacles on his nose, and a great grey cat rubbing herself against his legs. he rose with alacrity. "good morning, sir," he said, and his welcome implied that early morning visits were the most common and natural of occurrences. "sam, a plate for mr. hodder. i was just hoping you would come and tell me what dr. jarvis had said about the case." but hodder was not deceived. he believed that mr. bentley understood perfectly why he had come, and the knowledge of the old gentleman's comprehension curiously added to his sense of refuge. he found himself seated once more at the mahogany table, permitting sam to fill his cup with coffee. "jarvis has given a favourable report, and he is coming this morning himself, in an automobile, to take the boy out to the hospital." "that is like jarvis," was mr. bentley's comment. "we will go there, together, after breakfast, if convenient for you," he added. "i hoped you would," replied the rector. "and i was going to ask you a favour. i have a check, given me by a young lady to use at my discretion, and it occurred to me that garvin might be willing to accept some proposal from you." he thought of nan ferguson, and of the hope he lead expressed of finding some one in dalton street. "i have been considering the matter," mr. bentley said. "i have a friend who lives on the trolley line a little beyond the hospital, a widow. it is like the country there, you know, and i think mrs. bledsoe could be induced to take the garvins. and then something can be arranged for him. i will find an opportunity to speak to him this morning." hodder sipped his coffee, and looked out at the morning-glories opening to the sun. "mrs. garvin was alone last night. he had gone out shortly after we left, and had not waited for the doctor. she was greatly worried." hodder found himself discussing these matters on which, an hour before, he had feared to permit his mind to dwell. and presently, not without feeling, but in a manner eliminating all account of his personal emotions, he was relating that climactic episode of the woman at the piano. the old gentleman listened intently, and in silence. "yes," he said, when the rector had finished, "that is my observation. most of them are driven to the life, and held in it, of course, by a remorseless civilization. individuals may be culpable, mr. hodder--are culpable. but we cannot put the whole responsibility on individuals." "no," hodder assented, "i can see that now." he paused a moment, and as his mind dwelt upon the scene and he saw again the woman standing before him in bravado, the whole terrible meaning of her life and end flashed through him as one poignant sensation. her dauntless determination to accept the consequence of her acts, her willingness to look her future in the face, cried out to him in challenge. "she refused unconditionally," he said. mr. bentley seemed to read his thought, divine his appeal. "we must wait," he answered. "do you think?--" hodder began, and stopped abruptly. "i remember another case, somewhat similar," said mr. bentley. "this woman, too, had the spirit you describe--we could do nothing with her. we kept an eye on her--or rather sally grover did--she deserves credit --and finally an occasion presented itself." "and the woman you speak of was--rehabilitated?" hodder asked. he avoided the word "saved." "yes, sir. it was one of the fortunate cases. there are others which are not so fortunate." hodder nodded. "we are beginning to recognize that we are dealing, in, many instances, with a disease," mr. bentley went on. "i am far from saying that it cannot be cured, but sometimes we are forced to admit that the cure is not within our power, mr. hodder." two thoughts struck the rector simultaneously, the: revelation of what might be called a modern enlightenment in one of mr. bentley's age, an indication of uninterrupted growth, of the sense of continued youth which had impressed him from the beginning; and, secondly, an intimation from the use of the plural pronoun we, of an association of workers (informal, undoubtedly) behind mr. bentley. while he was engaged in these speculations the door opened. "heah's miss sally, marse ho'ace," said sam. "good morning, sally," said mr. bentley, rising from the table with his customary courtesy, "i'm glad you came in. let me introduce mr. hodder, of st. john's." miss grover had capability written all over her. she was a young woman of thirty, slim to spareness, simply dressed in a shirtwaist and a dark blue skirt; alert, so distinctly american in type as to give a suggestion of the indian. her quick, deep-set eyes searched hodder's face as she jerked his hand; but her greeting was cordial, and, matter-of-fact. she stimulated curiosity. "well, sally, what's the news?" mr. bentley asked. "gratz, the cabinet-maker, was on the rampage again, mr. bentley. his wife was here yesterday when i got home from work, and i went over with her. he was in a beastly state, and all the niggers and children in the neighbourhood, including his own, around the shop. fusel oil, labelled whiskey," she explained, succinctly. "what did you do?" "took the bottle away from him," said miss grower. the simplicity of this method, holder thought, was undeniable. "stayed there until he came to. then i reckon i scared him some." "how?" mr. bentley smiled. "i told him he'd have to see you. he'd rather serve three months than do that--said so. i reckon he would, too," she declared grimly. "he's better than he was last year, i think." she thrust her hand in the pocket of her skirt and produced some bills and silver, which she counted. "here's three thirty-five from sue brady. i told her she hadn't any business bothering you, but she swears she'd spend it." "that was wrong, sally." miss grower tossed her head. "oh, she knew i'd take it, well enough." "i imagine she did," mr. bentley replied, and his eyes twinkled. he rose and led the way into the library, where he opened his desk, produced a ledger, and wrote down the amount in a fine hand. "susan brady, three dollars and thirty-five cents. i'll put it in the savings bank to-day. that makes twenty-two dollars and forty cents for sue. she's growing rich." "some man'll get it," said sally. "sally," said mr. bentley, turning in his chair, "mr. holder's been telling me about a rather unusual woman in that apartment house just above fourteenth street, on the south side of dalton." "i think i know her--by sight," sally corrected herself. she appealed. to holder. "red hair, and lots of it--i suppose a man would call it auburn. she must have been something of a beauty, once." the rector assented, in some astonishment. "couldn't do anything with her, could you? i reckoned not. i've noticed her up and down dalton street at night." holder was no longer deceived by her matter-of-fact tone. "i'll tell you what, mr. holder," she went on, energetically, "there's not a particle of use running after those people, and the sooner you find it out the less worry and trouble you give yourself." "mr. holder didn't run after her, sally," said mr. bentley, in gentle reproof. holder smiled. "well," said miss grower, "i've had my eye on her. she has a history --most of 'em have. but this one's out of the common. when they're brazen like that, and have had good looks, you can nearly always tell. you've. got to wait for something to happen, and trust to luck to be on the spot, or near it. it's a toss-up, of course. one thing is sure, you can't make friends with that kind if they get a notion you're up to anything." "sally, you must remember--" mr. bentley began. her tone became modified. mr. bentley was apparently the only human of whom she stood in awe. "all i meant was," she said, addressing the rector, "that you've got to run across 'em in some natural way." "i understood perfectly, and i agree with you," holder replied. "i have come, quite recently, to the same conclusion myself." she gave him a penetrating glance, and he had to admit, inwardly, that a certain satisfaction followed miss grower's approval. "mercy, i have to be going," she exclaimed, glancing at the black marble clock on the mantel. "we've got a lot of invoices to put through to-day. see you again, mr. holder." she jerked his hand once more. "good morning, mr. bentley." "good morning, sally." mr. bentley rose, and took his hat and gold-headed stick from the rack in the hall. "you mustn't mind sally," he said, when they had reached the sidewalk. "sometimes her brusque manner is not understood. but she is a very extraordinary woman." "i can see that," the rector assented quickly, and with a heartiness that dispelled all doubt of his liking for miss grower. once more many questions rose to his lips, which he suppressed, since mr. bentley volunteered no information. hodder became, in fact, so lost in speculation concerning mr. bentley's establishment as to forget the errand on which--they were bound. and sally grower's words, apropos of the woman in the flat, seemed but an energetic driving home of the severe lessons of his recent experiences. and how blind he had been, he reflected, not to have seen the thing for himself! not to have realized the essential artificiality of his former method of approach! and then it struck him that sally grower herself must have had a history. mr. bentley, too, was preoccupied. presently, in the midst of these thoughts, hodder's eyes were arrested by a crowd barring the sidewalk on the block ahead; no unusual sight in that neighbourhood, and yet one which aroused in him sensations of weakness and nausea. thus were the hidden vice and suffering of these sinister places occasionally brought to light, exposed to the curious and morbid stares of those whose own turn might come on the morrow. it was only by degrees he comprehended that the people were gathered in front of the house to which they were bound. an ambulance was seen to drive away: it turned into the aide street in front of them. "a city ambulance!" the rector exclaimed. mr. bentley did not reply. the murmuring group which overflowed the uneven brick pavement to the asphalt was characteristic: women in calico, drudges, women in wrappers, with sleepy, awestricken faces; idlers, men and boys who had run out of the saloons, whose comments were more audible and caustic, and a fringe of children ceaselessly moving on the outskirts. the crowd parted at their approach, and they reached the gate, where a burly policeman, his helmet in his hand, was standing in the morning sunlight mopping his face with a red handkerchief. he greeted mr. bentley respectfully, by name, and made way for them to pass in. "what is the trouble, ryan?" mr. bentley asked. "suicide, sir," the policeman replied. "jumped off the bridge this morning. a tug picked him up, but he never came to--the strength wasn't in him. sure it's all wore out he was. there was a letter on him, with the home number, so they knew where to fetch him. it's a sad case, sir, with the woman in there, and the child gone to the hospital not an hour ago." "you mean garvin?" mr. bentley demanded. "it's him i mean, sir." "we'd like to go in," said mr. bentley. "we came to see them." "you're welcome, air, and the minister too. it's only them i'm holdin' back," and the policeman shook his stick at the people. mr. bentley walked up the steps, and took off his hat as he went through the battered doorway. hodder followed, with a sense of curious faces staring at them from the thresholds as they passed; they reached the upper passage, and the room, and paused: the shutters were closed, the little couch where the child had been was empty. on the bed lay a form --covered with a sheet, and beside it a woman kneeling, shaken by sobs, ceaselessly calling a name . . . . a stout figure, hitherto unperceived, rose from a corner and came silently toward them--mrs. breitmann. she beckoned to them, and they followed her into a room on the same floor, where she told them what she knew, heedless of the tears coursing ceaselessly down her cheeks. it seemed that mrs. garvin had had a premonition which she had not wholly confided to the rector. she had believed her husband never would come back; and early in the morning, in spite of all that mrs. breitmann could do, had insisted at intervals upon running downstairs and scanning the street. at half past seven dr. jarvis had come and himself carried down the child and put him in the back of his automobile. the doctor had had a nurse with him, and had begged the mother to accompany them to the hospital, saying that he would send her back. but she would not be persuaded to leave the house. the doctor could not wait, and had finally gone off with little. dicky, leaving a powder with mrs. breitmann for the mother. then she had become uncontrollable. "ach, it was terrible!" said the kind woman. "she was crazy, yes--she was not in her mind. i make a little coffee, but she will not touch it. all those things about her home she would talk of, and how good he was, and how she lofed him more again than the child. "und then the wheels in the street, and she makes a cry and runs to see --i cannot hold her . . . ." "it would be well not to disturb her for a while," said mr. bentley, seating himself on one of the dilapidated chairs which formed apart of the german woman's meagre furniture. "i will remain here if you, mr. hodder, will make the necessary arrangements for the funeral. have you any objections, sir?" "not at all," replied the rector, and left the house, the occupants of which had already returned to the daily round of their lives: the rattle of dishes and the noise of voices were heard in the 'ci devant' parlour, and on the steps he met the little waif with the pitcher of beer; in the street the boys who had gathered around the ambulance were playing baseball. hodder glanced up, involuntarily, at the window of the woman he had visited the night before, but it was empty. he hurried along the littered sidewalks to the drug store, where he telephoned an undertaker; and then, as an afterthought, telephoned the hospital. the boy had arrived, and was seemingly no worse for the journey. all this hodder performed mechanically. not until he was returning--not, indeed, until he entered the house did the whiff of its degrading, heated odours bring home to him the tragedy which it held, and he grasped the banister on the stairs. the thought that shook him now was of the cumulative misery of the city, of the world, of which this history on which he had stumbled was but one insignificant incident. but he went on into mrs. breitmann's room, and saw mr. bentley still seated where he had left him. the old gentleman looked up at him. "mrs. breitmann and i are agreed, mr. hodder, that mrs. garvin ought not to remain in there. what do you think?" "by all means, no," said the rector. the german woman burst into a soliloquy of sympathy that became incoherent. "she will not leave him,--nein--she will not come. . . ." they went, the three of them, to the doorway of the death chamber and stood gazing at the huddled figure of the woman by the bedside. she had ceased to cry out: she was as one grown numb under torture; occasionally a convulsive shudder shook her. but when mrs. breitmann touched her, spoke to her, her grief awoke again in all its violence, and it was more by force than persuasion that she was finally removed. mrs. breitmann held one arm, mr. bentley another, and between them they fairly carried her out, for she was frail indeed. as for hodder, something held him back--some dread that he could not at once define. and while he groped for it, he stood staring at the man on the bed, for the hand of love had drawn back the sheet from the face. the battle was over of this poor weakling against the world; the torments of haunting fear and hate, of drink and despair had triumphed. the sight of the little group of toys brought up the image of the home in alder street as the wife had pictured it. was it possible that this man, who had gone alone to the bridge in the night, had once been happy, content with life, grateful for it, possessed of a simple trust in his fellow-men--in eldon parr? once more, unsummoned, came the memory of that evening of rain and thunder in the boy's room at the top of the great horse in park street. he had pitied eldon parr then. did he now? he crossed the room, on tiptoe, as though he feared to wake once more this poor wretch to his misery and hate, gently he covered again the face with the sheet. suddenly he knew the reason of his dread,--he had to face the woman! he was a minister of christ, it was his duty to speak to her, as he had spoken to others in the hour of sorrow and death, of the justice and goodness of the god to whom she had prayed in the church. what should he say, now? in an agony of spirit, he sat down on the little couch beside the window and buried his face in his hands. the sight of poor garvin's white and wasted features, the terrible contrast between this miserable tenement and the palace with its unseen pictures and porcelains and tapestries, brought home to him with indescribable poignancy his own predicament. he was going to ask this woman to be comforted by faith and trust in the god of the man who had driven her husband to death! he beheld eldon parr in his pew complacently worshipping that god, who had rewarded him with riches and success--beheld himself as another man in his white surplice acquiescing in that god, preaching vainly . . . . at last he got to his feet, went out of the room, reached the doorway of that other room and looked in. mr. bentley sat there; and the woman, whose tears had ceased to flow, was looking up into his face. ii "the office ensuing," says the book of common prayer, meaning the burial of the dead, "is not to be used for any unbaptized adult, any who die excommunicate, or who have laid violent hands on themselves." hodder had bought, with a part of nan ferguson's money, a tiny plot in a remote corner of winterbourne cemetery. and thither, the next morning, the body of richard garvin was taken. a few mourners had stolen into the house and up the threadbare stairs into the miserable little back room, somehow dignified as it had never been before, and laid their gifts upon the coffin. an odd and pitiful assortment they were--mourners and gifts: men and women whose only bond with the man in life had been the bond of misery; who had seen him as he had fared forth morning after morning in the hopeless search for work, and slunk home night after night bitter and dejected; many of whom had listened, jeeringly perhaps, to his grievance against the world, though it were in some sort their own. death, for them, had ennobled him. the little girl whom hodder had met with the pitcher of beer came tiptoeing with a wilted bunch of pansies, picked heaven knows where; stolen, maybe, from one of the gardens of the west end. carnations, lilies of the valley, geraniums even--such were the offerings scattered loosely on the lid until a woman came with a mass of white roses that filled the room with their fragrance,--a woman with burnished red hair. hodder started as he recognized her; her gaze was a strange mixture of effrontery and --something else; sorrow did not quite express it. the very lavishness of her gift brought to him irresistibly the reminder of another offering. . . . . she was speaking. "i don't blame him for what he done--i'd have done it, too, if i'd been him. but say, i felt kind of bad when i heard it, knowing about the kid, and all. i had to bring something--" instinctively hodder surmised that she was in doubt as to the acceptance of her flowers. he took them from her hand, and laid them at the foot of the coffin. "thank you," he said, simply. she stared at him a moment with the perplexity she had shown at times on the night he visited her, and went out. . . funerals, if they might be dignified by this name, were not infrequent occurrences in dalton street, and why this one should have been looked upon as of sufficient importance to collect a group of onlookers at the gate it is difficult to say. perhaps it was because of the seeming interest in it of the higher powers--for suicide and consequent widows and orphans were not unknown there. this widow and this orphan were to be miraculously rescued, were to know dalton street no more. the rector of a fashionable church, of all beings, was the agent in the miracle. thus the occasion was tinged with awe. as for mr. bentley, his was a familiar figure, and had been remarked in dalton street funerals before. they started, the three mourners, on the long drive to the cemetery, through unfrequented streets lined with mediocre dwellings, interspersed with groceries and saloons--short cuts known only to hearse drivers: they traversed, for some distance, that very wilderness road where mr. bentley's old-fashioned mansion once had stood on its long green slope, framed by ancient trees; the wilderness road, now paved with hot blocks of granite over which the carriage rattled; spread with car tracks, bordered by heterogeneous buildings of all characters and descriptions, bakeries and breweries, slaughter houses and markets, tumble-down shanties, weedy corner lots and "refreshment-houses" that announced "lager beer, wines and liquors." at last they came to a region which was neither country nor city, where the road-houses were still in evidence, where the glass roofs of greenhouses caught the burning rays of the sun, where yards filled with marble blocks and half-finished tombstones appeared, and then they turned into the gates of winterbourne. like the city itself, there was a fashionable district in winterbourne: unlike the city, this district remained stationary. there was no soot here, and if there had been, the dead would not have minded it. they passed the prestons and the parrs; the lots grew smaller, the tombstones less pretentious; and finally they came to an open grave on a slope where the trees were still young, and where three men of the cemetery force lifted the coffin from the hearse--richard garvin's pallbearers. john hodder might not read the service, but there was none to tell him that the gospel of john was not written for this man. he stood an the grass beside the grave, and a breeze from across the great river near by stirred the maple leaves above his head. "i am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." nor was there any canon to forbid the words of paul: "it is sown in corruption; it is raised in in corruption; it is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body." they laid the flowers on the fresh earth, even the white roses, and then they drove back to the city. chapter xiv a saturday afternoon i the sight of a certain old gentleman as he walked along the shady side of twenty-second street about two o'clock on a broiling saturday afternoon in midsummer was one not easily to be forgotten. a younger man, tall and vigorous, clad in a thin suit of blue serge, walked by his side. they were followed by a shouting troop of small boys who overran the pavements, and some of whom were armed with baseball bats. the big trolley car was hailed by a dozen dirty little hands. even the grumpy passengers were disarmed. the conductor took mr. bentley's bill deprecatingly, as much as to say that the newly organized traction company--just out of the receivers' hands--were the moloch, not he, and rang off the fares under protest. and mr. bentley, as had been his custom for years, sat down and took off his hat, and smiled so benignly at those around him that they immediately began to talk, to him. it was always irresistible, this desire to talk to mr. bentley. if you had left your office irritated and out of sorts, your nerves worn to an edge by the uninterrupted heat, you invariably got off at your corner feeling better. it was phil goodrich who had said that horace bentley had only to get on a tower street car to turn it into a church. and if he had chosen to establish that 'dernier cri' of modern civilization where ladies go who have 'welt-schmerz' without knowing why, --a sanitarium, he might have gained back again all the money he had lost in giving his grantham stock to eldon parr. like the pied piper of hamelin, he could have emptied dalton street of its children. in the first place, there was the irresistible inducement to any boy to ride several miles on a trolley without having this right challenged by the irate guardian of the vehicle, without being summarily requested to alight at twenty-five miles an hour: in the second place, there was the soda water and sweet biscuit partaken of after the baseball game in that pavilion, more imposing in one's eyes than the taj mahal. mr. bentley would willingly have taken all dalton street. he had his own 'welt-schmerz', though he did not go to a sanitarium to cure it; he was forced to set an age limit of ten, and then establish a high court of appeal; for there were boys whose biographies, if they are ever written, will be as hazy as those of certain world-wide celebrities who might be mentioned concerning the date and exact spot of the entrance of their heroes into the light. the solemn protestations, the tears, the recrimination even, brought pangs to the old gentleman's heart, for with all the will in the world he had been forced in the nature of things, to set a limit. this limit had recently been increased by the unlooked-for appearance on these excursions of the tall man in the blue serge suit, whose knowledge of the national game and of other matters of vital import to youth was gratifying if sometimes disconcerting; who towered, an unruffled gulliver, over their lilliputian controversies, in which bats were waved and fists brought into play and language used on the meaning of which the century dictionary is silent. on one former occasion, indeed, mr. bentley had found moral suasion, affection, and veneration of no avail, and had had to invoke the friendly aid of a park policeman to quell one of these incipient riots. to mr. bentley baseball was as a sealed book. the tall man's justice, not always worthy of the traditions of solomon, had in it an element of force. to be lifted off the ground by strong arms at the moment you are about to dust the home plate with your adversary is humiliating, but effective. it gradually became apparent that a decision was a decision. and one saturday this inexplicable person carried in his hand a mysterious package which, when opened, revealed two pairs of diminutive boxing gloves. they instantly became popular. by the time they had made the accidental and somewhat astounding discovery that he was a parson, they were willing to overlook it; in view, perhaps, of his compensating accomplishments. instead of advising them to turn the other cheek, he taught them uppercuts, feints, and jabs, and on the proof of this unexpected acquaintance with a profession all of them openly admired, the last vestige of reserve disappeared. he was accepted without qualifications. ii although the field to which they resorted was not in the most frequented section of the park, pedestrians often passed that way, and sometimes lingered. thus, towards the close of a certain saturday in july, a young woman walked out of the wood path and stood awhile gazing intently at the active figure striding among the diminutive, darting forms. presently, with an amused expression, she turned her head to discover mr. bentley, who sat on a green bench under a tree, his hat and stick on the grass beside him. she was unaware that he had been looking at her. "aren't they having a good time!" she said, and the genuine thrill in her voice betrayed a rare and unmistakable pleasure. "ah," replied mr. bentley, smiling back at her, "you like to see them, too. most persons do. children are not meant for the city, my dear young lady, their natural home is in the woods and fields, and these little fellows are a proof of it. when they come out here, they run wild. you perceive," he added with a twinkle, as an expletive of unquestionable vigour was hurled across the diamond, "they are not always so polite as they might be." the young woman smiled again, but the look she gave him was a puzzled one. and then, quite naturally, she sank, down on the grass, on the other side of mr. bentley's hat, watching the game for a while in silence. "what a tyrant!" she exclaimed. another uproar had been quelled, and two vigorously protesting runners sent back to their former bases. "oh, a benevolent tyrant," mr. bentley corrected her. "mr. hodder has the gift of managing boys,--he understands them. and they require a strong hand. his generation has had the training which mine lacked. in my day, at college, we worked off our surplus energy on the unfortunate professors, and we carried away chapel bells and fought with the townspeople." it required some effort, she found, to imagine this benevolent looking old gentleman assaulting professors. "nowadays they play baseball and football, and box!" he pointed to the boxing gloves on the grass. "mr. hodder has taught them to settle their differences in that way; it is much more sensible." she picked off the white clover-tops. "so that is mr. hodder, of st. john's," she said. "ah, you know him, then?" "i've met him," she answered quietly. "are these children connected with his church?" "they are little waifs from dalton street and that vicinity," said mr. bentley. "very few of them, i should imagine, have ever been inside of a church." she seemed surprised. "but--is it his habit to bring them out here?" the old gentleman beamed on her, perhaps with the hint of a smile at her curiosity. "he has found time for it, this summer. it is very good of him." she refrained from comment on this remark, falling into reflection, leaning back, with one hand outstretched, on the grass. the game went on vociferously, the shrill lithe voices piercing the silence of the summer afternoon. mr. bentley's eyes continued to rest on her. "tell me," he inquired, after a while, "are you not alison parr?" she glanced up at him, startled. "yes." "i thought so, although i have not seen you since you were a little girl. i knew your mother very well indeed, but it is too much to expect you to remember me, after all this time. no doubt you have forgotten my name. i am mr. bentley." "mr. bentley!" she cried, sitting upright and gazing at him. "how stupid of me not to have known you! you couldn't have been any one else." it was the old gentleman's turn to start. she rose impulsively and sat down on the bench beside him, and his hand trembled as he laid it in hers. "yes, my dear, i am still alive. but surely you cannot remember me, alison?" the old look of almost stubborn honesty he recalled in the child came into her eyes. "i do--and i don't," she said, perplexed. "it seemed to me as if i ought to have recognized you when i came up, and yet i hadn't the slightest notion who you were. i knew you were somebody." he shook his head, but did not speak. "but you have always been a fact in my existence--that is what i want to say," she went on. "it must be possible to remember a person and not recognize him, that is what i feel. i can remember you coming to our house in ransome street, and how i looked forward to your visits. and you used to have little candy beans in your pockets," she cried. "have you now?" his eyes were a little dimmed as he reached, smilingly, into the skirts of a somewhat shiny but scrupulously brushed coat and produced a brightly colored handful. she took one, and put it in her mouth: "oh," she said, "how good they were--isn't it strange how a taste brings back events? i can remember it all as if it were yesterday, and how i used to sit on your knee, and mother would tell me not to bother you." "and now--you are grown," he said. "something more than grown," she smiled. "i was thirty-one in may. tell me," she asked, choosing another of the beans which he still absently held, "do you get them for these?" and she nodded toward the dalton street waifs. "yes," he said, "they are children, too." "i can remember," she said, after a pause, "i can remember my mother speaking of you to me the year she died. i was almost grown, then. it was after we had moved up to park street, and her health had already begun to fail. that made an impression on me, but i have forgotten what she said--it was apropos of some recollection. no--it was a photograph --she was going over some old things." alison ceased speaking abruptly, for the pain in mr. bentley's remarkable grey eyes had not escaped her. what was it about him? why could she not recall? long-forgotten, shadowy episodes of the past tormented her, flitted provokingly through her mind--ungrasped: words dropped in her presence which had made their impression, but the gist of which was gone. why had mr. bentley ceased coming to the house? so strongly did she feel his presence now that the thought occurred to her,--perhaps her mother had not wished her to forget him! "i did not suspect," she heard him saying, "that you would go out into the world and create the beautiful gardens of which i have heard. but you had no lack of spirit in those days, too." "i was a most disagreeable child, perverse,--cantankerous--i can hear my mother saying it! as for the gardens--they have given me something to do, they have kept me out of mischief. i suppose i ought to be thankful, but i still have the rebellious streak when i see what others have done, what others are doing, and i sometimes wonder what right i ever had to think that i might create something worth while." he glanced at her quickly as she sat with bent head. "others put a higher value on what you have done." "oh, they don't know--" she exclaimed. if something were revealed to him by her tone, he did not betray it, but went on cheerfully. "you have been away a long time, alison. it must interest you to come back, and see the changes in our western civilization. we are moving very rapidly--in certain directions," he corrected himself. she appraised his qualification. "in certain directions,--yes. but they are little better in the east. i have scarcely been back," she added, "since i went to paris to study. i have often thought i should like to return and stay awhile, only --i never seemed to get time. now i am going over a garden for my father which was one of my first efforts, and which has always reproached me." "and you do not mind the heat?" he asked. "those who go east to live return to find our summers oppressive." "oh, i'm a salamander, i think," alison laughed. thus they sat chatting, interrupted once or twice by urchins too small to join in the game, who came running to mr. bentley and stood staring at alison as at a being beyond the borders of experience: and she would smile at them quite as shyly,--children being beyond her own. her imagination was as keen, as unspoiled as a child's, and was stimulated by a sense of adventure, of the mystery which hung about this fine old gentleman who betrayed such sentiment for a mother whom she had loved and admired and still secretly mourned. here, if there had been no other, was a compelling bond of sympathy . . . . the shadows grew longer, the game broke up. and hodder, surrounded by an argumentative group keeping pace with him, came toward them from the field; alison watched him curiously as he turned this way and that to answer the insistent questions with which he was pelted, and once she saw him stride rapidly after a dodging delinquent and seize him by the collar amidst piercing yells of approval, and derision for the rebel. "it's remarkable how he gets along with them," said mr. bentley, smiling at the scene. "most of them have never known what discipline is." the chorus approached. and hodder, recognizing her, dropped the collar he held: a young woman conversing with mr. bentley--was no unusual sight, --he had made no speculations as to this one's identity. he left the boys, and drew near. "you know miss parr, i believe," the old gentleman said. hodder took her hand. he had often tried to imagine his feelings if he should meet her again: what he should do and say,--what would be their footing. and now he had no time to prepare . . . . "it is so strange," she said, with that note of wonder at life in her voice which he recalled so well, "that i should have come across mr. bentley here after so many years. how many years, mr. bentley?" "ah, my dear," he protested, "my measurements would not be yours." "it is better for both of us not to say, alison declared, laughingly. "you knew mr. bentley?" asked hodder, astonished. "he was a very dear friend of my mother's, although i used to appropriate him when he came to our house. it was when we lived in ransome street, ages ago. but i don't think mr. bentley has grown a bit older." "he is one of the few who have found the secret of youth," said the rector. but the old gentleman had moved off into the path, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was carried off by the swarm which clustered around him, two smaller ones tugging at his hand, and all intent upon arriving at the soda-water pavilion near the entrance. they had followed him with their eyes, and they saw him turn around and smile at them, helplessly. alison presented a perplexed face to hodder. "does he bring them here,--or you?" she asked. "i--" he hesitated. "mr. bentley has done this every saturday afternoon for years," he said, "i am merely one of them." she looked at him quickly. they had started to follow, in the cool path beneath the forest trees. restraint fell upon them, brought about by the memory of the intimacy of their former meeting, further complicated on hodder's part by his new attitude toward her father, and his finding her in the company, of all persons, of mr. bentley. unuttered queries pressed on the minds of both. "tell me about mr. bentley," she said. hodder hesitated. "i scarcely know where to begin," he replied, yet smiling at the characteristic abruptness of her question. the modulations of her voice revealed again the searching, inquisitive spirit within her, and his responded to the intensity of the interest in mr. bentley. "begin anywhere." "anywhere?" he repeated, seeking to gain time. "yes--anywhere," she said impatiently. "well, he lives in dalton street, if you recall what kind of a place that is" (she nodded), "and he is known from one end of it to the other." "i see what he is--he is the most extraordinary person i have ever known. just to talk to him gives one such a queer feeling of--of dissatisfaction with one's self, and seeing him once more seems to have half revived in me a whole series of dead memories. and i have been trying to think, but it is all so tantalizing. there is some mystery about him," she insisted. "he disappeared suddenly, and my mother never mentioned him but once afterward, but other persons have spoken of him since--i forget who. he was so well known, and he used to go to st. john's." "yes, he used to go to st. john's." "what happened to him--do you know? the reason he stopped coming to our house was some misunderstanding with my father, of course. i am positive my mother never changed her feelings toward him." "i can only tell you what he has told me, which is all i know --authoritatively," hodder replied. how could he say to her that her father had ruined mr. bentley? indeed, with a woman of her fearlessness and honesty--and above all, her intuition,--he felt the cruelty of his position keenly. hodder did not relish half truths; and he felt that, however scant his intercourse in the future might be with alison parr, he would have liked to have kept it on that basis of frankness in which it had begun. but the exact stage of disillusionment she had reached in regard to eldon parr was unknown to him, and he feared that a further revelation might possibly sever the already precarious tie between father and daughter. he recounted, therefore, that mr. bentley had failed; and how he had before that given much of his estate away in charity, how he had been unable to keep his pew in st. john's, and had retired to the house in dalton street. for some moments after he had finished alison did not reply. "what is his number in dalton street?" she asked. hodder informed her. he could not read in her face whether she suspected that he could have told her more. and in spite of an inordinate, human joy in being again in her presence, his desire to hide from her that which had taken place within him, and the inability he felt to read his future, were instinctive: the more so because of the very spontaneity they had achieved at their first meeting. as a man, he shrank from confessing to her, however indirectly, the fact that she herself was so vital an element in his disillusionment. for the conversation in the garden had been the immediate cause of the inner ferment ending in his resolution to go away, and had directed him, by logical steps, to the encounter in the church with mrs. garvin. "you have not yet finished the garden?" he asked. "i imagined you back in the east by this time." "oh, i am procrastinating," she replied. "it is a fit of sheer laziness. i ought to be elsewhere, but i was born without a conscience. if i had one i should try to quiet it by reminding it that i am fulfilling a long-delayed promise--i am making a garden for mrs. larrabbee. you know her, of course, since she is a member of your congregation." "yes, i know her," he assented. and his mind was suddenly filled with vivid colour,--cobalt seas, and arsenic-green spruces with purple cones, cardinal-striped awnings that rattled in the salt breeze, and he saw once more the panorama of the life which had passed from him and the woman in the midst of it. and his overwhelming thought was of relief that he had somehow escaped. in spite of his unhappiness now, he would not have gone back. he realized for the first time that he had been nearer annihilation then than to-day. "grace isn't here to bother me with the ideas she has picked up in europe and catalogued," alison continued. "catalogued!" hodder exclaimed, struck by the pertinency of the word. "yes. did you ever know anybody who had succeeded half so well in piecing together and absorbing into a harmonized whole all the divergent, artificial elements that enter into the conventional world to-day? her character might be called a triumph of synthesis. for she has actually achieved an individuality--that is what always surprises me when i think of her. she has put the puzzle picture together, she has become a person." he remembered, with a start, that this was the exact word mrs. larrabbee had used about alison parr. if he had searched the world, he could not have found a greater contrast than that between these two women. and when she spoke again, he was to be further struck by her power of logical insight. "grace wants me because she thinks i have become the fashion--for the same reason that charlotte plimpton wants me. only there is this difference--grace will know the exact value of what i shall have done. not that she thinks me a le notre"--alison laughed--"what i mean is, she sees behind, she sees why it is fashionable to have a garden, since she has worked out the values of that existence. but there!" alison added, with a provocative touch that did not escape him, "i am picking your parishioners to pieces again." "you have more right than i," he replied, "they have been your friends since childhood." "i thought you had gone away," she said. "why?" he demanded. had she been to church again? "my father told me before he left that you were to take a cruise with him on the yacht he has chartered." "he wrote me from new york--i was unable to go," hodder said slowly. he felt her gaze upon him, but resolutely refused to meet it. . . . they walked on in silence until they came to the more open spaces near the edge of the park, thronged that saturday evening by crowds which had sought the, city's breathing space. perfect trees cast long, fantastic shadows across the lawns, fountains flung up rainbows from the midst of lakes; children of the tenements darted hither and thither, rolled and romped on the grass; family parties picnicked everywhere, and a very babel of tongues greeted the ear--the languages of europe from sweden to italy. suddenly an exclamation from her aroused and thrilled him. "isn't it wonderful how happy they are, and with what simple pleasures they are satisfied! i often come over here on saturdays and sundays, just to talk to them." "talk to them!" he echoed stupidly. "in their own languages?" "oh, i know a little german and italian, though i can't lay claim to czech," she answered gayly. "why are you so surprised that i should possess such modest accomplishments?" "it's not the accomplishments." he hesitated. "no. you are surprised that i should be interested in humanity." she stood facing him. "well, i am," she said, half humorously, half defiantly. "i believe i am more interested in human beings than in anything else in the world--when they are natural, as these people are and when they will tell one their joys and their troubles and their opinions." "enthusiasm, self-assertion, had as usual, transformed her, and he saw the colour glowing under her olive skin. was she accusing him of a lack of frankness? "and why," he asked, collecting himself, "did you think--" he got no further. "it's because you have an idea that i'm a selfish epicurean, if that isn't tautology--because i'm interested in a form of art, the rest of the world can go hang. you have a prejudice against artists. i wish i really were one, but i'm not." this speech contained so many surprises for him that he scarcely knew how to answer it. "give me a little time," he begged, "and perhaps i'll get over my prejudices. the worst of them, at any rate. you are helping me to do so." he tried to speak lightly, but his tone was more serious in the next sentence. "it seems to me personally that you have proved your concern for your fellow-creatures." her colour grew deeper, her manner changed. "that gives me the opportunity to say something i have hoped to say, ever since i saw you. i hoped i should see you again." "you are not going away soon?" he exclaimed. the words were spoken before he grasped their significance. "not at once. i don't know how long i shall stay," she answered hurriedly, intent upon what was in her mind. "i have thought a great deal about what i said to you that afternoon, and i find it more than ever difficult to excuse myself. i shan't attempt to. i merely mean to ask you to forgive me." "there is nothing to forgive," he assured her, under the influence of the feeling she had aroused. "it's nice of you to say so, and to take it as you did--nicer than i can express. i am afraid i shall never learn to appreciate that there may be other points of view toward life than my own. and i should have realized and sympathized with the difficulties of your position, and that you were doing the best under the circumstances." "no," he exclaimed, "don't say that! your other instinct was the truer one, if indeed you have really changed it--i don't believe you have." he smiled at her again. "you didn't hurt my feelings, you did me a service. i told you so at the time, and i meant it. and, more than that, i understood." "you understood--?" "you were not criticizing me, you were--what shall i say?--merely trying to iron out some of the inconsistencies of life. well, you helped me to iron out some of the inconsistencies of my own. i am profoundly grateful." she gazed at him, puzzled. but he did not, he could not enlighten her. some day she would discover what he meant. "if so, i am glad," she said, in a low voice. they were standing in the midst of the crowd that thronged around the pavilion. an urchin caught hold of the rector's coat. "here he is! say, mr. hodder, ain't you going to have any sody?" "certainly we are," he replied, returning alison's faint smile . . . . in the confusion that followed he caught a glimpse of her talking to mr. bentley; and later, after he had taken her hand, his eyes followed her figure wending its way in the evening light through the groups toward park street, and he saw above the tree-tops the red tiled roof of the great house in which she was living, alone. chapter xv the crucible i for better or worse john hodder had flung his treasured beliefs into the crucible, and one by one he watched them crumble and consume away. none but his own soul knew what it cost him to make the test; and some times, in the early stages of it, he would cast down his book under the lamp and walk for hours in the night. curiosity, and the despair of one who is lost impelled him to persist. it had been said of him that he had a talent for the law, and he now discovered that his mind, once freed, weighed the evidence with a pitiless logic, paid its own tribute--despite the anguish of the heart --to the pioneers of truth whose trail it followed into the unknown, who had held no mystery more sacred than truth itself, who had dared to venture into the nothingness between the whirling worlds. he considered them, those whirling worlds, at night. once they had been the candles of jehovah, to light the path of his chosen nation, to herald the birth of his son. and now? how many billions of blind, struggling creatures clung to them? where now was this pin-point of humanity, in the midst of an appalling spectacle of a grinding, remorseless nature? and that obscure event on which he had staked his hopes? was he, as john had written, the first born of the universe, the word incarnate of a system that defied time and space, the logos of an outworn philosophy? was that universe conscious, as berkeley had declared, or the blind monster of substance alone, or energy, as some modern scientists brutally and triumphantly maintained? where was the spirit that breathed in it of hope? such were some of the questions that thronged for solution. what was mind, what spirit? an attenuated vapour of the all-pervading substance? he could not permit himself to dwell on these thoughts--madness lay that way. madness, and a watching demon that whispered of substance, and sought to guide his wanderings in the night. hodder clung to the shell of reality, to the tiny panorama of the visible and the finite, to the infinitesimal gropings that lay recorded before him on the printed page. let him examine these first, let him discover--despite the price--what warrant the mind of man (the only light now vouchsafed to him in his darkness) gave him to speculate and to hope concerning the existence of a higher, truer reality than that which now tossed and wounded him. it were better to know. scarcely had the body been lifted from the tree than the disputes commenced, the adulterations crept in. the spontaneity, the fire and zeal of the self-sacrificing itinerant preachers gave place to the paralyzing logic then pervading the roman empire, and which had sent its curse down the ages to the modern sermon; the geometrical rules of euclid were made to solve the secrets of the universe. the simple faith of the cross which had inspired the martyr along the bloody way from ephesus to the circus at rome was formalized by degrees into philosophy: the faith of future ages was settled by compromises, by manipulation, by bribery in councils of the church which resembled modern political conventions, and in which pagan emperors did not hesitate to exert their influence over the metaphysical bishops of the factions. recriminations, executions, murders--so the chronicles ran. the prophet, the idealist disappeared, the priest with his rites and ceremonies and sacrifices, his power to save and damn, was once more in possession of the world. the son of man was degraded into an infant in his mother's arms. an unhealthy, degenerating asceticism, drawn from pagan sources, began with the monks and anchorites of egypt and culminated in the spectacle of simeon's pillar. the mysteries of eleusis, of attis, mithras, magna mater and isis developed into christian sacraments--the symbol became the thing itself. baptism the confession of the new life, following the customs of these cults, became initiation; and from the same superstitious origins, the repellent materialistic belief that to eat of the flesh and drink of the blood of a god was to gain immortality: immortality of the body, of course. ah, when the superstitions of remote peoples, the fables and myths, were taken away; when the manufactured history and determinism of the israelites from the fall of man to the coming of that messiah, whom the jews crucified because he failed to bring them their material kingdom, were discredited; when the polemic and literal interpretations of evangelists had been rejected, and the pious frauds of tampering monks; when the ascetic buddhism was removed; the cults and mysteries, the dogmas of an ancient naive philosophy discarded; the crude science of a ptolemy who conceived the earth as a flat terrestrial expanse and hell as a smoking pit beneath proved false; the revelation of a holy city of jasper and gold and crystal, the hierarchy with its divine franchise to save and rule and conquer,--when all these and more were eliminated from christianity, what was left? hodder surveyed the ruins. and his mind recalled, that sunday of rain in new york which had been the turning-point in his life, when he had listened to the preacher, when he had walked the streets unmindful of the wet, led on by visions, racked by fears. and the same terror returned to him now after all the years of respite, tenfold increased, of falling in the sight of man from the topmost tower. what was to become of him, now that the very driving power of life was gone? where would he go? to what might he turn his hand, since all were vanity and illusion? careers meant nothing, had any indeed been possible to a man forty, left staring at stark reality after the rainbow had vanished. nineveh had mocked and conquered him who had thought himself a conqueror. self flew back and swung on its central pivot and took command. his future, his fate, what was to become of him. who else now was to be considered? and what was to restrain him from reaching out his hand to pluck the fruit which he desired? . . . ii what control from the unknown is this which now depresses and now releases the sensitive thing called the soul of man, and sends it upward again until the green light of hope shines through the surface water? he might have grown accustomed, holder thought, to the obscurity of the deeps; in which, after a while, the sharp agony of existence became dulled, the pressure benumbing. he was conscious himself, at such times, of no inner recuperation. something drew him up, and he would find himself living again, at length to recognize the hand if not to comprehend the power. the hand was horace bentley's. what was the source of that serenity which shone on the face of his friend? was it the light of faith? faith in--what? humanity, mr. bentley had told him on that first evening when they had met: faith in a world filled with cruelties, disillusionments, lies, and cheats! on what authority was it based? holder never asked, and no word of theology ever crossed mr. bentley's lips; not by so much as a sign did he betray any knowledge he may have had of the drama taking place in holder's soul; no comment escaped him on the amazing anomalies of the life the rector was leading, in the church but not of it. it was only by degrees holder came to understand that no question would be asked, and the frequency of his visits to dalton street increased. he directed his steps thither sometimes hurriedly, as though pursued, as to a haven from a storm. and a haven it was indeed! at all hours of the day he came, and oftener in the night, in those first weeks, and if mr. bentley were not at home the very sight of the hospitable old darky brought surging up within him a sense of security, of, relief; the library itself was filled with the peace of its owner. how many others had brought their troubles here, had been lightened on the very threshold of this sanctuary! gradually hodder began to realize something of their numbers. gradually, as he was drawn more and more into the network of the relationships of this extraordinary man,--nay, as he inevitably became a part of that network,--a period of bewilderment ensued. he found himself involved, and quite naturally, in unpremeditated activities, running errands, forming human ties on a human basis. no question was asked, no credentials demanded or rejected. who he was made no difference --he was a friend of horace bentley's. he had less time to read, less time to think, to scan the veil of his future. he had run through a score of volumes, critical, philosophical, scientific, absorbing their contents, eagerly anticipating their conclusions; filled, once he had begun, with a mania to destroy, a savage determination to leave nothing,--to level all . . . . and now, save for the less frequent relapsing moods, he had grown strangely unconcerned about his future, content to live in the presence of this man; to ignore completely the aspects of a life incomprehensible to the few, besides mr. bentley, who observed it. what he now mostly felt was relief, if not a faint self-congratulation that he had had the courage to go through with it, to know the worst. and he was conscious even, at times, of a faint reviving sense of freedom he had not known since the days at bremerton. if the old dogmas were false, why should he regret them? he began to see that, once he had suspected their falsity, not to have investigated were to invite decay; and he pictured himself growing more unctuous, apologetic, plausible. he had, at any rate, escaped the more despicable fate, and if he went to pieces now it would be as a man, looking the facts in the face,--not as a coward and a hypocrite. late one afternoon, when he dropped in at mr. bentley's house, he was informed by sam that a lady was awaiting mr. bentley in the library. as hodder opened the door he saw a tall, slim figure of a woman with her back toward him. she was looking at the photographs on the mantel. it was alison parr! he remembered now that she had asked for mr. bentley's number, but it had never occurred to him that he might one day find her here. and as she turned he surprised in her eyes a shyness he had never seen in them before. thus they stood gazing at each other a moment before either spoke. "oh, i thought you were mr. bentley," she said. "have you been waiting long?" he asked. "three quarters of an hour, but i haven't minded it. this is such an interesting room, with its pictures and relics and books. it has a soothing effect, hasn't it? to come here is like stepping out of the turmoil of the modern world into a peaceful past." he was struck by the felicity of her description. "you have been here before?" he asked. "yes." she settled herself in the armchair; and hodder, accepting the situation, took the seat beside her. "of course i came, after i had found out who mr. bentley was. the opportunity to know him again--was not to be missed." "i can understand that," he assented. "that is, if a child can even be said to know such a person as mr. bentley. naturally, i didn't appreciate him in those days--children merely accept, without analyzing. and i have not yet been able to analyze,--i can only speculate and consider." her enthusiasm never failed to stir and excite hodder. nor would he have thought it possible that a new value could be added to mr. bentley in his eyes. yet so it was. he felt within him, as she spoke, the quickening of a stimulus. "when i came in a little while ago," alison continued, "i found a woman in black, with such a sweet, sad face. we began a conversation. she had been through a frightful experience. her husband had committed suicide, her child had been on the point of death, and she says that she lies awake nights now thinking in terror of what might have happened to her if you and mr. bentley hadn't helped her. she's learning to be a stenographer. do you remember her?--her name is garvin." "did she say--anything more?" hodder anxiously demanded. "no," said alison, surprised by his manner, "except that mr. bentley had found her a place to live, near the hospital, with a widow who was a friend of his. and that the child was well, and she could look life in the face again. oh, it is terrible to think that people all around us are getting into such straits, and that we are so indifferent to it!" hodder did not speak at once. he was wondering, now that she had renewed her friendship with mr. bentley, whether certain revelations on her part were not inevitable . . . . she was regarding him, and he was aware that her curiosity was aflame. again he wondered whether it were curiosity or--interest. "you did not tell me, when we met in the park, that you were no longer at st. john's." did mr. bentley tell you?" "no. he merely said he saw a great deal of you. martha preston told me. she is still here, and goes to church occasionally. she was much surprised to learn that you were in the city. "i am still living in the parish house," he said. "i am--taking my vacation." "with mr. bentley?" her eyes were still on his face. "with mr. bentley," he replied. he had spoken without bitterness. although there had indeed been bitterness in his soul, it passed away in the atmosphere of mr. bentley's house. the process now taking place in him was the same complication of negative and positive currents he had felt in her presence before. he was surprised to find that his old antipathy to agnosticism held over, in her case; to discover, now, that he was by no means, as yet, in view of the existence of horace bentley, to go the full length of unbelief! on the other hand, he saw that she had divined much of what had happened to him, and he felt radiating from her a sympathetic understanding which seemed almost a claim. she had a claim, although he could not have said of what it was constituted. their personal relationship bore responsibilities. it suddenly came over him, in fact, that the two persons who in all the world were nearest him were herself and mr. bentley! he responded, scarce knowing why he did so, to the positive current. "with mr. bentley," he repeated, smiling, and meeting her eyes, "i have been learning something about the actual conditions of life in a modern city." she bent a little toward him in one of those spontaneous movements that characterized her. "tell me--what is his life?" she asked. "i have seen so little of it, and he has told me nothing himself. at first, in the park, i saw only a kindly old gentleman, with a wonderful, restful personality, who had been a dear friend of my mother's. i didn't connect those boys with him. but since then--since i have been here twice, i have seen other things which make me wonder how far his influence extends." she paused. "i, too, have wondered," said the rector, thoughtfully. "when i met him, i supposed he were merely living in simple relationships with his neighbours here in dalton street, but by degrees i have discovered that his relationships are as wide as the city itself. and they have grown naturally--by radiation, as it were. one incident has led to another, one act of kindness to another, until now there seems literally no end to the men and women with whom he is in personal touch, who are ready to do anything in their power for him at any time. it is an institution, in fact, wholly unorganized, which in the final analysis is one man. and there is in it absolutely nothing of that element which has come to be known as charity." alison listened with parted lips. "to give you an example," he went on, gradually be coming fired by his subject, by her absorption, "since you have mentioned mrs. garvin, i will tell you what happened in that case. it is typical of many. it was a question of taking care of this woman, who was worn out and crushed, until she should recover sufficiently to take care of herself. mr. bentley did not need any assistance from me to get the boy into the hospital--dr. jarvis worships him. but the mother. i might possibly have got her into an institutional home--mr. bentley did better than that, far better. on the day of the funeral we went directly from the cemetery to the house of a widow who owns a little fruit farm beyond the park. her name is bledsoe, and it is not an exaggeration to say that her house, small as it is, contains an endowed room always at mr. bentley's disposal. "mrs. garvin is there now. she was received as a friend, as a guest --not as an inmate, a recipient of charity. i shall never forget how that woman ran out in the sun when she saw us coming, how proud she was to be able to do this thing, how she ushered us into the little parlour, that was all swept and polished, and how naturally and warmly she welcomed the other woman, dazed and exhausted, and took her hat and veil and almost carried her up the stairs. and later on i found out from miss grower, who lives here, mrs. bledsoe's history. eight or nine years ago her husband was sent to prison for forgery, and she was left with four small children, on the verge of a fate too terrible to mention. she was brought to mr. bentley's attention, and he started her in life. "and now mrs. garvin forms another link to that chain, which goes on growing. in a month she will be earning her own living as stenographer for a grain merchant whom mr. bentley set on his feet several years ago. one thing has led to the next. and--i doubt if any neighbourhood could be mentioned, north or south or west, or even in the business portion of the city itself, where men and women are not to be found ready and eager to do anything in their power for him. of course there have been exceptions, what might be called failures in the ordinary terminology of charity, but there are not many." when he had finished she sat quite still, musing over what he had told her, her eyes alight. "yes, it is wonderful," she said at length, in a low voice. "oh, i can believe in that, making the world a better place to live in, making people happier. of course every one cannot be like mr. bentley, but all may do their share in their own way. if only we could get rid of this senseless system of government that puts a premium on the acquisition of property! as it is, we have to depend on individual initiative. even the good mr. bentley does is a drop in the ocean compared to what might be done if all this machinery--which has been invented, if all these discoveries of science, by which the forces of an indifferent nature have been harnessed, could be turned to the service of all mankind. think of how many mrs. garvins, of how many dalton streets there are in the world, how many stunted children working in factories or growing up into criminals in the slums! i was reading a book just the other day on the effect of the lack of nutrition on character. we are breeding a million degenerate citizens by starving them, to say nothing of the effect of disease and bad air, of the constant fear of poverty that haunts the great majority of homes. there is no reason why that fear should not be removed, why the latest discoveries in medicine and science should not be at the disposal of all." the genuineness of her passion was unmistakable. his whole being responded to it. "have you always felt like this?" he asked. like what?" "indignant--that so many people were suffering." his question threw her into reflection. "why, no," she answered, at length, "i never thought----i see what you mean. four or five years ago, when i was going to socialist lectures, my sense of all this--inequality, injustice was intellectual. i didn't get indignant over it, as i do now when i think of it." "and why do you get indignant now?" "you mean," she asked, "that i have no right to be indignant, since i do nothing to attempt to better conditions?--" "not at all," hodder disavowed. "perhaps my question is too personal, but i didn't intend it to be. i was merely wondering whether any event or series of events had transformed a mere knowledge of these conditions into feeling." "oh!" she exclaimed, but not in offence. once more she relapsed into thought. and as he watched her, in silence, the colour that flowed and ebbed in her cheeks registered the coming and going of memories; of incidents in her life hidden from him, arousing in the man the torture of jealousy. but his faculties, keenly alert, grasped the entire field; marked once more the empirical trait in her that he loved her unflinching willingness to submit herself to an experiment. "i suppose so," she replied at length, her thoughts naturally assuming speech. "yes, i can see that it is so. yet my experience has not been with these conditions with which mr. bentley, with which you have been brought in contact, but with the other side--with luxury. oh, i am sick of luxury! i love it, i am not at all sure that i could do without it, but i hate it, too, i rebel against it. you can't understand that." "i think i can," he answered her. "when i see the creatures it makes," she cried, "i hate it. my profession has brought me in such close contact with it that i rebelled at last, and came out here very suddenly, just to get away from it in the mass. to renew my youth, if i could. the gardens were only an excuse. i had come to a point where i wanted to be quiet, to be alone, to think, and i knew my father would be going away. so much of my girlhood was spent in that park that i know every corner of it, and i--obeyed the impulse. i wanted to test it." "yes," he said, absorbed. "i might have gone to the mountains or the sea, but some one would have come and found me, and i should have been bound again--on the wheel. i shouldn't have had the strength to resist. but here--have you ever felt," she demanded, "that you craved a particular locality at a certain time?" he followed her still. "that is how i felt. these associations, that park, the thought of my girlhood, of my mother, who understood me as no one else has since, assumed a certain value. new york became unbearable. it is just there, in the very centre of our modern civilization, that one sees the crudest passions. oh, i have often wondered whether a man, however disillusioned, could see new york as a woman sees it when the glamour is gone. we are the natural prey of the conqueror still. we dream of independence--" she broke off abruptly. this confession, with the sudden glimpse it gave him of the fires within her that would not die down, but burned now more fiercely than ever, sent the blood to his head. his face, his temples, were hot with the fierceness of his joy in his conviction that she had revealed herself to him. why she had done so, he could not say. . . this was the woman whom the world thought composed; who had triumphed over its opposition, compelled it to bow before her; who presented to it that self-possessed, unified personality by which he had been struck at their first meeting. yet, paradoxically, the personality remained,--was more elusive than before. a thousand revelations, he felt, would not disclose it. he was no nearer to solving it now. . yet the fires burned! she, too, like himself, was aflame and unsatisfied! she, too, had tasted success, and had revolted! "but i don't get anywhere," she said wearily. "at times i feel this ferment, this anger that things are as they are, only to realize what helpless anger it is. why not take the world as it appears and live and feel, instead of beating against the currents?" "but isn't that inconsistent with what you said awhile ago as to a new civilization?" hodder asked. "oh, that utopia has no reality for me. i think it has, at moments, but it fades. and i don't pretend to be consistent. mr. bentley lives in a world of his own; i envy him with all my heart, i love and admire him, he cheers and soothes me when i am with him. but i can't see--whatever he sees. i am only aware of a remorseless universe grinding out its destinies. we anglo-saxons are fond of deceiving ourselves about life, of dressing it up in beautiful colours, of making believe that it actually contains happiness. all our fiction reflects this--that is why i never cared to read english or american novels. the continental school, the russians, the frenchmen, refuse to be deluded. they are honest." "realism, naturalism," he mused, recalling a course in philosophy, "one would expect the russian, in the conditions under which he lives, possessing an artistic temperament combined with a paralysis of the initiative and a sense of fate, to write in that way. and the frenchmen, renan, zola, and the others who have followed, are equally deterministic, but viewing the human body as a highly organized machine with which we may amuse ourselves by registering its sensations. these literatures are true in so far as they reflect the characteristics of the nations from which they spring. that is not to say that the philosophies of which they are the expressions are true. nor is it to admit that such a literature is characteristic of the spirit of america, and can be applied without change to our life and atmosphere. we have yet, i believe, to develop our own literature; which will come gradually as we find ourselves." "find ourselves?" she repeated. "yes. isn't that what we are trying to do? we are not determinists or fatalists, and to condemn us to such a philosophy would be to destroy us. we live on hope. in spite of our apparent materialism, we are idealists. and is it not possible to regard nature as governed by laws--remorseless, if you like the word--and yet believe, with kant and goethe, that there is an inner realm? you yourself struggle--you cling to ideals." "ideals!" she echoed. "ideals are useless unless one is able to see, to feel something beyond this ruthless mechanism by which we are surrounded and hemmed in, to have some perception of another scheme. why struggle, unless we struggle for something definite? oh, i don't mean heavenly rewards. nothing could be more insipid and senseless than the orthodox view of the hereafter. i am talking about a scheme of life here and now." "so am i," answered hodder. "but may there not be a meaning in this very desire we have to struggle against the order of things as it appears to us?" "a meaning?" "a little while ago you spoke of your indignation at the inequalities and injustices of the world, and when i asked you if you had always felt this, you replied that this feeling had grown upon you. my question is this: whether that indignation would be present at all if it were not meant to be turned into action." "you believe that an influence is at work, an influence that impels us against our reason?" "i should like to think so," he said. "why should so many persons be experiencing such a feeling to-day, persons who, like yourself, are the beneficiaries of our present system of privilege? why should you, who have every reason to be satisfied, materially, with things as they are, be troubling yourself with thoughts of others who are less-fortunate? and why should we have the spectacle, today, of men and women all over this country in social work, in science and medicine and politics, striving to better conditions while most of them might be much more comfortable and luxurious letting well enough alone?" "but it's human to care," she objected. "ah--human!" he said, and was silent. "what do we mean by human, unless it is the distinguishing mark of something within us that the natural world doesn't possess? unless it is the desire and willingness to strive for a larger interest than the individual interest, work and suffer for others? and you spoke of making people happier. what do you mean by happiness? not merely the possession of material comforts, surely. i grant you that those who are overworked and underfed, who are burning with the consciousness of wrongs, who have no outlook ahead, are essentially hopeless and miserable. but by 'happiness' you, mean something more than the complacency and contentment which clothing and food might bring, and the removal of the economic fear,--and even the restoration of self-respect." "that their lives should be fuller!" she exclaimed. "that drudgery and despair should be replaced by interest and hope," he went on, "slavery by freedom. in other words, that the whole attitude toward life should be changed, that life should appear a bright thing rather than a dark thing, that labour should be willing vicarious instead of forced and personal. otherwise, any happiness worth having is out of the question." she was listening now with parted lips, apparently unconscious of the fixity of her gaze. "you mean it is a choice between that or nothing," she said, in a low voice. "that there is no use in lifting people out of the treadmill --and removing the terror of poverty unless you can give them something more--than i have got." "and something more--than i have got,"--he was suddenly moved to reply... presently, while the silence still held between them, the door opened and startled them into reality. mr. bentley came in. the old gentleman gave no sign, as they rose to meet him, of a sense of tension in the atmosphere he had entered--yet each felt--somehow, that he knew. the tension was released. the same thought occurred to both as they beheld the peaceful welcome shining in his face, "here is what we are seeking. why try to define it?" "to think that i have been gossiping with mrs. meyer, while you were waiting for me!" he said. "she keeps the little florist's shop at the corner of tower street, and she gave me these. i little guessed what good use i should have for them, my dear." he held out to her three fragrant, crimson roses that matched the responsive colour in her cheeks as she thanked him and pinned them on her gown. he regarded her an instant. "but i'm sure mr. hodder has entertained you," mr. bentley turned, and laid his hand on the rector's shoulder. "most successfully," said alison, cutting short his protest. and she smiled at hodder, faintly. chapter xvi amid the encircling gloom i hodder, in spite of a pressing invitation to remain for supper, had left them together. he turned his face westward, in the opposite direction from the parish house, still under the spell of that moment of communion which had lasted--he knew not how long, a moment of silent revelation to them both. she, too, was storm-tossed! she, too, who had fared forth so gallantly into life, had conquered only to be beaten down--to lose her way. this discovery strained the very fibres of his being. so close he had been to her--so close that each had felt, simultaneously, complete comprehension of the other, comprehension that defied words, overbore disagreements. he knew that she had felt it. he walked on at first in a bewildered ecstasy, careless of aught else save that in a moment they two had reached out in the darkness and touched hands. never had his experience known such communion, never had a woman meant what this woman meant, and yet he could not define that meaning. what need of religion, of faith in an unseen order when this existed? to have this woman in the midst of chaos would be enough! faith in an unseen order! as he walked, his mind returned to the argument by which he had sought to combat her doubts--and his own. whence had the argument come? it was new to him--he had never formulated it before--that pity and longing and striving were a justification and a proof. had she herself inspired, by some unknown psychological law, this first attempt of his to reform the universe, this theory which he had rather spoken than thought? or had it been the knowledge of her own longing, and his desire to assuage it? as twilight fell, as his spirits ebbed, he could not apply it now--it meant nothing to him, evaded him, there was in it no solace. to regain his footing once more, to climb again without this woman whom he needed, and might not have! better to fall, to be engulfed. . . the vision of her, tall and straight, with the roses on her breast, tortured him. thus ecstasy ebbed to despondency. he looked around him in the fading day, to find himself opposite the closed gates of the botanical gardens, in the southwestern portion of the city . . . . an hour later he had made his way back to dalton street with its sputtering blue lights and gliding figures, and paused for a moment on the far sidewalk to gaze at mr. bentley's gleaming windows. should he go in? had that personality suddenly lost its power over him? how strange that now he could see nothing glowing, nothing inspiring within that house,--only a kindly old man reading a newspaper! he walked on, slowly, to feel stealing on him that desperate longing for adventure which he had known so well in his younger days. and he did not resist. the terror with which it had once inspired him was gone, or lingered only in the form of a delicious sense of uncertainty and anticipation. anything might happen to him--anything would be grateful; the thought of his study in the parish house was unbearable; the dalton street which had mocked and repelled him suddenly became alluring with its champaigns of light and inviting stretches of darkness. in the block ahead, rising out of the night like a tower blazing with a hundred beacons, hodder saw a hotel, heard the faint yet eager throbbing of music, beheld silhouetted figures flitting from automobiles and carriages across the white glare of the pavement,--figures of men and women. he hastened his steps, the music grew louder and louder in his ears, he gained the ornamental posts crowned by their incandescent globes, made his way through the loiterers, descended the stone steps of the restaurant, and stood staring into it as at a blurred picture. the band crashed a popular two-step above the mingled voices and laughter. he sat down at a vacant table near the door, and presently became aware that a waiter had been for some time at his elbow. "what will you have, sir?" then he remembered that he had not eaten, discovered that he was hungry, and ordered some sandwiches and beer. still staring, the figures began to differentiate themselves, although they all appeared, somehow, in perpetual motion; hurrying, though seated. it was like gazing at a quivering cinematograph. here and there ribbons of smoke curled upward, adding volume to the blue cloud that hung over the tables, which in turn was dissipated in spots by the industrious electric fans. everywhere he looked he met the glances of women; even at the table next him, they were not so absorbed in their escorts as to be able to resist flinging him covert stares between the shrieks of laughter in which they intermittently indulged. the cumulative effect of all these faces was intoxicating, and for a long time he was unable to examine closely any one group. what he saw was a composite woman with flushed cheeks and soliciting eyes, becomingly gowned and hatted--to the masculine judgment. on the walls, heavily frescoed in the german style, he read, in gothic letters: "wer liebt nicht wein, weib, and gesang, er bleibt ein narr sein leben lang." the waiter brought the sandwiches and beer, yet he did not eat. in the middle distance certain figures began insistently to stand out,--figures of women sitting alone wherever he looked he met a provoking gaze. one woman, a little farther away than the rest, seemed determinedly bent on getting a nod of recognition, and it was gradually borne in upon hodder's consciousness that her features were familiar. in avoiding her eyes he studied the men at the next table,--or rather one of them, who loudly ordered the waiters about, who told brief anecdotes that were uproariously applauded; whose pudgy, bejewelled fingers were continually feeling for the bottle in the ice beside his chair, or nudging his companions with easy familiarity; whose little eyes, set in a heavy face, lighted now and again with a certain expression . . . . . suddenly hodder pushed back his chair and got to his feet, overcome by a choking sensation like that of being, asphyxiated by foul gases. he must get out at once, or faint. what he had seen in the man's eyes had aroused in him sheer terror, for it was the image of something in his own soul which had summarily gained supremacy and led him hither, unresisting, to its own abiding-place. in vain he groped to reconstruct the process by which that other spirit--which he would fain have believed his true spirit--had been drugged and deadened in its very flight. he was aware, as he still stood uncertainly beside the table, of the white-aproned waiter looking at him, and of some one else!--the woman whose eyes had been fastened on him so persistently. she was close beside him, speaking to him. "seems to me we've met before." he looked at her, at first uncomprehendingly, then with a dawning realization of her identity. even her name came to him, unexpectedly, --kate marcy,--the woman in the flat! "ain't you going to invite me to have some supper?" she whispered eagerly, furtively, as one accustomed to be rebuffed, yet bold in spite of it. "they'll throw me out if they think i'm accosting you." how was it that, a moment ago, she had appeared to him mysterious, inviting? at this range he could only see the paint on her cheeks, the shadows under her burning eyes, the shabby finery of her gown. her wonderful bronze hair only made the contrast more pitiful. he acted automatically, drawing out for her the chair opposite his own, and sat down again. "say, but i'm hungry!" she exclaimed, pulling off her gloves. she smiled at him, wanly, yet with a brazen coquettishness become habit. "hungry!" he repeated idly. "i guess you'd be, if you'd only had a fried egg and a cup of coffee to-day, and nothing last night." he pushed over to her, hastily, with a kind of horror, the plate of sandwiches. she began eating them ravenously; but presently paused, and thrust them back toward him. he shook his head. "what's the matter with you?" she demanded. "nothing," he replied. "you ordered them, didn't you? ain't you eating anything?" "i'm not hungry," he said. she continued eating awhile without comment. and he watched her as one fascinated, oblivious to his surroundings, in a turmoil of thought and emotion. "i'm dry," she announced meaningly. he hesitated a moment, and then gave her the bottle of beer. she made a wry face as she poured it out. "have they run out of champagne?" she inquired. this time he did not hesitate. the women of his acquaintance, at the dinner parties he attended, drank champagne. why should he refuse it to this woman? a long-nosed, mediaeval-looking waiter was hovering about, one of those bizarre, battered creatures who have long exhausted the surprises of life, presiding over this amazing situation with all the sang froid of a family butler. hodder told him to bring champagne. "what kind, sir?" he asked, holding out a card. "the best you have." the woman stared at him in wonder. "you're what an english johnny i know would call a little bit of all right!" she declared with enthusiastic approval. "since you are hungry," he went on, "suppose you have something more substantial than sandwiches. what would you like?" she did not answer at once. amazement grew in her eyes, amazement and a kind of fear. "quit joshing!" she implored him, and he found it difficult to cope with her style of conversation. for a while she gazed helplessly at the bill of fare. "i guess you'll think it's funny," she said hesitatingly, "but i feel just like a good beefsteak and potatoes. bring a thick one, walter." the waiter sauntered off. "why should i think it strange?" hodder asked. "well, if you knew how many evenings i've sat up there in my room and thought what i'd order if i ever again got hold of some rich guy who'd loosen up. there ain't any use trying to put up a bluff with you. nothing was too good for me once, caviar, pate de foie gras" (her pronunciation is not to be imitated), "chicken casserole, peach melba, filet of beef with mushrooms,--i've had 'em all, and i used to sit up and say i'd hand out an order like that. you never do what you think you're going to do in this life." the truth of this remark struck him with a force she did not suspect; stung him, as it were, into a sense of reality. "and now," she added pathetically, "all t want is a beefsteak! don't that beat you?" she appeared so genuinely surprised at this somewhat contemptible trick fate had played her that hodder smiled in spite of himself. "i didn't recognize you at first in that get-up," she observed, looking at his blue serge suit. "so you've dropped the preacher business, have you? you're wise, all right." "why do you say that?" he asked. "didn't i tell you when you came 'round that time that you weren't like the rest of 'em? you're too human." once more the word, and on her lips, startled him. "some of the best men i have ever known, the broadest and most understanding men, have been clergymen," he found himself protesting. "well, they haven't dropped in on me. the only one i ever saw that measured up to something like that was you, and now you've chucked it." had he, as she expressed the matter, "chucked it"? her remark brought him reluctantly, fearfully, remorselessly--agitated and unprepared as he was--face to face with his future. "you were too good for the job," she declared. "what is there in it? there ain't nobody converted these days that i can see, and what's the use of gettin' up and preach into a lot of sapheads that don't know what religion is? sure they don't." "do you?" he asked. "you've called my bluff." she laughed. "say, do you?" if there was anything in it you'd have kept on preachin' to that bunch and made some of 'em believe they was headed for hell; you'd have made one of 'em that owns the flat house i live in, who gets fancy rents out of us poor girls, give it up. that's a nice kind of business for a church member, ain't it?" "owns the house in which you live!" "sure." she smiled at him compassionately, pitying his innocence and ignorance. "now i come to think of it, i guess he don't go to your church,--it's the big baptist church on the boulevard. but what's the difference?" "none," said hodder, despondently. she regarded him curiously. "you remember when you dropped in that night, when the kid was sick?" he nodded. "well, now you ain't in the business any more, i may as well tell you you kind of got in on me. i was sorry for you--honest, i was. i couldn't believe at first you was on the level, but it didn't take me long to see that they had gold-bricked you, too. i saw you weren't wise to what they were." "you thought--" he began and paused dumfounded. "why not?" she retorted. "it looked easy to me,--your line. how was i to know at first that they had you fooled? how was i to know you wasn't in the game?" "the game?" "say, what else is it but a game? you must be on now, ain't you? why. do they put up to keep the churches going? there ain't any coupons coming out of 'em. "maybe some of these millionaires think they can play all the horses and win,--get into heaven and sell gold bricks on the side. but i guess most of 'em don't think about heaven. they just use the church for a front, and take in strangers in the back alley,--downtown." hodder was silent, overwhelmed by the brutal aptness of her figures. nor did he take the trouble of a defence, of pointing out that hers was not the whole truth. what really mattered--he saw--was what she and those like her thought. such minds were not to be disabused by argument; and indeed he had little inclination for it then. "there's nothing in it." by this expression he gathered she meant life. and some hidden impulse bade him smile at her. "there is this," he answered. she opened her mouth, closed it and stared at him, struck by his expression, striving uneasily to fathom hidden depths in his remark. "i don't get on to you," she said lamely. "i didn't that other time. i never ran across anybody like you." he tried to smile again. "you mustn't mind me," he answered. they fell into an oasis of silence, surrounded by mad music and laughter. then came the long-nosed waiter carrying the beefsteak aloft, followed by a lad with a bucket of ice, from which protruded the green and gold neck of a bottle. the plates were put down, the beefsteak carved, the champagne opened and poured out with a flourish. the woman raised her glass. "here's how!" she said, with an attempt at gayety. and she drank to him. "it's funny how i ran across you again, ain't it?" she threw back her head and laughed. he raised his glass, tasted the wine, and put it down again. a sheet of fire swept through him. "what's the matter with it? is it corked?" she demanded. "it goes to the right spot with me." "it seems very good," he said, trying to smile, and turning to the food on his plate. the very idea of eating revolted him--and yet he made the attempt: he had a feeling, ill defined, that consequences of vital importance depended upon this attempt, on his natural acceptance of the situation. and, while he strove to reduce the contents of his plate, he racked his brain for some subject of conversation. the flamboyant walls of the room pressed in on every side; comment of that which lay within their limits was impossible,--but he could not, somehow, get beyond them. was there in the whole range of life one easy topic which they might share in common? yet a bond existed between this woman and himself--a bond of which he now became aware, and which seemed strangely to grow stronger as the minutes passed and no words were spoken. why was it that she, too, to whom speech came so easily, had fallen dumb? he began to long for some remark, however disconcerting. the tension increased. she put down her knife and fork. tears sprang into her eyes,--tears of anger, he thought. "say, it's no use trying to put up a bluff with me," she cried. "why do you say that?" he asked. "you know what i mean, all right. what did you come in here for, anyway?" "i don't know--i couldn't tell you," he answered. the very honesty of his words seemed, for an instant, to disconcert her; and she produced a torn lace handkerchief, which she thrust in her eyes. "why can't you leave me alone?" she demanded. "i'm all right." if he did not at once reply, it was because of some inner change which had taken place in himself; and he seemed to see things, suddenly, in their true proportions. he no longer feared a scene and its consequences. by virtue of something he had cast off or taken on, he was aware of a newly acquired mastery of the situation, and by a hidden and unconscious process he had managed to get at the real woman behind the paint: had beaten down, as it were without a siege, her defences. and he was incomparably awed by the sight of her quivering, frightened self. her weeping grew more violent. he saw the people at the next table turn and stare, heard the men laughing harshly. for the spectacle was evidently not an uncommon one here. she pushed away her unfinished glass, gathered up her velvet bag and rose abruptly. "i guess i ain't hungry after all," she said, and started toward the door. he turned to the waiter, who regarded him unmoved, and asked for a check. "i'll get it," he said. hodder drew out a ten dollar bill, and told him to keep the change. the waiter looked at him. some impulse moved him to remark, as he picked up the rector's hat: "don't let her put it over you, sir." hodder scarcely heard him. he hurried up the steps and gained the pavement, and somewhere in the black shadows beyond the arc-lights he saw her disappearing down the street. careless of all comment he hastened on, overtook her, and they walked rapidly side by side. now and again he heard a sob, but she said nothing. thus they came to the house where the garvins had lived, and passed it, and stopped in front of the dimly lighted vestibule of the flats next door. in drawing the key from her bag she dropped it: he picked it up and put it in the lock himself. she led the way without comment up the darkened stairs, and on the landing produced another key, opened the door of her rooms, fumbled for the electric button, and suddenly the place was flooded with light. he glanced in, and recoiled. ii oddly enough, the first thing he noticed in the confusion that reigned was the absence of the piano. two chairs were overturned, and one of them was broken; a siphon of vichy lay on the floor beside a crushed glass and two or three of the cheap ornaments that had been swept off the mantel and broken on the gaudy tiles of the hearth. he glanced at the woman, who had ceased crying, and stood surveying the wreckage with the calmness, the philosophic nonchalance of a class that comes to look upon misfortune as inevitable. "they didn't do a thing to this place, did they?" was her comment. "there was two guys in here to-night who got a notion they were funny." hodder had thought to have fathomed all the horrors of her existence, but it was not until he looked into this room that the bottomless depths of it were brought home to him. could it be possible that the civilization in which he lived left any human being so defenceless as to be at the mercy of the ghouls who had been here? the very stale odours of the spilled whiskey seemed the material expression of the essence of degraded souls; for a moment it overpowered him. then came the imperative need of action, and he began to right one of the chairs. she darted forward. "cut it out!" she cried. "what business have you got coming in here and straightening up? i was a fool to bring you, anyway." it was in her eyes that he read her meaning, and yet could not credit it. he was abashed--ashamed; nay, he could not define the feeling in his breast. he knew that what he read was the true interpretation of her speech, for in some manner--he guessed not how--she had begun to idealize him, to feel that the touch of these things defiled him. "i believe i invited myself," he answered, with attempted cheerfulness. then it struck him, in his predicament, that this was precisely what others had done! "when you asked me a little while ago whether i had left the church, i let you think i had. i am still connected with st. john's, but i do not know how long i shall continue to be." she was on her knees with dustpan and whiskbroom, cleaning up the fragments of glass on the stained carpet. and she glanced up at him swiftly, diviningly. "say--you're in trouble yourself, ain't you?" she got up impulsively, spilling some of the contents of the pan. a subtle change had come in her, and under the gallantly drooping feathers of her hat he caught her eye--the human eye that so marvellously reflects the phases of the human soul: the eye which so short a time before hardily and brazenly had flashed forth its invitation, now actually shone with fellowship and sympathy. and for a moment this look was more startling, more appalling than the other; he shrank from it, resented it even more. was it true that they had something in common? and if so, was it sin or sorrow, or both? "i might have known," she said, staring at him. in spite of his gesture of dissent, he saw that she was going over the events of the evening from her new point of view. "i might have known, when we were sitting there in harrods, that you were up against it, too, but i couldn't think of anything but the way i was fixed. the agent's been here twice this week for the rent, and i was kind of desperate for a square meal." hodder took the dustpan from her hand, and flung its contents into the fireplace. "then we are both fortunate," he said, "to have met each other." "i don't see where you come in," she told him. he turned and smiled at her. "do you remember when i was here that evening about two months ago i said i should like to be your friend? well, i meant it. and i have often hoped, since then, that some circumstance might bring us together again. you seemed to think that no friendship was possible between us, but i have tried to make myself believe that you said so because you didn't know me." "honest to god?" she asked. "is that on the level?" "i only ask for an opportunity to prove it," he replied, striving to speak naturally. he stooped and laid the dustpan on the hearth. "there! now let's sit down." she sank on the sofa, her breast rising and falling, her gaze dumbly fixed on him, as one under hypnosis. he took the rocker. "i have wanted to tell you how grateful mrs. garvin, the boy's mother --was for the roses you brought. she doesn't know who sent them, but i intend to tell her, and she will thank you herself. she is living out in the country. and the boy--you would scarcely recognize him." "i couldn't play the piano for a week after--that thing happened." she glanced at the space where the instrument had stood. "you taught yourself to play?" he asked. "i had music lessons." "music lessons?" "not here--before i left home--up the state, in a little country town, --madison. it seems like a long time ago, but it's only seven years in september. mother and father wanted all of us children to know a little more than they did, and i guess they pinched a good deal to give us a chance. i went a year to the high school, and then i was all for coming to the city--i couldn't stand madison, there wasn't anything going on. mother was against it,--said i was too good-looking to leave home. i wish i never had. you wouldn't believe i was good-looking once, would you?" she spoke dispassionately, not seeming to expect assent, but hodder glanced involuntarily at her wonderful crown of hair. she had taken off her hat. he was thinking of the typical crime of american parents,--and suddenly it struck him that her speech had changed, that she had dropped the suggestive slang of the surroundings in which she now lived. "i was a fool to come, but i couldn't see it then. all i could think of was to get away to a place where something was happening. i wanted to get into ferguson's--everybody in madison knew about ferguson's, what a grand store it was,--but i couldn't. and after a while i got a place at the embroidery counter at pratt's. that's a department store, too, you know. it looked fine, but it wasn't long before i fell wise to a few things." (she relapsed into slang occasionally.) "have you ever tried to stand on your feet for nine hours, where you couldn't sit down for a minute? say, when florry kinsley and me--she was the girl i roomed with --would get home at night, often we'd just lie down and laugh and cry, we were so tired, and our feet hurt so. we were too used up sometimes to get up and cook supper on the little stove we had. and sitting around a back bedroom all evening was worse than madison. we'd go out, tired as we were, and walk the streets." he nodded, impressed by the fact that she did not seem to be appealing to his sympathy. nor, indeed, did she appear--in thus picking up the threads of her past--to be consciously accounting for her present. she recognized no causation there. "say, did you ever get to a place where you just had to have something happen? when you couldn't stand bein' lonely night after night, when you went out on the streets and saw everybody on the way to a good time but you? we used to look in the newspapers for notices of the big balls, and we'd take the cars to the west end and stand outside the awnings watching the carriages driving up and the people coming in. and the same with the weddings. we got to know a good many of the swells by sight. there was mrs. larrabbee,"--a certain awe crept into her voice--"and miss ferguson--she's sweet--and a lot more. some of the girls used to copy their clothes and hats, but florry and me tried to live honest. it was funny," she added irrelevantly, "but the more worn out we were at night, the more we'd want a little excitement, and we used to go to the dance-halls and keep going until we were ready to drop." she laughed at the recollection. "there was a floorwalker who never let me alone the whole time i was at pratt's--he put me in mind of a pallbearer. his name was selkirk, and he had a family in westerly, out on the grade suburban . . . . some of the girls never came back at all, except to swagger in and buy expensive things, and tell us we were fools to work. and after a while i noticed florry was getting discouraged. we never had so much as a nickel left over on saturdays and they made us sign a paper, when they hired us, that we lived at home. it was their excuse for paying us six dollars a week. they do it at ferguson's, too. they say they can get plenty of girls who do live at home. i made up my mind i'd go back to madison, but i kept putting it off, and then father died, and i couldn't! "and then, one day, florry left. she took her things from the room when i was at the store, and i never saw her again. i got another roommate. i couldn't afford to pay for the room alone. you wouldn't believe i kept straight, would you?" she demanded, with a touch of her former defiance. "i had plenty of chances better than that floorwalker. but i knew i was good looking, and i thought if i could only hold out i might get married to some fellow who was well fixed. what's the matter?" hodder's exclamation had been involuntary, for in these last words she had unconsciously brought home to him the relentless predicament in the lives of these women. she had been saving herself--for what? a more advantageous, sale! "it's always been my luck," she went on reflectingly, "that when what i wanted to happen did happen, i never could take advantage of it. it was just like that to-night, when you handed me out the bill of fare, and i ordered beefsteak. and it was like that when--when he came along --i didn't do what i thought i was going to do. it's terrible to fall in love, isn't it? i mean the real thing. i've read in books that it only comes once, and i guess it's so." fortunately she seemed to expect no answer to this query. she was staring at the wall with unseeing eyes. "i never thought of marrying him, from the first. he could have done anything with me--he was so good and generous--and it was him i was thinking about. that's love, isn't it? maybe you don't believe a woman like me knows what love is. you've got a notion that goin' downhill, as i've been doing, kills it, haven't you? i wish to god it did--but it don't: the ache's there, and sometimes it comes in the daytime, and sometimes at night, and i think i'll go crazy. when a woman like me is in love there isn't anything more terrible on earth, i tell you. if a girl's respectable and good it's bad enough, god knows, if she can't have the man she wants; but when she's like me--it's hell. that's the only way i can describe it. she feels there is nothing about her that's clean, that he wouldn't despise. there's many a night i wished i could have done what garvin did, but i didn't have the nerve." "don't say that!" he commanded sharply. "why not? it's the best way out." "i can see how one might believe it to be," he answered. indeed, it seemed that his vision had been infinitely extended, that he had suddenly come into possession of the solution of all the bewildered, despairing gropings of the human soul. only awhile ago, for instance, the mood of self-destruction had been beyond his imagination: tonight he understood it, though he still looked upon it with horror. and he saw that his understanding of her--or of any human being--could never be of the intellect. he had entered into one of those astounding yet simple relationships wherein truth, and truth alone, is possible. he knew that such women lied, deceived themselves; he could well conceive that the image of this first lover might have become idealized in her vicissitudes; that the memories of the creature-comforts, of first passion, might have enhanced as the victim sank. it was not only because she did not attempt to palliate that he believed her. "i remember the time i met him,--it was only four years ago last spring, but it seems like a lifetime. it was decoration day, and it was so beautiful i went out with another girl to the park, and we sat on the grass and looked at the sky and wished we lived in the country. he was in an automobile; i never did know exactly how it happened,--we looked at each other, and he slowed up and came back and asked us to take a ride. i had never been in one of those things--but that wasn't why i went, i guess. well, the rest was easy. he lost his head, and i was just as bad. you wouldn't believe me if i told you how rich he was: it scared me when i found out about him, and he was so handsome and full of fun and spirits, and generous! i never knew anybody like him. honest, i never expected he'd want to marry me. he didn't at first,--it was only after a while. i never asked him to, and when he began to talk about it i told him it would cut him off from his swell friends, and i knew his father might turn him loose. oh, it wasn't the money! well, he'd get mad all through, and say he never got along with the old man, and that his friends would have to take me, and he couldn't live without me. he said he would have me educated, and bought me books, and i tried to read them. i'd have done anything for him. he'd knocked around a good deal since he'd been to harvard college,--he wasn't what you'd call a saint, but his heart was all right. and he changed, too, i could see it. he said he was going to make something out of himself. "i didn't think it was possible to be so happy, but i had a feeling all along, inside of me, that it couldn't come off. i had a little flat in rutger street, over on the south side, and everything in the world i wanted. well, one day, sure enough, the bell rang and i opened the door, and there stood a man with side whiskers staring at me, and staring until i was frightened to death. i never saw such eyes as he had. and all of a sudden i knew it was his father. "'is this miss marcy?'" he said. "i couldn't say anything at all, but he handed me his card and smiled, i'll never forget how he smiled--and came right in and sat down. i'd heard of that man all my life, and how much money he'd made, and all that. why, up in madison folks used to talk about him--" she checked herself suddenly and stared at hodder in consternation. "maybe you know him!" she exclaimed. "i never thought!" "maybe i do," he assented wearily. in the past few moments suspicion had become conviction. "well--what difference does it make--now? it's all over, and i'm not going to bother him. i made up my mind i wouldn't, on account of him, you understand. i never fell that low--thank god!" hodder nodded. he could not speak . . . . the woman seemed to be living over again that scene, in her imagination. "i just couldn't realize who it was sitting there beside me, but if i hadn't known it wouldn't have made any difference. he could have done anything with me, anyway, and he knew how to get at me. he said, now that he'd seen me, that he was sure i was a good girl at the bottom and loved his son, and that i wouldn't want to ruin the boy when he had such a big future ahead of him. i wouldn't have thought, to look at the man, that he could have been so gentle. i made a fool of myself and cried, and told him i'd go away and never see his son any more--that i'd always been against marrying him. well, he almost had tears in his eyes when he thanked me and said i'd never regret it, and he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. i said i wouldn't take any money, and gave it back to him. i've always been sorry since that i didn't make him take it back--it never did anything but harm to me. but he had his way. he laid it on the table and said he wouldn't feel right, and took my hand--and i just didn't care. "well, what do you think i did after he'd gone? i went and played a piece on the piano,--and i never can bear to hear that ragtime to this day. i couldn't seem to feel anything. and after a while i got up and opened the envelope--it was full of crackly new hundred dollar bills --thirty of 'em, and as i sat there staring at 'em the pain came on, like a toothache, in throbs, getting worse all the time until i just couldn't stand it. i had a notion of sending the money back even then, but i didn't. i didn't know how to do it,--and as i told you, i wasn't able to care much. then i remembered i'd promised to go away, and i had to have some money for that, and if i didn't leave right off i wouldn't have the strength to do it. i hadn't even thought where to go: i couldn't think, so i got dressed and went down to the depot anyway. it was one of those bright, bitter cold winter days after a thaw when the icicles are hanging everywhere. i went inside and walked up and down that long platform under the glass roof. my, it was cold in there! i looked over all the signs, and made up my mind i'd go to chicago. "i meant to work, i never meant to spend the money, but to send it back. i'd put it aside--and then i'd go and take a little. say, it was easy not to work--and i didn't care what happened to me as long as i wasn't going to see him again. well, i'm not trying to smooth it over, i suppose there was something crooked about me from the start, but i just went clean to hell with that money, and when i heard he'd gone away, i came back here." "something crooked!" the words rang in hodder's ears, in his very soul. how was he or any man to estimate, to unravel the justice from the injustice, to pass upon the merit of this woman's punishment? here again, in this vitiated life, was only to be seen the remorseless working of law--cause and effect. crooked! had not the tree been crooked from the beginning--incapable of being straightened? she had herself naively confessed it. was not the twist ingrained? and if so, where was the salvation he had preached? there was good in her still,--but what was "good"? . . . he took no account of his profound compassion. what comfort could he give her, what hope could he hold out that the twist, now gnarled and knotted, might be removed, that she might gain peace of soul and body and the "happiness" of which he had talked with alison parr? . . . he raised his eyes, to discover that the woman's were fixed upon him, questioningly. "i suppose i was a fool to tell you," she said, with a shade of her old bitterness; "it can't do any good." her next remark was startlingly astute. "you've found out for yourself, i guess, that all this talk about heaven and hell and repentance don't amount to anything. hell couldn't be any worse than i've been through, no matter how hot it is. and heaven!" she laughed, burst into tears, and quickly dried them. "you know the man i've been talking about, that bought me off. i didn't intend to tell you, but i see you can't help knowing--eldon parr. i don't say he didn't do right from his way of looking at things,--but say, it wasn't exactly christian, was it?" "no," he said, "it wasn't." he bowed his head, and presently, when he raised it again, he caught something in her look that puzzled and disturbed him--an element of adoration. "you're white through and through," she said, slowly and distinctly. and he knew not how to protest. "i'll tell you something," she went on, as one who has made a discovery. "i liked you the first time you came in here--that night--when you wanted me to be friends; well, there was something that seemed to make it impossible then. i felt it, if you didn't." she groped for words. "i can't explain what it was, but now it's gone. you're different. i think a lot more of you. maybe it's because of what you did at harrod's, sitting down with me and giving me supper when i was so hungry, and the champagne. you weren't ashamed of me." "good god, why should i have been!" he exclaimed. "you! why shouldn't you?" she cried fiercely. "there's hardly a man in that place that wouldn't have been. they all know me by sight--and some of 'em better. you didn't see 'em grinning when i came up to you, but i did. my god--it's awful--it's awful i...." she burst into violent weeping, long deferred. he took her hand in his, and did not speak, waiting for the fit to spend itself . . . . and after a while the convulsive shudders that shook her gradually ceased. "you must trust me," he said. "the first thing tomorrow i'm going to make arrangements for you to get out of these rooms. you can't stay here any longer." "that's sure," she answered, trying to smile. "i'm broke. i even owe the co--the policeman." "the policeman!" "he has to turn it in to tom beatty and the politicians" beatty! where had he heard the name? suddenly it came to him that beatty was the city boss, who had been eulogized by mr. plimpton! "i have some good friends who will be glad to help you to get work--and until you do get work. you will have to fight--but we all have to fight. will you try?" "sure, i'll try," she answered, in a low voice. her very tone of submission troubled him. and he had a feeling that, if he had demanded, she would have acquiesced in anything. "we'll talk it over to-morrow," he went on, clinging to his note of optimism. "we'll find out what you can do easiest, to begin with." "i might give music lessons," she suggested. the remark increased his uneasiness, for he recognized in it a sure symptom of disease--a relapse into what might almost have been called levity, blindness to the supreme tragedy of her life which but a moment before had shaken and appalled her. he shook his head bravely. "i'm afraid that wouldn't do--at first." she rose and went into the other room, returning in a few moments with a work basket, from which she drew a soiled and unfinished piece of embroidery. "there's a bureau cover i started when i was at pratt's," she said, as she straightened it over her knees. "it's a copy of an expensive one. i never had the patience to finish it, but one of the sales-ladies there, who was an expert, told me it was pretty good: she taught me the stitch, and i had a notion at that time i might make a little money for dresses and the theatre. i was always clever with my hands." "the very thing!" he said, with hopeful emphasis. "i'm sure i can get you plenty of it to do. and i'll come back in the morning." he gave it back to her, and as she was folding it his glance fell on a photograph in the basket. "i kept it, i don't know why," he heard her say; "i didn't have the heart to burn it." he started recovered himself, and rose. "i'll go to see the agent the first thing to-morrow," he said. "and then--you'll be ready for me? you trust me?" "i'd do anything for you," was her tremulous reply. her disquieting, submissive smile haunted him as he roped his way down the stairs to the street, and then the face in the photograph replaced it--the laughing eyes, the wilful, pleasure--loving mouth he had seen in the school and college pictures of preston parr. the inside of the cup by winston churchill table of contents of all volumes: volume . i. the waring problems ii. mr. langmaid's mission iii. the primrose path iv. some riddles of the twentieth century volume . v. the rector has more food for thought. vi. "watchman, what of the night" vii. the kingdoms of the world viii. the line of least resistance. volume . ix. the divine discontent x. the messenger in the church xi. the lost parishioner xii. the woman of the song volume . xiii. winterbourne xiv. a saturday afternoon xv. the crucible xvi. amid the encircling gloom volume . xvii. reconstruction xviii. the riddle of causation xix. mr. goodrich becomes a partisan volume . xx. the arraignment xxi. alison goes to church xxii. which say to the seers, see not! volume . xxiii. the choice xxiv. the vestry meets xxv. "rise, crowned with light!" xxvi. the current of life volume . xxvii. retribution xxviii. light the inside of the cup volume . chapter i the waring problems i with few exceptions, the incidents recorded in these pages take place in one of the largest cities of the united states of america, and of that portion called the middle west,--a city once conservative and provincial, and rather proud of these qualities; but now outgrown them, and linked by lightning limited trains to other teeming centers of the modern world: a city overtaken, in recent years, by the plague which has swept our country from the atlantic to the pacific--prosperity. before its advent, the goodriches and gores, the warings, the prestons and the atterburys lived leisurely lives in a sleepy quarter of shade trees and spacious yards and muddy macadam streets, now passed away forever. existence was decorous, marriage an irrevocable step, wives were wives, and the authorized version of the bible was true from cover to cover. so dr. gilman preached, and so they believed. sunday was then a day essentially different from other days--you could tell it without looking at the calendar. the sun knew it, and changed the quality of his light the very animals, dogs and cats and horses, knew it: and most of all the children knew it, by sunday school, by dr. gilman's sermon, by a dizzy afternoon connected in some of their minds with ceramics and a lack of exercise; by a cold tea, and by church bells. you were not allowed to forget it for one instant. the city suddenly became full of churches, as though they had magically been let down from heaven during saturday night. they must have been there on week days, but few persons ever thought of them. among the many church bells that rang on those bygone sundays was that of st. john's, of which dr. gilman, of beloved memory, was rector. dr. gilman was a saint, and if you had had the good luck to be baptized or married or buried by him, you were probably fortunate in an earthly as well as heavenly sense. one has to be careful not to deal exclusively in superlatives, and yet it is not an exaggeration to say that st. john's was the most beautiful and churchly edifice in the city, thanks chiefly to several gentlemen of sense, and one gentleman, at least, of taste--mr. horace bentley. the vicissitudes of civil war interrupted its building; but when, in , it stood completed, its stone unsoiled as yet by factory smoke, its spire delicately pointing to untainted skies, its rose window glowing above the porch, citizens on tower street often stopped to gaze at it diagonally across the vacant lot set in order by mr. thurston gore, with the intent that the view might be unobstructed. little did the goodriches and gores, the warings and prestons and atterburys and other prominent people foresee the havoc that prosperity and smoke were to play with their residential plans! one by one, sooty commerce drove them out, westward, conservative though they were, from the paradise they had created; blacker and blacker grew the gothic facade of st. john's; thurston gore departed, but leased his corner first for a goodly sum, his ancestors being from connecticut; leased also the vacant lot he had beautified, where stores arose and hid the spire from tower street. cable cars moved serenely up the long hill where a panting third horse had been necessary, cable cars resounded in burton street, between the new factory and the church where dr. gilman still preached of peace and the delights of the new-jerusalem. and before you could draw your breath, the cable cars had become electric. gray hairs began to appear in the heads of the people dr. gilman had married in the ' 's and their children were going east to college. ii in the first decade of the twentieth century, asa, waring still clung to the imposing, early victorian mansion in hamilton street. it presented an uncompromising and rather scornful front to the sister mansions with which it had hitherto been on intimate terms, now fast degenerating into a shabby gentility, seeking covertly to catch the eye of boarders, but as yet refraining from open solicitation. their lawns were growing a little ragged, their stone steps and copings revealing cracks. asa waring looked with a stern distaste upon certain aspects of modern life. and though he possessed the means to follow his friends and erstwhile neighbours into the newer paradise five miles westward, he had successfully resisted for several years a formidable campaign to uproot him. his three married daughters lived in that clean and verdant district surrounding the park (spelled with a capital), while evelyn and rex spent most of their time in the west end or at the country clubs. even mrs. waring, who resembled a roman matron, with her wavy white hair parted in the middle and her gentle yet classic features, sighed secretly at times at the unyielding attitude of her husband, although admiring him for it. the grandchildren drew her. on the occasion of sunday dinner, when they surrounded her, her heart was filled to overflowing. the autumn sunlight, reddened somewhat by the slight haze of smoke, poured in at the high windows of the dining-room, glinted on the silver, and was split into bewildering colors by the prisms of the chandelier. many precious extra leaves were inserted under the white cloth, and mrs. waring's eyes were often dimmed with happiness as she glanced along the ranks on either side until they rested on the man with whom she had chosen to pass her life. her admiration for him had gradually grown into hero-worship. his anger, sometimes roused, had a terrible moral quality that never failed to thrill her, and the loyal legion button on his black frock coat seemed to her an epitome of his character. he sat for the most part silent, his remarkable, penetrating eyes, lighting under his grizzled brows, smiling at her, at the children, at the grandchildren. and sometimes he would go to the corner table, where the four littlest sat, and fetch one back to perch on his knee and pull at his white, military mustache. it was the children's day. uproar greeted the huge white cylinder of ice-cream borne by katie, the senior of the elderly maids; uproar greeted the cake; and finally there was a rush for the chocolates, little tablets wrapped in tinfoil and tied with red and blue ribbon. after that, the pandemonium left the dining-room, to spread itself over the spacious house from the basement to the great playroom in the attic, where the dolls and blocks and hobby-horses of the parental generation stoically awaited the new. sometimes a visitor was admitted to this sacramental feat, the dearest old gentleman in the world, with a great, high bridged nose, a slight stoop, a kindling look, and snow white hair, though the top of his head was bald. he sat on mrs. waring's right, and was treated with the greatest deference by the elders, and with none at all by the children, who besieged him. the bigger ones knew that he had had what is called a history; that he had been rich once, with a great mansion of his own, but now he lived on dalton street, almost in the slums, and worked among the poor. his name was mr. bentley. he was not there on the particular sunday when this story opens, otherwise the conversation about to be recorded would not have taken place. for st. john's church was not often mentioned in mr. bentley's presence. "well, grandmother," said phil goodrich, who was the favourite son-in-law, "how was the new rector to-day?" "mr. hodder is a remarkable young man, phil," mrs. waring declared, "and delivered such a good sermon. i couldn't help wishing that you and rex and evelyn and george had been in church." "phil couldn't go," explained the unmarried and sunburned evelyn, "he had a match on of eighteen holes with me." mrs. waring sighed. "i can't think what's got into the younger people these days that they seem so indifferent to religion. your father's a vestryman, phil, and i believe it has always been his hope that you would succeed him. i'm afraid rex won't succeed his father," she added, with a touch of regret and a glance of pride at her husband. "you never go to church, rex. phil does." "i got enough church at boarding-school to last me a lifetime, mother," her son replied. he was slightly older than evelyn, and just out of college. "besides, any heathen can get on the vestry--it's a financial board, and they're due to put phil on some day. they're always putting him on boards." his mother looked a little distressed. "rex, i wish you wouldn't talk that way about the church--" "i'm sorry, mother," he said, with quick penitence. "mr. langmaid's a vestryman, you know, and they've only got him there because he's the best corporation lawyer in the city. he isn't exactly what you'd call orthodox. he never goes." "we are indebted to mr. langmaid for mr. hodder." this was one of mr. waring's rare remarks. eleanor goodrich caught her husband's eye, and smiled. "i wonder why it is," she said, "that we are so luke-warm about church in these days? i don't mean you, lucy, or laureston," she added to her sister, mrs. grey. "you're both exemplary." lucy bowed ironically. "but most people of our ages with whom we associate. martha preston, for instance. we were all brought up like the children of jonathan edwards. do you remember that awful round-and-round feeling on sunday afternoons, sally, and only the wabbly noah's ark elephant to play with, right in this house? instead of that!" there was a bump in the hall without, and shrieks of laughter. "i'll never forget the first time it occurred to me--when i was reading darwin--that if the ark were as large as barnum's circus and the natural history museum put together, it couldn't have held a thousandth of the species on earth. it was a blow." "i don't know what we're coming to," exclaimed mrs. waring gently. "i didn't mean to be flippant, mother," said eleanor penitently, "but i do believe the christian religion has got to be presented in a different way, and a more vital way, to appeal to a new generation. i am merely looking facts in the face." "what is the christian religion?" asked sally's husband, george bridges, who held a chair of history in the local flourishing university. "i've been trying to find out all my life." "you couldn't be expected to know, george," said his wife. "you were brought up an unitarian, and went to harvard." "never mind, professor," said phil goodrich, in a quizzical, affectionate tone. "take the floor and tell us what it isn't." george bridges smiled. he was a striking contrast in type to his square-cut and vigorous brother-in-law; very thin, with slightly protruding eyes the color of the faded blue glaze of ancient pottery, and yet humorous. "i've had my chance, at any rate. sally made me go last sunday and hear mr. hodder." "i can't see why you didn't like him, george," lucy cried. "i think he's splendid." "oh, i like him," said mr. bridges. "that's just it!" exclaimed eleanor. "i like him. i think he's sincere. and that first sunday he came, when i saw him get up in the pulpit and wave that long arm of his, all i could think of was a modern savonarola. he looks one. and then, when he began to preach, it was maddening. i felt all the time that he could say something helpful, if he only would. but he didn't. it was all about the sufficiency of grace,--whatever that may be. he didn't explain it. he didn't give me one notion as to how to cope a little better with the frightful complexities of the modern lives we live, or how to stop quarrelling with phil when he stays at the office and is late for dinner." "eleanor, i think you're unjust to him," said lucy, amid the laughter of the men of the family. "most people in st. john's think he is a remarkable preacher." "so were many of the greek sophists," george bridges observed. "now if it were only dear old doctor gilman," eleanor continued, "i could sink back into a comfortable indifference. but every sunday this new man stirs me up, not by what he says, but by what he is. i hoped we'd get a rector with modern ideas, who would be able to tell me what to teach my children. little phil and harriet come back from sunday school with all sorts of questions, and i feel like a hypocrite. at any rate, if mr. hodder hasn't done anything else, he's made me want to know." "what do you mean by a man of modern ideas, eleanor?" inquired mr. bridges, with evident relish. eleanor put down her coffee cup, looked at him helplessly, and smiled. "somebody who will present christianity to me in such a manner that it will appeal to my reason, and enable me to assimilate it into my life." "good for you, nell," said her husband, approvingly. "come now, professor, you sit up in the university' club all sunday morning and discuss recondite philosophy with other learned agnostics, tell us what is the matter with mr. hodder's theology. that is, if it will not shock grandmother too much." "i'm afraid i've got used to being shocked, phil," said mrs. waring, with her quiet smile. "it's unfair," mr. bridges protested, "to ask a prejudiced pagan like me to pronounce judgment on an honest parson who is labouring according to his lights." "go on, george. you shan't get out of it that way." "well," said george, "the trouble is, from the theological point of view, that your parson is preaching what auguste sabatier would call a diminished and mitigated orthodoxy." "great heavens!" cried phil. "what's that?" "it's neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, nor good red herring," the professor declared. "if mr. hodder were cornered he couldn't maintain that he, as a priest, has full power to forgive sins, and yet he won't assert that he hasn't. the mediaeval conception of the church, before luther's day, was consistent, at any rate, if you once grant the premises on which it was based." "what premises?" "that the almighty had given it a charter, like an insurance company, of a monopoly of salvation on this portion of the universe, and agreed to keep his hands off. under this conception, the sale of indulgences, masses for the soul, and temporal power are perfectly logical --inevitable. kings and princes derive their governments from the church. but if we once begin to doubt the validity of this charter, as the reformers did, the whole system flies to pieces, like sticking a pin into a soap bubble. "that is the reason why--to change the figure--the so-called protestant world has been gradually sliding down hill ever since the reformation. the great majority of men are not willing to turn good, to renounce the material and sensual rewards under their hands without some definite and concrete guaranty that, if they do so, they are going, to be rewarded hereafter. they demand some sort of infallibility. and when we let go of the infallibility of the church, we began to slide toward what looked like a bottomless pit, and we clutched at the infallibility of the bible. and now that has begun to roll. "what i mean by a mitigated orthodoxy is this: i am far from accusing mr. hodder of insincerity, but he preaches as if every word of the bible were literally true, and had been dictated by god to the men who held the pen, as if he, as a priest, held some supernatural power that could definitely be traced, through what is known as the apostolic succession, back to peter." "do you mean to say, george," asked mrs. waring, with a note of pain in her voice, "that the apostolic succession cannot be historically proved?" "my dear mother," said george, "i hope you will hold me innocent of beginning this discussion. as a harmless professor of history in our renowned university (of which we think so much that we do not send our sons to it) i have been compelled by the children whom you have brought up to sit in judgment on the theology of your rector." "they will leave us nothing!" she sighed. "nothing, perhaps, that was invented by man to appeal to man's superstition and weakness. of the remainder--who can say?" "what," asked mrs. waring, "do they say about the apostolic succession?" "mother is as bad as the rest of us," said eleanor. "isn't she, grandfather?" "if i had a house to rent," said mr. bridges, when the laughter had subsided, "i shouldn't advertise five bath rooms when there were only two, or electricity when there was only gas. i should be afraid my tenants might find it out, and lose a certain amount of confidence in me. but the orthodox churches are running just such a risk to-day, and if any person who contemplates entering these churches doesn't examine the premises first, he refrains at his own cost. "the situation in the early christian church is now a matter of history, and he who runs may read. the first churches, like those of corinth and ephesus and rome, were democracies: no such thing as a priestly line to carry on a hierarchy, an ecclesiastical dynasty, was dreamed of. it may be gathered from the gospels that such an idea was so far from the mind of christ that his mission was to set at naught just such another hierarchy, which then existed in israel. the apostles were no more bishops than was john the baptist, but preachers who travelled from place to place, like paul. the congregations, at rome and elsewhere, elected their own 'presbyteri, episcopoi' or overseers. it is, to say the least, doubtful, and it certainly cannot be proved historically, that peter ever was in rome." "the professor ought to have a pulpit of his own," said phil. there was a silence. and then evelyn, who had been eating quantities of hothouse grapes, spoke up. "so far as i can see, the dilemma in which our generation finds itself is this,--we want to know what there is in christianity that we can lay hold of. we should like to believe, but, as george says, all our education contradicts the doctrines that are most insisted upon. we don't know where to turn. we have the choice of going to people like george, who know a great deal and don't believe anything, or to clergymen like mr. hodder, who demand that we shall violate the reason in us which has been so carefully trained." "upon my word, i think you've put it rather well, evelyn," said eleanor, admiringly. "in spite of personalities," added mr. bridges. "i don't see the use of fussing about it," proclaimed laureston grey, who was the richest and sprucest of the three sons-in-law. "why can't we let well enough alone?" "because it isn't well enough," evelyn replied. "i want the real thing or nothing. i go to church once a month, to please mother. it doesn't do me any good. and i don't see what good it does you and lucy to go every sunday. you never think of it when you're out at dinners and dances during the week. and besides," she added, with the arrogance of modern youth, "you and lucy are both intellectually lazy." "i like that from you, evelyn," her sister flared up. "you never read anything except the sporting columns and the annual rules of tennis and golf and polo." "must everything be reduced to terms?" mrs. waring gently lamented. "why can't we, as laury suggests, just continue to trust?" "they are the more fortunate, perhaps, who can, mother," george bridges answered, with more of feeling in his voice than he was wont to show. "unhappily, truth does not come that way. if roger bacon and galileo and newton and darwin and harvey and the others had 'just trusted,' the world's knowledge would still remain as stationary as it was during the thousand-odd years the hierarchy of the church was supreme, when theology was history, philosophy, and science rolled into one. if god had not meant man to know something of his origin differing from the account in genesis, he would not have given us darwin and his successors. practically every great discovery since the revival we owe to men who, by their very desire for truth, were forced into opposition to the tremendous power of the church, which always insisted that people should 'just trust,' and take the mixture of cosmogony and greek philosophy, tradition and fable, paganism, judaic sacerdotalism, and temporal power wrongly called spiritual dealt out by this same church as the last word on science, philosophy, history, metaphysics, and government." "stop!" cried eleanor. "you make me dizzy." "nearly all the pioneers to whom we owe our age of comparative enlightenment were heretics," george persisted. "and if they could have been headed off, or burned, most of us would still be living in mud caves at the foot of the cliff on which stood the nobleman's castle; and kings would still be kings by divine decree, scientists--if there were any --workers in the black art, and every phenomenon we failed to understand, a miracle." "i choose the united states of america," ejaculated evelyn. "i gather, george," said phil goodrich, "that you don't believe in miracles." "miracles are becoming suspiciously fewer and fewer. once, an eclipse of the sun was enough to throw men on their knees because they thought it supernatural. if they were logical they'd kneel today because it has been found natural. only the inexplicable phenomena are miracles; and after a while--if the theologians will only permit us to finish the job --there won't be any inexplicable phenomena. mystery, as i believe william james puts it may be called the more-to-be-known." "in taking that attitude, george, aren't you limiting the power of god?" said mrs. waring. "how does it limit the power of god, mother," her son-in-law asked, "to discover that he chooses to work by laws? the most suicidal tendency in religious bodies today is their mediaeval insistence on what they are pleased to call the supernatural. which is the more marvellous--that god can stop the earth and make the sun appear to stand still, or that he can construct a universe of untold millions of suns with planets and satellites, each moving in its orbit, according to law; a universe wherein every atom is true to a sovereign conception? and yet this marvel of marvels--that makes god in the twentieth century infinitely greater than in the sixteenth--would never have been discovered if the champions of theology had had their way." mrs. waring smiled a little. "you are too strong for me, george," she said, "but you mustn't expect an old woman to change." "mother, dear," cried eleanor, rising and laying her hand on mrs. waring's cheek, "we don't want you to change. it's ourselves we wish to change, we wish for a religious faith like yours, only the same teaching which gave it to you is powerless for us. that's our trouble. we have only to look at you," she added, a little wistfully, "to be sure there is something--something vital in christianity, if we could only get at it, something that does not depend upon what we have been led to believe is indispensable. george, and men like him, can only show the weakness in the old supports. i don't mean that they aren't doing the world a service in revealing errors, but they cannot reconstruct." "that is the clergyman's business," declared mr. bridges. "but he must first acknowledge that the old supports are worthless." "well," said phil, "i like your rector, in spite of his anthropomorphism --perhaps, as george would say, because of it. there is something manly about him that appeals to me." "there," cried eleanor, triumphantly, "i've always said mr. hodder had a spiritual personality. you feel--you feel there is truth shut up inside of him which he cannot communicate. i'll tell you who impresses me in that way more strongly than any one else--mr. bentley. and he doesn't come to church any more." "mr. bentley," said her, mother, "is a saint. your father tried to get him to dinner to-day, but he had promised those working girls of his, who live on the upper floors of his house, to dine with them. one of them told me so. of course he will never speak of his kindnesses." "mr. bentley doesn't bother his head about theology," said sally. "he just lives." "there's eldon parr," suggested george bridges, mentioning the name of the city's famous financier; "i'm told he relieved mr. bentley of his property some twenty-five years ago. if mr. hodder should begin to preach the modern heresy which you desire, mr parr might object. he's very orthodox, i'm told." "and mr. parr," remarked the modern evelyn, sententiously, "pays the bills, at st. john's. doesn't he, father?" "i fear he pays a large proportion of them," mr. waring admitted, in a serious tone. "in these days," said evelyn, "the man who pays the bills is entitled to have his religion as he likes it." "no matter how he got the money to pay them," added phil. "that suggests another little hitch in the modern church which will have to be straightened out," said george bridges. "'woe unto you, scribes and pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full of extortion and excess.'" "why, george, you of all people quoting the bible!" eleanor exclaimed. "and quoting it aptly, too," said phil goodrich. "i'm afraid if we began on the scribes and pharisees, we shouldn't stop with mr. parr," asa wiring observed, with a touch of sadness. "in spite of all they say he has done, i can't help feeling sorry for him," said mrs. waring. "he must be so lonely in that huge palace of his beside the park, his wife dead, and preston running wild around the world, and alison no comfort. the idea of a girl leaving her father as she did and going off to new york to become a landscape architect!" "but, mother," evelyn pleaded, "i can't see why a woman shouldn't lead her own life. she only has one, like a man. and generally she doesn't get that." mrs. waring rose. "i don't know what we're coming to. i was taught that a woman's place was with her husband and children; or, if she had none, with her family. i tried to teach you so, my dear." "well," said evelyn, "i'm here yet. i haven't alison's excuse. cheer up, mother, the world's no worse than it was." "i don't know about that," answered mrs. waring. "listen!" ejaculated eleanor. mrs. waring's face brightened. sounds of mad revelry came down from the floor above. chapter ii mr. langmaid's mission i looking back over an extraordinary career, it is interesting to attempt to fix the time when a name becomes a talisman, and passes current for power. this is peculiarly difficult in the case of eldon parr. like many notable men before him, nobody but mr. parr himself suspected his future greatness, and he kept the secret. but if we are to search what is now ancient history for a turning-point, perhaps we should find it in the sudden acquisition by him of the property of mr. bentley. the transaction was a simple one. those were the days when gentlemen, as matters of courtesy, put their names on other gentlemen's notes; and modern financiers, while they might be sorry for mr. bentley, would probably be unanimous in the opinion that he was foolish to write on the back of thomas garrett's. mr. parr was then, as now, a business man, and could scarcely be expected to introduce philanthropy into finance. such had been mr. bentley's unfortunate practice. and it had so happened, a few years before, for the accommodation of some young men of his acquaintance that he had invested rather generously in grantham mining stock at twenty-five cents a share, and had promptly forgotten the transaction. to cut a long story short, in addition to mr. bentley's house and other effects, mr. parr became the owner of the grantham stock, which not long after went to one hundred dollars. the reader may do the figuring. where was some talk at this time, but many things had happened since. for example, mr. parr had given away great sums in charity. and it may likewise be added in his favour that mr. bentley was glad to be rid of his fortune. he had said so. he deeded his pew back to st. john's, and protesting to his friends that he was not unhappy, he disappeared from the sight of all save a few. the rising waters of prosperity closed over him. but eliza preston, now mrs. parr, was one of those who were never to behold him again,--in this world, at least. she was another conspicuous triumph in that career we are depicting. gradual indeed had been the ascent from the sweeping out of a store to the marrying of a preston, but none the less sure inevitable. for many years after this event, eldon parr lived modestly in what was known as a "stone-front" house in ransome street, set well above the sidewalk, with a long flight of yellow stone steps leading to it; steps scrubbed with sapoho twice a week by a negro in rubber boots. there was a stable with a tarred roof in the rear, to be discerned beyond the conventional side lawn that was broken into by the bay window of the dining-room. there, in that house, his two children were born: there, within those inartistic walls, eliza preston lived a life that will remain a closed book forever. what she thought, what she dreamed, if anything, will never be revealed. she did not, at least, have neurasthenia, and for all the world knew, she may have loved her exemplary and successful husband, with whom her life was as regular as the strasburg clock. she breakfasted at eight and dined at seven; she heard her children's lessons and read them bible stories; and at half past ten every sunday morning, rain or shine, walked with them and her husband to the cars on tower street to attend service at st. john's, for mr. parr had scruples in those days about using the carriage on the sabbath. she did not live, alas, to enjoy for long the medicean magnificence of the mansion facing the park, to be a companion moon in the greater orbit. eldon part's grief was real, and the beautiful english window in the south transept of the church bears witness to it. and yet it cannot be said that he sought solace in religion, so apparently steeped in it had he always been. it was destiny that he should take his place on the vestry; destiny, indeed, that he should ultimately become the vestry as well as the first layman of the diocese; unobtrusively, as he had accomplished everything else in life, in spite of prestons and warings, atterburys, goodriches, and gores. and he was wont to leave his weighty business affairs to shift for themselves while he attended the diocesan and general conventions of his church. he gave judiciously, as becomes one who holds a fortune in trust, yet generously, always permitting others to help, until st. john's was a very gem of finished beauty. and, as the rothschilds and the fuggera made money for grateful kings and popes, so in a democratic age, eldon parr became the benefactor of an adulatory public. the university, the library, the hospitals, and the parks of his chosen city bear witness. ii for forty years, dr. gilman had been the rector of st. john's. one sunday morning, he preached his not unfamiliar sermon on the text, "for now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face," and when the next sunday dawned he was in his grave in winterbourne cemetery, sincerely mourned within the parish and without. in the nature of mortal things, his death was to be expected: no less real was the crisis to be faced at the vestry meeting that followed, the problem was tersely set forth by eldon parr, his frock coat tightly buttoned about his chest, his glasses in his hand. "gentlemen," he said, "we have to fulfil a grave responsibility to the parish, to the city, and to god. the matter of choosing a rector to-day, when clergymen are meddling with all sorts of affairs which do not concern them, is not so simple as it was twenty years ago. we have, at st. john's, always been orthodox and dignified, and i take it to be the sense of this vestry that we remain so. i conceive it our duty to find a man who is neither too old nor too young, who will preach the faith as we received it, who is not sensational, and who does not mistake socialism for christianity." by force of habit, undoubtedly, mr. parr glanced at nelson langmaid as he sat down. innumerable had been the meetings of financial boards at which mr. parr had glanced at langmaid, who had never failed to respond. he was that sine qua non of modern affairs, a corporation lawyer,--although he resembled a big and genial professor of scandinavian extraction. he wore round, tortoise-shell spectacles, he had a high, dome-like forehead, and an ample light brown beard which he stroked from time to time. it is probable that he did not believe in the immortality of the soul. his eyes twinkled as he rose. "i don't pretend to be versed in theology, gentlemen, as you know," he said, and the entire vestry, even mr. parr, smiled. for vestries, in spite of black coats and the gravity of demeanour which first citizens are apt to possess, are human after all. "mr. parr has stated, i believe; the requirements, and i agree with him that it is not an easy order to fill. you want a parson who will stick to his last, who will not try experiments, who is not too high or too low or too broad or too narrow, who has intellect without too much initiative, who can deliver a good sermon to those who can appreciate one, and yet will not get the church uncomfortably full of strangers and run you out of your pews. in short, you want a level-headed clergyman about thirty-five years old who will mind his own business" the smiles on the faces of the vestry deepened. the ability to put a matter thus humorously was a part of nelson langmaid's power with men and juries. "i venture to add another qualification," he continued, "and that is virility. we don't want a bandbox rector. well, i happen to have in mind a young man who errs somewhat on the other side, and who looks a little like a cliff profile i once saw on lake george of george washington or an indian chief, who stands about six feet two. he's a bachelor--if that's a drawback. but i am not at all sure he can be induced to leave his present parish, where he has been for ten years." "i am," announced wallis plimpton, with his hands in his pockets, "provided the right man tackles him." iii nelson langmaid's most notable achievement, before he accomplished the greater one of getting a new rector for st. john's, had been to construct the "water-tight box" whereby the consolidated tractions company had become a law-proof possibility. but his was an esoteric reputation, --the greater fame had been eldon parr's. men's minds had been dazzled by the breadth of the conception of scooping all the street-car lines of the city, long and short, into one big basket, as it were; and when the stock had been listed in new york, butcher and baker, clerk and proprietor, widow and maid, brought out their hoardings; the great project was discussed in clubs, cafes, and department stores, and by citizens hanging on the straps of the very cars that were to be consolidated--golden word! very little appeared about nelson langmaid, who was philosophically content. but to mr. parr, who was known to dislike publicity, were devoted pages in the sunday newspapers, with photographs of the imposing front of his house in park street, his altar and window in st. john's, the parr building, and even of his private car, antonia. later on, another kind of publicity, had come. the wind had whistled for a time, but it turned out to be only a squall. the consolidated tractions company had made the voyage for which she had been constructed, and thus had fulfilled her usefulness; and the cleverest of the rats who had mistaken her for a permanent home scurried ashore before she was broken up. all of which is merely in the nature of a commentary on mr. langmaid's genius. his reputation for judgment--which by some is deemed the highest of human qualities--was impaired; and a man who in his time had selected presidents of banks and trust companies could certainly be trusted to choose a parson--particularly if the chief requirements were not of a spiritual nature. . . a week later he boarded an east-bound limited train, armed with plenary powers. his destination was the hill town where he had spent the first fifteen years of his life, amid the most striking of new england landscapes, and the sight of the steep yet delicately pastoral slopes never failed to thrill him as the train toiled up the wide valley to bremerton. the vision of these had remained with him during the years of his toil in the growing western city, and embodied from the first homesick days an ideal to which he hoped sometime permanently to return. but he never had. his family had shown a perversity of taste in preferring the sea, and he had perforce been content with a visit of a month or so every other summer, accompanied usually by his daughter, helen. on such occasions, he stayed with his sister, mrs. whitely. the whitely mills were significant of the new bremerton, now neither village nor city, but partaking of the characteristics of both. french canadian might be heard on the main square as well as yankee; and that revolutionary vehicle, the automobile, had inspired there a great brick edifice with a banner called the bremerton house. enterprising italians had monopolized the corners with fruit stores, and plate glass and asphalt were in evidence. but the hills looked down unchanged, and in the cool, maple-shaded streets, though dotted with modern residences, were the same demure colonial houses he had known in boyhood. he was met at the station by his sister, a large, matronly woman who invariably set the world whizzing backward for langmaid; so completely did she typify the contentment, the point of view of an age gone by. for life presented no more complicated problems to the middle-aged mrs. whitely than it had to alice langmaid. "i know what you've come for, nelson," she said reproachfully, when she greeted him at the station. "dr. gilman's dead, and you want our mr. hodder. i feel it in my bones. well, you can't get him. he's had ever so many calls, but he won't leave bremerton." she knew perfectly well, however, that nelson would get him, although her brother characteristically did not at once acknowledge his mission. alice whitely had vivid memories of a childhood when he had never failed to get what he wanted; a trait of his of which, although it had before now caused her much discomfort, she was secretly inordinately proud. she was, therefore, later in the day not greatly surprised to find herself supplying her brother with arguments. much as they admired and loved mr. hodder, they had always realized that he could not remain buried in bremerton. his talents demanded a wider field. "talents!" exclaimed langmaid, "i didn't know he had any." "oh, nelson, how can you say such a thing, when you came to get him!" exclaimed his sister." "i recommended him because i thought he had none," langmaid declared. "he'll be a bishop some day--every one says so," said mrs. whitely, indignantly. "that reassures me," said her brother. "i can't see why they sent you--you hardly ever go to church," she cried. "i don't mind telling you, nelson, that the confidence men place in you is absurd." "you've said that before," he replied. "i agree with you. i'm not going on my judgment--but on yours and gerald's, because i know that you wouldn't put up with anything that wasn't strictly all-wool orthodox." "i think you're irreverent," said his sister, "and it's a shame that the canons permit such persons to sit on the vestry . . . ." "gerald," asked nelson langmaid of his brother-in-law that night, after his sister and the girls had gone to bed, "are you sure that this young man's orthodox?" "he's been here for over ten years, ever since he left the seminary, and he's never done or said anything radical yet," replied the mill owner of bremerton. "if you don't want him, we'd be delighted to have him stay. we're not forcing him on you, you know. what the deuce has got into you? you've talked to him for two hours, and you've sat looking at him at the dinner table for another two. i thought you were a judge of men." nelson langmaid sat silent. "i'm only urging hodder to go for his own good," mr. whitely continued. "i can take you to dozens of people to-morrow morning who worship him, --people of all sorts; the cashier in the bank, men in the mills, the hotel clerk, my private stenographer--he's built up that little church from nothing at all. and you may write the bishop, if you wish." "how has he built up the church?" langmaid demanded "how? how does any clergyman buildup a church "i don't know," langmaid confessed. "it strikes me as quite a tour de force in these days. does he manage to arouse enthusiasm for orthodox christianity?" "well," said gerard whitely, "i think the service appeals. we've made it as beautiful as possible. and then mr. hodder goes to see these people and sits up with them, and they tell him their troubles. he's reformed one or two rather bad cases. i suppose it's the man's personality." ah! langmaid exclaimed, "now you're talking!" "i can't see what you're driving at," confessed his brother-in-law. "you're too deep for me, nelson." if the truth be told, langmaid himself did not quits see. on behalf of the vestry, he offered next day to mr. hodder the rectorship of st. john's and that offer was taken under consideration; but there was in the lawyer's mind no doubt of the acceptance, which, in the course of a fortnight after he had returned to the west, followed. by no means a negligible element in nelson langmaid's professional success had been his possession of what may called a sixth sense, and more than once, on his missions of trust, he had listened to its admonitory promptings. at times he thought he recognized these in his conversation with the reverend john hodder at bremerton,--especially in that last interview in the pleasant little study of the rectory overlooking bremerton lake. but the promptings were faint, and langmaid out of his medium. he was not choosing the head of a trust company. he himself felt the pull of the young clergyman's personality, and instinctively strove to resist it: and was more than ever struck by mr. hodder's resemblance to the cliff sculpture of which he had spoken at the vestry meeting. he was rough-hewn indeed, with gray-green eyes, and hair the color of golden sand: it would not stay brushed. it was this hair that hinted most strongly of individualism, that was by no means orthodox. langmaid felt an incongruity, but he was fascinated; and he had discovered on the rector's shelves evidences of the taste for classical authors that he himself possessed. thus fate played with him, and the two men ranged from euripides to horace, from horace to dante and gibbon. and when hodder got up to fetch this or that edition, he seemed to tower over the lawyer, who was a big man himself. then they discussed business, langmaid describing the parish, the people, the peculiar situation in st. john's caused by dr. gilman's death, while hodder listened. he was not talkative; he made no promises; his reserve on occasions was even a little disconcerting; and it appealed to the lawyer from hodder as a man, but somehow not as a clergyman. nor did the rector volunteer any evidences of the soundness of his theological or political principles. he gave langmaid the impression--though without apparent egotism--that by accepting the call he would be conferring a favour on st. john's; and this was when he spoke with real feeling of the ties that bound him to bremerton. langmaid felt a certain deprecation of the fact that he was not a communicant. for the rest, if mr. hodder were disposed to take himself and his profession seriously, he was by no means lacking in an appreciation of langmaid s humour . . . . the tempering of the lawyer's elation as he returned homeward to report to mr. parr and the vestry may be best expressed by his own exclamation, which he made to himself: "i wonder what that fellow would do if he ever got started!" a parson was, after all, a parson, and he had done his best. iv a high, oozing note of the brakes, and the heavy train came to a stop. hodder looked out of the window of the sleeper to read the sign 'marcion' against the yellow brick of the station set down in the prairie mud, and flanked by a long row of dun-colored freight cars backed up to a factory. the factory was flimsy, somewhat resembling a vast greenhouse with its multitudinous windows, and bore the name of a firm whose offices were in the city to which he was bound. "we 'most in now, sah," the negro porter volunteered. "you kin see the smoke yondah." hodder's mood found a figure in this portentous sign whereby the city's presence was betrayed to travellers from afar,--the huge pall seemed an emblem of the weight of the city's sorrows; or again, a cloud of her own making which shut her in from the sight of heaven. absorbed in the mad contest for life, for money and pleasure and power she felt no need to lift her eyes beyond the level of her material endeavours. he, john hodder, was to live under that cloud, to labour under it. the mission on which he was bound, like the prophets of old, was somehow to gain the ears of this self-absorbed population, to strike the fear of the eternal into their souls, to convince them that there was something above and beyond that smoke which they ignored to their own peril. yet the task, at this nearer view, took on proportions overwhelming--so dense was that curtain at which he gazed. and to-day the very skies above it were leaden, as though nature herself had turned atheist. in spite of the vigour with which he was endowed, in spite of the belief in his own soul, doubts assailed him of his ability to cope with this problem of the modern nineveh--at the very moment when he was about to realize his matured ambition of a great city parish. leaning back on the cushioned seat, as the train started again, he reviewed the years at bremerton, his first and only parish. hitherto (to his surprise, since he had been prepared for trials) he had found the religious life a primrose path. clouds had indeed rested on bremerton's crests, but beneficent clouds, always scattered by the sun. and there, amid the dazzling snows, he had on occasions walked with god. his success, modest though it were, had been too simple. he had loved the people, and they him, and the pang of homesickness he now experienced was the intensest sorrow he had known since he had been among them. yes, bremerton had been for him (he realized now that he had left it) as near an approach to arcadia as this life permits, and the very mountains by which it was encircled had seemed effectively to shut out those monster problems which had set the modern world outside to seething. gerald whitely's thousand operatives had never struck; the new york newspapers, the magazines that discussed with vivid animus the corporation-political problems in other states, had found bremerton interested, but unmoved; and mrs. whitely, who was a trustee of the library, wasted her energy in deploring the recent volumes on economics, sociology, philosophy, and religion that were placed on the shelves. if bremerton read them--and a portion of bremerton did--no difference was apparent in the attendance at hodder's church. the woman's club discussed them strenuously, but made no attempt to put their doctrines into practice. hodder himself had but glanced at a few of them, and to do him justice this abstention had not had its root in cowardice. his life was full --his religion "worked." and the conditions with which these books dealt simply did not exist for him. the fact that there were other churches in the town less successful than his own (one or two, indeed, virtually starving) he had found it simple to account for in that their denominations had abandoned the true conception of the church, and were logically degenerating into atrophy. what better proof of the barrenness of these modern philosophical and religious books did he need than the spectacle of other ministers--who tarried awhile on starvation salaries --reading them and preaching from them? he, john hodder, had held fast to the essential efficacy of the word of god as propounded in past ages by the fathers. it is only fair to add that he did so without pride or bigotry, and with a sense of thankfulness at the simplicity of the solution (ancient, in truth!) which, apparently by special grace, had been vouchsafed him. and to it he attributed the flourishing condition in which he had left the church of the ascension at bremerton. "we'll never get another rector like you," alice whitely had exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, as she bade him good-by. and he had rebuked her. others had spoken in a similar strain, and it is a certain tribute to his character to record that the underlying hint had been lost on hodder. his efficacy, he insisted, lay in the word. hodder looked at his watch, only to be reminded poignantly of the chief cause of his heaviness of spirit, for it represented concretely the affections of those whom he had left behind; brought before him vividly the purple haze of the bremerton valley, and the garden party, in the ample whitely grounds, which was their tribute to him. and he beheld, moving from the sunlight to shadow, the figure of rachel ogden. she might have been with him now, speeding by his side into the larger life! in his loneliness, he seemed to be gazing into reproachful eyes. nothing had passed between them. it, was he who had held back, a fact that in the retrospect caused him some amazement. for, if wifehood were to be regarded as a profession, rachel ogden had every qualification. and mrs. whitely's skilful suggestions had on occasions almost brought him to believe in the reality of the mirage,--never quite. orthodox though he were, there had been times when his humour had borne him upward toward higher truths, and he had once remarked that promising to love forever was like promising to become president of the united states. one might achieve it, but it was independent of the will. hodder's ideals--if he had only known--transcended the rubric. his feeling for rachel ogden had not been lacking in tenderness, and yet he had recoiled from marriage merely for the sake of getting a wife, albeit one with easy qualification. he shrank instinctively from the humdrum, and sought the heights, stormy though these might prove. as yet he had not analyzed this craving. this he did know--for he had long ago torn from his demon the draperies of disguise--that women were his great temptation. ordination had not destroyed it, and even during those peaceful years at bremerton he had been forced to maintain a watchful guard. he had a power over women, and they over him, that threatened to lead him constantly into wayside paths, and often he wondered what those who listened to him from the pulpit would think if they guessed that at times, he struggled with suggestion even now. yet, with his hatred of compromises, he had scorned marriage. the yoke of augustine! the caldron of unholy loves! even now, as he sat in the train, his mind took its own flight backward into that remoter past that was still a part of him: to secret acts of his college days the thought of which made him shudder; yes, and to riots and revels. in youth, his had been one of those boiling, contagious spirits that carry with them, irresistibly, tamer companions. he had been a leader in intermittent raids into forbidden spheres; a leader also in certain more decorous pursuits--if athletics may be so accounted; yet he had capable of long periods of self-control, for a cause. through it all a spark had miraculously been kept alive. . . . popularity followed him from the small new england college to the harvard law school. he had been soberer there, marked as a pleader, and at last the day arrived when he was summoned by a great new york lawyer to discuss his future. sunday intervened. obeying a wayward impulse, he had gone to one of the metropolitan churches to hear a preacher renowned for his influence over men. there is, indeed, much that is stirring to the imagination in the spectacle of a mass of human beings thronging into a great church, pouring up the aisles, crowding the galleries, joining with full voices in the hymns. what drew them? he himself was singing words familiar since childhood, and suddenly they were fraught with a startling meaning! "fill me, radiancy divine, scatter all my unbelief!" visions of the crusades rose before him, of a friar arousing france, of a maid of orleans; of masses of soiled, war-worn, sin-worn humanity groping towards the light. even after all these ages, the belief, the hope would not down. outside, a dismal february rain was falling, a rain to wet the soul. the reek of damp clothes pervaded the gallery where he sat surrounded by clerks and shop girls, and he pictured to himself the dreary rooms from which they had emerged, drawn by the mysterious fire on that altar. was it a will-o'-the-wisp? below him, in the pews, were the rich. did they, too, need warmth? then came the sermon, "i will arise and go to my father." after the service, far into the afternoon, he had walked the wet streets heedless of his direction, in an exaltation that he had felt before, but never with such intensity. it seemed as though he had always wished to preach, and marvelled that the perception had not come to him sooner. if the man to whom he had listened could pour the light into the dark corners of other men's souls, he, john hodder, felt the same hot spark within him,--despite the dark corners of his own! at dusk he came to himself, hungry, tired, and wet, in what proved to be the outskirts of harlem. he could see the place now: the lonely, wooden houses, the ramshackle saloon, the ugly, yellow gleam from the street lamps in a line along the glistening pavement; beside him, a towering hill of granite with a real estate sign, "this lot for sale." and he had stood staring at it, thinking of the rock that would have to be cut away before a man could build there,--and so read his own parable. how much rock would have to be cut away, how much patient chipping before the edifice of which he had been dreaming could be reared! could he ever do it? once removed, he would be building on rock. but could he remove it? . . . to help revive a faith, a dying faith, in a material age, --that indeed were a mission for any man! he found his way to an elevated train, and as it swept along stared unseeing at the people who pushed and jostled him. still under the spell, he reached his room and wrote to the lawyer thanking him, but saying that he had reconsidered coming to new york. it was not until he had posted the letter, and was on his way back to cambridge that he fully realized he had made the decision of his life. misgivings, many of them, had come in the months that followed, misgivings and struggles, mocking queries. would it last? there was the incredulity and amazement of nearest friends, who tried to dissuade him from so extraordinary a proceeding. nobody, they said, ever became a parson in these days; nobody, at least, with his ability. he was throwing himself away. ethics had taken the place of religion; intelligent men didn't go to church. and within him went on an endless debate. public opinion made some allowance for frailties in other professions; in the ministry, none: he would be committing himself to be good the rest of his life, and that seemed too vast an undertaking for any human. the chief horror that haunted him was not failure,--for oddly enough he never seriously distrusted his power, it was disaster. would god give him the strength to fight his demon? if he were to gain the heights, only to stumble in the sight of all men, to stumble and fall. seeming echoes of the hideous mockery of it rang in his ears: where is the god that this man proclaimed? he saw the newspaper headlines, listened in imagination to cynical comments, beheld his name trailed through the soiled places of the cities, the shuttlecock of men and women. "to him that overcometh, to him will i give of the hidden manna, and i will give him a white stone, and upon the stone a new name written, which no one knoweth but he that receiveth it." might he ever win that new name, eat of the hidden manna of a hidden power, become the possessor of the morning star? unless there be in the background a mother, no portrait of a man is complete. she explains him, is his complement. through good mothers are men conceived of god: and with god they sit, forever yearning, forever reaching out, helpless except for him: with him, they have put a man into the world. thus, into the supreme canvas, came the virgin. john hodder's mother was a widow, and to her, in the white, gabled house which had sheltered stern ancestors, he travelled in the june following his experience. standing under the fan-light of the elm-shaded doorway, she seemed a vision of the peace wherein are mingled joy and sorrow, faith and tears! a tall, quiet woman, who had learned the lesson of mothers,--how to wait and how to pray, how to be silent with a clamouring heart. she had lived to see him established at bremerton, to be with him there awhile . . . . he awoke from these memories to gaze down through the criss-cross of a trestle to the twisted, turbid waters of the river far below. beyond was the city. the train skirted for a while the hideous, soot-stained warehouses that faced the water, plunged into a lane between humming factories and clothes-draped tenements, and at last glided into semi-darkness under the high, reverberating roof of the union station. chapter iii the primrose path i nelson langmaid's extraordinary judgment appeared once more to be vindicated. there had been, indeed, a critical, anxious moment, emphasized by the agitation of bright feminine plumes and the shifting of masculine backs into the corners of the pews. none got so far as to define to themselves why there should be an apparent incompatibility between ruggedness and orthodoxy--but there were some who hoped and more who feared. luther had been orthodox once, savonarola also: in appearance neither was more canonical than the new rector. his congregation, for the most part, were not analytical. but they felt a certain anomaly in virility proclaiming tradition. it took them several sundays to get accustomed to it. to those who had been used for more than a quarter of a century to seeing old dr. gilman's gentle face under the familiar and faded dove of the sounding-board, to the deliberation of his walk, and the hesitation of his manner, the first impression of the reverend john hodder was somewhat startling. they felt that there should be a leisurely element in religion. he moved across the chancel with incredible swiftness, his white surplice flowing like the draperies of a moving victory, wasted no time with the pulpit lights, announced his text in a strong and penetrating, but by no means unpleasing voice, and began to speak with the certainty of authority. here, in an age when a new rector had, ceased to be an all-absorbing topic in social life, was a new and somewhat exhilarating experience. and it may be privately confessed that there were some who sat in st. john's during those first weeks of his incumbency who would indignantly have repudiated the accusation that they were not good churchmen and churchwomen, and who nevertheless had queer sensations in listening to ancient doctrines set forth with emersonian conviction. some were courageous enough to ask themselves, in the light of this forceful presentation, whether they really did believe them as firmly as they supposed they had. dear old dr. gilman had been milder--much milder as the years gained upon him. and latterly, when he had preached, his voice had sounded like the unavailing protest of one left far behind, who called out faintly with unheeded warnings. they had loved him: but the modern world was a busy world, and dr. gilman did not understand it. this man was different. here was what the church taught, he said, and they might slight it at their peril! it is one thing to believe one's self orthodox, and quite another to have that orthodoxy so definitely defined as to be compelled, whether or no, to look it squarely in the face and own or disown it. some indeed, like gordon atterbury, stood the test; responded to the clarion call for which they had been longing. but little everett constable, who also sat on the vestry, was a trifle uncomfortable in being reminded that absence from the communion table was perilous, although he would have been the last to deny the efficacy of the sacrament. the new rector was plainly not a man who might be accused of policy in pandering to the tastes of a wealthy and conservative flock. but if, in the series of sermons which lasted from his advent until well after christmas, he had deliberately consulted their prejudices, he could not have done better. it is true that he went beyond the majority of them, but into a region which they regarded as preeminently safe,--a region the soil of which was traditional. to wit: st. paul had left to the world a consistent theology. historical research was ignored rather than condemned. and it might reasonably have been gathered from these discourses that the main proofs of christ's divinity lay in his virgin birth, his miracles, and in the fact that his body had risen from the grave, had been seen by many, and even touched. hence unbelief had no excuse. by divine commission there were bishops, priests, and deacons in the new hierarchy, and it was through the apostolic succession that he, their rector, derived his sacerdotal powers. there were, no doubt, many obscure passages in the scripture, but men's minds were finite; a catholic acceptance was imperative, and the evils of the present day --a sufficiently sweeping statement--were wholly due to deplorable lapses from such acceptance. the apostolic teaching must be preserved, since it transcended all modern wanderings after truth. hell, though not definitely defined in terms of flames, was no less a state of torture (future, by implication) of which fire was but a faint symbol. and he gave them clearly to understand that an unbaptized person ran no inconsiderable risk. he did not declare unqualifiedly that the church alone had the power to save, but such was the inference. ii it was entirely fitting, no doubt, when the felicitations of certain of the older parishioners on his initial sermon were over, that mr. hodder should be carried westward to lunch with the first layman of the diocese. but mr. parr, as became a person of his responsibility, had been more moderate in his comment. for he had seen, in his day, many men whose promise had been unfulfilled. tightly buttoned, silk hatted, upright, he sat in the corner of his limousine, the tasselled speaking-tube in his hand, from time to time cautioning his chauffeur. "carefully!" he cried. "i've told you not to drive so fast in this part of town. i've never got used to automobiles," he remarked to hodder, "and i formerly went to church in the street-cars, but the distances have grown so great--and i have occasionally been annoyed in them." hodder was not given to trite acquiescence. his homely composure belied the alertness of his faculties; he was striving to adapt himself to the sudden broadening and quickening of the stream of his life, and he felt a certain excitement--although he did not betray it--in the presence of the financier. much as he resented the thought, it was impossible for him not to realize that the man's pleasure and displeasure were important; for, since his arrival, he had had delicate reminders of this from many sources. recurrently, it had caused him a vague uneasiness, hinted at a problem new to him. he was jealous of the dignity of the church, and he seemed already to have detected in mr. parr's manner a subtle note of patronage. nor could hodder's years of provincialism permit him to forget that this man with whom he was about to enter into personal relations was a capitalist of national importance. the neighbourhood they traversed was characteristic of our rapidly expanding american cities. there were rows of dwelling houses, once ultra-respectable, now slatternly, and lawns gone grey; some of these houses had been remodelled into third-rate shops, or thrown together to make manufacturing establishments: saloons occupied all the favourable corners. flaming posters on vacant lots announced, pictorially, dubious attractions at the theatres. it was a wonderful indian summer day, the sunlight soft and melting; and the smoke which continually harassed this district had lifted a little, as though in deference to the sabbath. hodder read the sign on a lamp post, dalton street. the name clung in his memory. "we thought, some twenty years ago, of moving the church westward," said mr. parr, "but finally agreed to remain where we were." the rector had a conviction on this point, and did not hesitate to state it without waiting to be enlightened as to the banker's views. "it would seem to me a wise decision," he said, looking out of the window, and wholly absorbed in the contemplation of the evidences of misery and vice, "with this poverty at the very doors of the church." something in his voice impelled eldon parr to shoot a glance at his profile. "poverty is inevitable, mr. hodder," he declared. "the weak always sink." hodder's reply, whatever it might have been, was prevented by the sudden and unceremonious flight of both occupants toward the ceiling of the limousine, caused by a deep pit in the asphalt. "what are you doing, gratton?" mr. parr called sharply through the tube. presently, the lawns began to grow brighter, the houses more cheerful, and the shops were left behind. they crossed the third great transverse artery of the city (not so long ago, mr. parr remarked, a quagmire), now lined by hotels and stores with alluring displays in plate glass windows and entered a wide boulevard that stretched westward straight to the great park. this boulevard the financier recalled as a country road of clay. it was bordered by a vivid strip, of green; a row of tall and graceful lamp posts, like sentinels, marked its course; while the dwellings, set far back on either side, were for the most part large and pretentious, betraying in their many tentative styles of architecture the reaching out of a commercial nation after beauty. some, indeed, were simple of line and restful to the trained eye. they came to the wide entrance of the park, so wisely preserved as a breathing place for future generations. a slight haze had gathered over the rolling forests to the westward; but this haze was not smoke. here, in this enchanting region, the autumn sunlight was undiluted gold, the lawns, emerald, and the red gravel around the statesman's statue glistening. the automobile quickly swung into a street that skirted the park,--if street it might be called, for it was more like a generous private driveway,--flanked on the right by fences of ornamental ironwork and high shrubbery that concealed the fore yards of dominating private residences which might: without great exaggeration, have been called palaces. "that's ferguson's house," volunteered mr. parr, indicating a marble edifice with countless windows. "he's one of your vestrymen, you know. ferguson's department store." the banker's eyes twinkled a little for the first time. "you'll probably find it convenient. most people do. clever business man, ferguson." but the rector was finding difficulty in tabulating his impressions. they turned in between two posts of a gateway toward a huge house of rough granite. and hodder wondered whether, in the swift onward roll of things, the time would come when this, too, would have been deemed ephemeral. with its massive walls and heavy, red-tiled roof that sloped steeply to many points, it seemed firmly planted for ages to come. it was surrounded, yet not hemmed in, by trees of a considerable age. his host explained that these had belonged to the original farm of which all this park street property had made a part. they alighted under a porte-cochere with a glass roof. "i'm sorry," said mr. parr, as the doors swung open and he led the way into the house, "i'm sorry i can't give you a more cheerful welcome, but my son and daughter, for their own reasons, see fit to live elsewhere." hodder's quick ear detected in the tone another cadence, and he glanced at eldon parr with a new interest . . . . presently they stood, face to face, across a table reduced to its smallest proportions, in the tempered light of a vast dining-room, an apartment that seemed to symbolize the fortress-like properties of wealth. the odd thought struck the clergyman that this man had made his own tower of london, had built with his own hands the prison in which he was to end his days. the carved oaken ceiling, lofty though it was, had the effect of pressing downward, the heavy furniture matched the heavy walls, and even the silent, quick-moving servants had a watchful air. mr. parr bowed his head while hodder asked grace. they sat down. the constraint which had characterized their conversation continued, yet there was a subtle change in the attitude of the clergyman. the financier felt this, though it could not be said that hodder appeared more at his ease: his previous silences had been by no means awkward. eldon parr liked self-contained men. but his perceptions were as keen as nelson langmaid's, and like langmaid, he had gradually become conscious of a certain baffling personality in the new rector of st. john's. from time to time he was aware of the grey-green eyes curiously fixed on him, and at a loss to account for their expression. he had no thought of reading in it an element of pity. yet pity was nevertheless in the rector's heart, and its advent was emancipating him from the limitations of provincial inexperience. suddenly, the financier launched forth on a series of shrewd and searching questions about bremerton, its church, its people, its industries, and social conditions. all of which hodder answered to his apparent satisfaction. coffee was brought. hodder pushed back his chair, crossed his knees, and sat perfectly still regarding his host, his body suggesting a repose that did not interfere with his perceptive faculties. "you don't smoke, mr. hodder?" the rector smiled and shook his head. mr. parr selected a diminutive, yellow cigar and held it up. "this," he said, "has been the extent of my indulgence for twenty years. they are made for me in cuba." hodder smiled again, but said nothing. "i have had a letter from your former bishop, speaking of you in the highest terms," he observed. "the bishop is very kind." mr. parr cleared his throat. "i am considerably older than you," he went on, "and i have the future of st. john's very much at heart, mr. hodder. i trust you will remember this and make allowances for it as i talk to you. "i need not remind you that you have a grave responsibility on your shoulders for so young a man, and that st. john's is the oldest parish in the diocese." "i think i realize it, mr. parr," said hodder, gravely. "it was only the opportunity of a larger work here that induced me to leave bremerton." "exactly," agreed the banker. "the parish, i believe, is in good running order--i do not think you will see the necessity for many--ahem--changes. but we sadly needed an executive head. and, if i may say so, mr. hodder, you strike me as a man of that type, who might have made a success in a business career." the rector smiled again. "i am sure you could pay me no higher compliment," he answered. for an instant eldon parr, as he stared at the clergyman, tightened his lips,--lips that seemed peculiarly formed for compression. then they relaxed into what resembled a smile. if it were one, the other returned it. "seriously," mr. parr declared, "it does me good in these days to hear, from a young man, such sound doctrine as you preach. i am not one of those who believe in making concessions to agnostics and atheists. you were entirely right, in my opinion, when you said that we who belong to the church--and of course you meant all orthodox christians--should stand by our faith as delivered by the saints. of course," he added, smiling, "i should not insist upon the sublapsarian view of election which i was taught in the presbyterian church as a boy." hodder laughed, but did not interrupt. "on the other hand," mr. parr continued, "i have little patience with clergymen who would make religion attractive. what does it amount to --luring people into the churches on one pretext or another, sugar-coating the pill? salvation is a more serious matter. let the churches stick to their own. we have at st. john's a god-fearing, conservative congregation, which does not believe in taking liberties with sound and established doctrine. and i may confess to you, mr. hodder, that we were naturally not a little anxious about dr. gilman's successor, that we should not get, in spite of every precaution, a man tinged with the new and dangerous ideas so prevalent, i regret to say, among the clergy. i need scarcely add that our anxieties have been set at rest." "that," said hodder, "must be taken as a compliment to the dean of the theological seminary from which i graduated." the financier stared again. but he decided that mr. hodder had not meant to imply that he, mr. parr, was attempting to supersede the dean. the answer had been modest. "i take it for granted that you and i and all sensible men are happily. agreed that the church should remain where she is. let the people come to her. she should be, if i may so express it, the sheet anchor of society, our bulwark against socialism, in spite of socialists who call themselves ministers of god. the church has lost ground--why? because she has given ground. the sanctity of private property is being menaced, demagogues are crying out from the house-tops and inciting people against the men who have made this country what it is, who have risked their fortunes and their careers for the present prosperity. we have no longer any right, it seems, to employ whom we will in our factories and our railroads; we are not allowed to regulate our rates, although the risks were all ours. even the women are meddling,--they are not satisfied to stay in the homes, where they belong. you agree with me?" "as to the women," said the rector, "i have to acknowledge that i have never had any experience with the militant type of which you speak." "i pray god you may never have," exclaimed mr. parr, with more feeling than he had yet shown. "woman's suffrage, and what is called feminism in general, have never penetrated to bremerton. indeed, i must confess to have been wholly out of touch with the problems to which you refer, although of course i have been aware of their existence." "you will meet them here," said the banker, significantly. "yes," the rector replied thoughtfully, "i can see that. i know that the problems here will be more complicated, more modern,--more difficult. and i thoroughly agree with you that their ultimate solution is dependent on christianity. if i did not believe,--in spite of the evident fact which you point out of the church's lost ground, that her future will be greater than her past, i should not be a clergyman." the quiet but firm note of faith was, not lost on the financier, and yet was not he quite sure what was to be made of it? he had a faint and fleeting sense of disquiet, which registered and was gone. "i hope so," he said vaguely, referring perhaps to the resuscitation of which the rector spoke. he drummed on the table. "i'll go so far as to say that i, too, think that the structure can be repaired. and i believe it is the duty of the men of influence--all men of influence--to assist. i don't say that men of influence are not factors in the church to-day, but i do say that they are not using the intelligence in this task which they bring to bear, for instance, on their business." "perhaps the clergy might help," hodder suggested, and added more seriously, "i think that many of them are honestly trying to do so." "no doubt of it. why is it," mr. parr continued reflectively, "that ministers as a whole are by no means the men they were? you will pardon my frankness. when i was a boy, the minister was looked up to as an intellectual and moral force to be reckoned with. i have heard it assigned, as one reason, that in the last thirty years other careers have opened up, careers that have proved much more attractive to young men of ability." "business careers?" inquired the rector. "precisely!" "in other words," said hodder, with his curious smile, "the ministry gets the men who can't succeed at anything else." "well, that's putting it rather strong," answered mr. parr, actually reddening a little. "but come now, most young men would rather be a railroad president than a bishop,--wouldn't they?" "most young men would," agreed hodder, quickly, "but they are not the young men who ought to be bishops, you'll admit that." the financier, be it recorded to his credit, did not lack appreciation of this thrust, and, for the first time, he laughed with something resembling heartiness. this laughter, in which hodder joined, seemed suddenly to put them on a new footing--a little surprising to both. "come," said the financier, rising, "i'm sure you like pictures, and langmaid tells me you have a fancy for first editions. would you care to go to the gallery?" "by all means," the rector assented. their footsteps, as they crossed the hardwood floors, echoed in the empty house. after pausing to contemplate a millet on the stair landing, they came at last to the huge, silent gallery, where the soft but adequate light fell upon many masterpieces, ancient and modern. and it was here, while gazing at the corots and bonheurs, lawrences, romneys, copleys, and halses, that hodder's sense of their owner's isolation grew almost overpowering once, glancing over his shoulder at mr. parr, he surprised in his eyes an expression almost of pain. "these pictures must give you great pleasure," he said. "oh," replied the banker, in a queer voice, "i'm always glad when any one appreciates them. i never come in here alone." hodder did not reply. they passed along to an upstairs sitting-room, which must, hodder thought, be directly over the dining-room. between its windows was a case containing priceless curios. "my wife liked this room," mr. parr explained, as he opened the case. when they had inspected it, the rector stood for a moment gazing out at a formal garden at the back of the house. the stalks of late flowers lay withering, but here and there the leaves were still vivid, and clusters of crimson berries gleamed in the autumn sunshine. a pergola ran down the middle, and through denuded grape-vines he caught a glimpse, at the far end, of sculptured figures and curving marble benches surrounding a pool. "what a wonderful spot!" he exclaimed. "my daughter alison designed it." "she must have great talent," said the rector. "she's gone to new york and become a landscape architect," said his host with a perceptible dryness. "women in these days are apt to be everything except what the lord intended them to be." they went downstairs, and hodder took his leave, although he felt an odd reluctance to go. mr. parr rang the bell. "i'll send you down in the motor," he said. "i'd like the exercise of walking," said the rector. "i begin to miss it already, in the city." "you look as if you had taken a great deal of it," mr. parr declared, following him to the door. "i hope you'll drop in often. even if i'm not here, the gallery and the library are at your disposal." their eyes met. "you're very good," hodder replied, and went down the steps and through the open doorway. lost in reflection, he walked eastward with long and rapid strides, striving to reduce to order in his mind the impressions the visit had given him, only to find them too complex, too complicated by unlooked-for emotions. before its occurrence, he had, in spite of an inherent common sense, felt a little uneasiness over the prospective meeting with the financier. and nelson langmaid had hinted, good-naturedly, that it was his, hodder's, business, to get on good terms with mr. parr--otherwise the rectorship of st. john's might not prove abed of roses. although the lawyer had spoken with delicacy, he had once more misjudged his man--the result being to put hodder on his guard. he had been the more determined not to cater to the banker. the outcome of it all had been that the rector left him with a sense of having crossed barriers forbidden to other men, and not understanding how he had crossed them. whether this incipient intimacy were ominous or propitious, whether there were involved in it a germ (engendered by a radical difference of temperament) capable of developing into future conflict, he could not now decide. if eldon parr were procrustes he, hodder, had fitted the bed, and to say the least, this was extraordinary, if not a little disquieting. now and again his thoughts reverted to the garden, and to the woman who had made it. why had she deserted? at length, after he had been walking for nearly an hour, he halted and looked about him. he was within a few blocks of the church, a little to one side of tower street, the main east and west highway of the city, in the midst of that district in which mr. parr had made the remark that poverty was inevitable. slovenly and depressing at noonday, it seemed now frankly to have flung off its mask. dusk was gathering, and with it a smoke-stained fog that lent a sickly tinge to the lights. women slunk by him: the saloons, apparently closed, and many houses with veiled windows betrayed secret and sinister gleams. in the midst of a block rose a tall, pretentious though cheaply constructed building with the words "hotel albert" in flaming electric letters above an archway. once more his eye read dalton street on a lamp . . . . hodder resumed his walk more slowly, and in a few minutes reached his rooms in the parish house. chapter iv some riddles of the twentieth century i although he found the complications of a modern city parish somewhat bewildering, the new rector entered into his duties that winter with apostolic zeal. he was aware of limitations and anomalies, but his faith was boundless, his energy the subject of good-natured comment by his vestry and parishioners, whose pressing invitations' to dinners he was often compelled to refuse. there was in john hodder something indefinable that inflamed curiosity and left it unsatisfied. his excuse for attending these dinners, which indeed were relaxing and enjoyable, he found in the obvious duty of getting to know the most important members of his congregation. but invariably he came away from them with an inner sense of having been baffled in this object. with a few exceptions, these modern people seemed to have no time for friendship in the real meaning of the word, no desire to carry a relationship beyond a certain point. although he was their spiritual pastor, he knew less about most of them at the end of the winter than their butlers and their maids. they were kind, they were delightful, they were interested in him--he occasionally thought--as a somewhat anachronistic phenomenon. they petted, respected him, and deferred to him. he represented to them an element in life they recognized, and which had its proper niche. what they failed to acknowledge was his point of view--and this he was wise enough not to press at dinner tables and in drawing-rooms--that religion should have the penetrability of ether; that it should be the absorbent of life. he did not have to commit the banality of reminding them of this conviction of his at their own tables; he had sufficient humour and penetration to credit them with knowing it. nay, he went farther in his unsuspected analysis, and perceived that these beliefs made one of his chief attractions for them. it was pleasant to have authority in a black coat at one's board; to defer, if not to bend to it. the traditions of fashion demanded a clergyman in the milieu, and the more tenaciously he clung to his prerogatives, the better they liked it. although they were conscious of a certain pressure, which they gently resisted, they did not divine that the radiating and rugged young man cherished serious designs upon them. he did not expect to transform the world in a day, especially the modern world. he was biding his time, awaiting individual opportunities. they talked to him of the parish work, congratulated him on the vigour with which he had attacked it, and often declared themselves jealous of it because it claimed too much of him. dear dr. gilman, they said, had had neither the strength nor the perception of 'modern needs; and mccrae, the first assistant clergyman, while a good man, was a plodder and lacking in imagination. they talked sympathetically about the problems of the poor. and some of them--particularly mrs. wallis plimpton were inclined to think hodder's replies a trifle noncommittal. the trouble, although he did not tell them so, was that he himself had by no means solved the problem. and he felt a certain reluctance to discuss the riddle of poverty over champagne and porcelain. mrs. plimpton and mrs. constable, mrs. ferguson, mrs. langmaid, mrs. larrabbee, mrs. atterbury, mrs. grey, and many other ladies and their daughters were honorary members of his guilds and societies, and found time in their busy lives to decorate the church, adorn the altar, care for the vestments, and visit the parish house. some of them did more: mrs. larrabbee, for instance, when she was in town, often graced the girls' classes with her presence, which was a little disquieting to the daughters of immigrants: a little disquieting, too, to john hodder. during the three years that had elapsed since mr. larrabbee's death, she had, with characteristic grace and ease, taken up philanthropy; become, in particular, the feminine patron saint of galt house, non-sectarian, a rescue home for the erring of her sex. there were, too, in this higher realm of wealth in and out of which hodder plunged, women like mrs. constable (much older than mrs. larrabbee) with whom philanthropy and what is known as "church work" had become second nature in a well-ordered life, and who attended with praiseworthy regularity the meetings of charitable boards and committees, not infrequently taking an interest in individuals in mr. hodder's classes. with her, on occasions, he did discuss such matters, only to come away from her with his bewilderment deepened. it was only natural that he should have his moods of depression. but the recurrent flow of his energy swept them away. cynicism had no place in his militant christianity, and yet there were times when he wondered whether these good people really wished achievements from their rector. they had the air of saying "bravo!" and then of turning away. and he did not conceal from himself that he was really doing nothing but labour. the distances were great; and between his dinner parties, classes, services, and visits, he was forced to sit far into the night preparing his sermons, when his brain was not so keen as it might have been. indeed--and this thought was cynical and out of character--he asked himself on one occasion whether his principal achievement so far had not consisted in getting on unusual terms with eldon parr. they were not lacking who thought so, and who did not hesitate to imply it. they evidently regarded his growing intimacy with the banker with approval, as in some sort a supreme qualification for a rector of st. john's, and a proof of unusual abilities. there could be no question, for instance, that he had advanced perceptibly in the estimation of the wife of another of his vestrymen, mrs. wallis plimpton. the daughter of thurston gore, with all her astuteness and real estate, was of a naivete in regard to spiritual matters that hodder had grown to recognize as impermeable. in an evening gown, with a string of large pearls testing on her firm and glowing neck, she appeared a concrete refutation of the notion of rebirth, the triumph of an unconscious philosophy of material common-sense. however, in parish house affairs, hodder had found her practical brain of no slight assistance. "i think it quite wonderful," she remarked, on the occasion at which he was the guest of honour in what was still called the new gore mansion, "that you have come to know mr. parr so well in such a short time. how did you do it, mr. hodder? of course wallis knows him, and sees a great deal of him in business matters. he relies on wallis. but they tell me you have grown more intimate with him than any one has been since alison left him." there is, in proverbs or ecclesiastes, a formula for answering people in accordance with their point of view. the rector modestly disclaimed intimacy. and he curbed his curiosity about alison for the reason that he preferred to hear her story from another source. "oh, but you are intimate!" mrs. plimpton protested. "everybody says so--that mr. parr sends for you all the time. what is he like when he's alone, and relaxed? is he ever relaxed?" the lady had a habit of not waiting for answers to her questions. "do you know, it stirs my imagination tremendously when i think of all the power that man has. i suppose you know he has become one of a very small group of men who control this country, and naturally he has been cruelly maligned. all he has to do is to say a word to his secretary, and he can make men or ruin them. it isn't that he does ruin them--i don't mean that. he uses his wealth, wallis says, to maintain the prosperity of the nation! he feels his trusteeship. and he is so generous! he has given a great deal to the church, and now," she added, "i am sure he will give more." hodder was appalled. he felt helpless before the weight of this onslaught. "i dare say he will continue to assist, as he has in the past," he managed to say. "of course it's your disinterestedness," she proclaimed, examining him frankly. "he feels that you don't want anything. you always strike me as so splendidly impartial, mr. hodder." fortunately, he was spared an answer. mr. plimpton, who was wont to apply his gifts as a toastmaster to his own festivals, hailed him from the other end of the table. and nelson langmaid, who had fallen into the habit of dropping into hodder's rooms in the parish house on his way uptown for a chat about books, had been struck by the rector's friendship with the banker. "i don't understand how you managed it, hodder, in such a short time," he declared. "mr. parr's a difficult man. in all these years, i've been closer to him than any one else, and i don't know him today half as well as you do." "i didn't manage it," said hodder, briefly. "well," replied the lawyer, quizzically, "you needn't eat me up. i'm sure you didn't do it on purpose. if you had,--to use a hibernian phrase,--you never would have done it. i've seen it tried before. to tell you the truth, after i'd come back from bremerton, that was the one thing i was afraid of--that you mightn't get along with him." hodder himself was at a loss to account for the relationship. it troubled him vaguely, for mr. parr was the aggressor; and often at dusk, when hodder was working under his study lamp, the telephone would ring, and on taking down the receiver he would hear the banker's voice. "i'm alone to-night, mr. hodder. will you come and have dinner with me?" had he known it, this was a different method of communication than that which the financier usually employed, one which should have flattered him. if wallis plimpton, for instance, had received such a personal message, the fact would not have remained unknown the next day at his club. sometimes it was impossible for hodder to go, and he said so; but he always went when he could. the unwonted note of appeal (which the telephone seemed somehow to enhance) in mr. parr's voice, never failed to find a response in the rector's heart, and he would ponder over it as he walked across to tower street to take the electric car for the six-mile trip westward. this note of appeal he inevitably contrasted with the dry, matter-of-fact reserve of his greeting at the great house, which loomed all the greater in the darkness. unsatisfactory, from many points of view, as these evenings were, they served to keep whetted hodder's curiosity as to the life of this extraordinary man. all of its vaster significance for the world, its tremendous machinery, was out of his sight. mr. parr seemed indeed to regard the rest of his fellow-creatures with the suspicion at which langmaid had hinted, to look askance at the amenities people tentatively held out to him. and the private watchman whom hodder sometimes met in the darkness, and who invariably scrutinized pedestrians on park street, seemed symbolic, of this attitude. on rare occasions, when in town, the financier dined out, limiting himself to a few houses. once in a long while he attended what are known as banquets, such as those given by the chamber of commerce, though he generally refused to speak. hodder, through mr. parr's intervention, had gone to one of these, ably and breezily presided over by the versatile mr. plimpton. hodder felt not only curiosity and sympathy, but a vexing sense of the fruitlessness of his visits to park street. mr. parr seemed to like to have him there. and the very fact that the conversation rarely took any vital turn oddly contributed to the increasing permanence of the lien. to venture on any topic relating to the affairs of the day were merely to summon forth the banker's dogmatism, and hodder's own opinions on such matters were now in a strange and unsettled state. mr. parr liked best to talk of his treasures, and of the circumstances during his trips abroad that had led to their acquirement. once the banker had asked him about parish house matters. "i'm told you're working very hard--stirring up mccrae. he needs it." "i'm only trying to study the situation," hodder replied. "i don't think you quite do justice to mccrae," he added; "he's very faithful, and seems to understand those people thoroughly." mr. parr smiled. "and what conclusions have you come to? if you think the system should be enlarged and reorganized i am willing at any time to go over it with you, with a view to making an additional contribution. personally, while i have sympathy for the unfortunate, i'm not at all sure that much of the energy and money put into the institutional work of churches isn't wasted." "i haven't come to any conclusions--yet," said the rector, with a touch of sadness. "perhaps i demand too much--expect too much." the financier, deep in his leather chair under the shaded light, the tips of his fingers pressed together, regarded the younger man thoughtfully, but the smile lingered in his eyes. "i told you you would meet problems," he said. ii hodder's cosmos might have been compared, indeed, to that set forth in the ptolemaic theory of the ancients. like a cleverly carved chinese object of ivory in the banker s collection, it was a system of spheres, touching, concentric, yet separate. in an outer space swung mr. parr; then came the scarcely less rarefied atmosphere of the constables and atterburys, fergusons, plimptons, langmaids, prestons, larrabbees, greys, and gores, and then a smaller sphere which claims but a passing mention. there were, in the congregation of st. john's, a few people of moderate means whose houses or apartments the rector visited; people to whom modern life was increasingly perplexing. in these ranks were certain maiden ladies and widows who found in church work an outlet to an otherwise circumscribed existence. hodder met them continually in his daily rounds. there were people like the bradleys, who rented half a pew and never missed a sunday; mr. bradley, an elderly man whose children had scattered, was an upper clerk in one of mr. parr's trust companies: there were bachelors and young women, married or single, who taught in the sunday school or helped with the night classes. for the most part, all of these mentioned above belonged to an element that once had had a comfortable and well-recognized place in the community, yet had somehow been displaced. many of them were connected by blood with more fortunate parishioners, but economic pressure had scattered them throughout new neighbourhoods and suburbs. tradition still bound them to st. john's. with no fixed orbit, the rector cut at random through all of these strata, and into a fourth. not very far into it, for this apparently went down to limitless depths, the very contemplation of which made him dizzy. the parish house seemed to float precariously on its surface. owing partly to the old-fashioned ideas of dr. gilman, and partly to the conservatism of its vestry, the institutionalism of st. john's was by no means up to date. no settlement house, with day nurseries, was maintained in the slums. the parish house, built in the, early nineties, had its gymnasium hall and class and reading rooms, but was not what in these rapidly moving times would be called modern. presiding over its activities, and seconded by a pale, but earnest young man recently ordained, was hodder's first assistant, the reverend mr. mccrae. mccrae was another puzzle. he was fifty and gaunt, with a wide flat forehead and thinning, grey hair, and wore steel spectacles. he had a numerous family. his speech, of which he was sparing, bore strong traces of a caledonian accent. and this, with the addition of the fact that he was painstaking and methodical in his duties, and that his sermons were orthodox in the sense that they were extremely non-committal, was all that hodder knew about him for many months. he never doubted, however, the man's sincerity and loyalty. but mccrae had a peculiar effect on him, and as time went on, his conviction deepened that his assistant was watching him. the fact that this tacit criticism did not seem unkindly did not greatly alleviate the impatience that he felt from time to time. he had formed a higher estimate of mccrae's abilities than that generally prevailing throughout the parish; and in spite of, perhaps because of his attitude, was drawn toward the man. this attitude, as hodder analyzed it from the expressions he occasionally surprised on his assistant's face, was one of tolerance and experience, contemplating, with a faint amusement and a certain regret, the wasteful expenditure of youthful vitality. yet it involved more. mccrae looked as if he knew--knew many things that he deemed it necessary for the new rector to find out by experience. but he was a difficult man to talk to. if the truth be told, the more hodder became absorbed in these activities of the parish house, the greater grew his perplexity, the more acute his feeling of incompleteness; or rather, his sense that the principle was somehow fundamentally at fault. out of the waters of the proletariat they fished, assiduously and benignly, but at random, strange specimens! brought them, as it were, blinking to the light, and held them by sheer struggling. and sometimes, when they slipped away, dived after them. the young curate, mr. tompkinson, for the most part did the diving; or, in scriptural language, the searching after the lost sheep. the results accomplished seemed indeed, as mr. parr had remarked, strangely disproportionate to the efforts, for they laboured abundantly. the italian mothers appeared stolidly appreciative of the altruism of miss ramsay, who taught the kindergarten, in taking their charges off their hands for three hours of a morning, and the same might be said of the jews and germans and russians. the newsboys enjoyed the gymnasium and reading-rooms: some of them were drafted into the choir, yet the singing of te deums failed somehow to accomplish the miracle of regeneration. the boys, as a rule, were happier, no doubt; the new environments not wholly without results. but the rector was an idealist. he strove hard to become their friend, and that of the men; to win their confidence, and with a considerable measure of success. on more than one occasion he threw aside his clerical coat and put on boxing-gloves, and he gave a series of lectures, with lantern slides, collected during the six months he had once spent in europe. the irish-americans and the germans were the readiest to respond, and these were for the most part young workingmen and youths by no means destitute. when they were out of a place, he would often run across them in the reading-room or sitting among the lockers beside the gymnasium, and they would rise and talk to him cordially and even familiarly about their affairs. they liked and trusted him--on a tacit condition. there was a boundary he might not cross. and the existence of that boundary did not seem to trouble mccrae. one night as he stood with his assistant in the hall after the men had gone, hodder could contain himself no longer. "look here, mccrae," he broke out, "these men never come to church--or only a very few of them." "no more they do," mccrae agreed. "why don't they?" "ye've asked them, perhaps." "i've spoken to one or two of them," admitted the rector. "and what do they tell you?" hodder smiled. "they don't tell me anything. they dodge." "precisely," said mccrae. "we're not making christians of them," said hodder, beginning to walk up and down. "why is it?" "it's a big question." "it is a big question. it's the question of all questions, it seems to me. the function of the church, in my opinion, is to make christians." "try to teach them religion," said mccrae--he almost pronounced it releegion--"and see what happens. ye'll have no classes at all. they only come, the best of them, because ye let them alone that way, and they get a little decency and society help. it's somewhat to keep them out of the dance-halls and saloons maybe." "it's not enough," the rector asserted. "you've had a great deal of experience with them. and i want to know why, in your view, more of them don't come into the church." "would ye put jimmy flanagan and otto bauer and tony baldassaro in mr. parr's pew?" mccrae inquired, with a slight flavour of irony that was not ill-natured. "or perhaps mrs. larrabbee would make room for them?" "i've considered that, of course," replied hodder, thoughtfully, though he was a little surprised that mccrae should have mentioned it. "you think their reasons are social, then,--that they feel the gap. i feel it myself most strongly. and yet none of these men are socialists. if they were, they wouldn't come here to the parish house." "they're not socialists," agreed mccrae. "but there is room in the back and sides of the church, and there is the early service and the sunday night service, when the pews are free. why don't they come to these?" "religion doesn't appeal to them." "why not?" "ye've asked me a riddle. all i know is that the minute ye begin to preach, off they go and never come back." hodder, with unconscious fixity, looked into his assistant's honest face. he had an exasperating notion that mccrae might have said more, if he would. "haven't you a theory?" "try yourself," said mccrae. his manner was abrupt, yet oddly enough, not ungracious. "don't think i'm criticizing," said the rector, quickly. "i know well ye're not." "i've been trying to learn. it seems to me that we are only accomplishing half our task, and i know that st. john's is not unique in this respect. i've been talking to andrews, of trinity, about their poor." "does he give you a remedy?" "no," hodder said. "he can't see any more than i can why christianity doesn't appeal any longer. the fathers and mothers of these people went to church, in the old country and in this. of course he sees, as you and i do, that society has settled into layers, and that the layers won't mix. and he seems to agree with me that there is a good deal of energy exerted for a comparatively small return." "i understand that's what mr. parr says." these references to mr. parr disturbed hodder. he had sometimes wondered, when he had been compelled to speak about his visits to the financier, how mccrae regarded them. he was sure that mccrae did regard them. "mr. parr is willing to be even more generous than he has been," hodder said. "the point is, whether it's wise to enlarge our scope on the present plan. what do you think?" "ye can reach more," mccrae spoke without enthusiasm. "what's the use of reaching them, only to touch them? in addition to being helped materially and socially, and kept away from the dance-halls and saloons, they ought to be fired by the gospels, to be remade. they should be going out into the highways and byways to bring others into the church." the scotchman's face changed a little. for an instant his eyes lighted up, whether in sympathy or commiseration or both, hodder could not tell. "i'm with ye, mr. hodder, if ye'll show me the way. but oughtn't we to begin at both ends?" "at both ends?" hodder repeated. "surely. with the people in the pews? oughtn't we to be firing them, too?" "yes," said the rector. "you're right." he turned away, to feel mccrae's hand on his sleeve. "maybe it will come, mr. hodder," he said. "there's no telling when the light will strike in." it was the nearest to optimism he had ever known his assistant to approach. "mccrae," he asked, "have you ever tried to do anything with dalton street?" "dalton street?" the real mccrae, whom he had seemed to see emerging, retired abruptly, presenting his former baffling and noncommittal exterior. "yes," hodder forced himself to go on, and it came to him that he had repeated virtually the same words to mr. parr, "it is at our very doors, a continual reproach. there is real poverty in those rooming houses, and i have never seen vice so defiant and shameless." "it's a shifty place, that," mccrae replied. "they're in it one day and gone the next, a sort of catch-basin for all the rubbish of the city. i can recall when decent people lived there, and now it's all light housekeeping and dives and what not." "but that doesn't relieve us of responsibility," hodder observed. "i'm not denying it. i think ye'll find there's very little to get hold of." once more, he had the air of stopping short, of being able to say more. hodder refrained from pressing him. dalton street continued to haunt him. and often at nightfall, as he hurried back to his bright rooms in the parish house from some of the many errands that absorbed his time, he had a feeling of self-accusation as he avoided women wearily treading the pavements, or girls and children plodding homeward through the wet, wintry streets. some glanced at him with heavy eyes, others passed sullenly, with bent heads. at such moments his sense of helplessness was overpowering. he could not follow them to the dreary dwellings where they lodged. eldon parr had said that poverty was inevitable. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . v. the rector has more food for thought. vi. "watchman, what of the night" vii. the kingdoms of the world viii. the line of least resistance. chapter v the rector has more food for thought i sunday after sunday hodder looked upon the same picture, the winter light filtering through emblazoned windows, falling athwart stone pillars, and staining with rich colours the marble of the centre aisle. the organ rolled out hymns and anthems, the voices of the white robed choir echoed among the arches. and hodder's eye, sweeping over the decorous congregation, grew to recognize certain landmarks: eldon parr, rigid at one end of his empty pew; little everett constable, comfortably, but always pompously settled at one end of his, his white-haired and distinguished-looking wife at the other. the space between them had once been filled by their children. there was mr. ferguson, who occasionally stroked his black whiskers with a prodigious solemnity; mrs. ferguson, resplendent and always a little warm, and their daughter nan, dainty and appealing, her eyes uplifted and questioning. the plimptons, with their rubicund and aggressively healthy offspring, were always in evidence. and there was mrs. larrabbee. what between wealth and youth, independence and initiative, a widowhood now emerged from a mourning unexceptionable, an elegance so unobtrusive as to border on mystery, she never failed to agitate any atmosphere she entered, even that of prayer. from time to time, hodder himself was uncomfortably aware of her presence, and he read in her upturned face an interest which, by a little stretch of the imagination, might have been deemed personal . . . . another was gordon atterbury, still known as "young gordon," though his father was dead, and he was in the vestry. he was unmarried and forty-five, and mrs. larrabbee had said he reminded her of a shrivelling seed set aside from a once fruitful crop. he wore, invariably, checked trousers and a black cutaway coat, eyeglasses that fell off when he squinted, and were saved from destruction by a gold chain. no wedding or funeral was complete without him. and one morning, as he joined mr. parr and the other gentlemen who responded to the appeal, "let your light so shine before men," a strange, ironical question entered the rector's mind--was gordon atterbury the logical product of those doctrines which he, hodder, preached with such feeling and conviction? none, at least, was so fervent a defender of the faith, so punctilious in all observances, so constant at the altar rail; none so versed in rubrics, ritual, and canon law; none had such a knowledge of the church fathers. mr. atterbury delighted to discuss them with the rector at the dinner parties where they met; none was more zealous for foreign missions. he was the treasurer of st. john's. it should undoubtedly have been a consolation to any rector to possess mr. atterbury's unqualified approval, to listen to his somewhat delphic compliments,--heralded by a clearing of the throat. he represented the faith as delivered to the saints, and he spoke for those in the congregation to whom it was precious. why was it that, to hodder, he should gradually have assumed something of the aspect of a cerberus? why was it that he incited a perverse desire to utter heresies? hodder invariably turned from his contemplation of gordon atterbury to the double blaring pew, which went from aisle to aisle. in his heart, he would have preferred the approval of eleanor goodrich and her husband, and of asa waring. instinct spoke to him here; he seemed to read in their faces that he failed to strike in them responsive chords. he was drawn to them: the conviction grew upon him that he did not reach them, and it troubled him, as he thought, disproportionately. he could not expect to reach all. but they were the type to which he most wished to appeal; of all of his flock, this family seemed best to preserve the vitality and ideals of the city and nation. asa waring was a splendid, uncompromising survival; his piercing eyes sometimes met hodder's across the church, and they held for him a question and a riddle. eleanor goodrich bore on her features the stamp of true nobility of character, and her husband, hodder knew, was a man among men. in addition to a respected lineage, he possessed an unusual blending of aggressiveness and personal charm that men found irresistible. the rector's office in the parish house was a businesslike room on the first floor, fitted up with a desk, a table, straight-backed chairs, and a revolving bookcase. and to it, one windy morning in march, came eleanor goodrich. hodder rose to greet her with an eagerness which, from his kindly yet penetrating glance, she did not suspect. "am i interrupting you, mr. hodder?" she asked, a little breathlessly. "not at all," he said, drawing up a chair. "won't you sit down?" she obeyed. there was an awkward pause during which the colour slowly rose to her face. "i wanted to ask you one or two things," she began, not very steadily. "as perhaps you may know, i was brought up in this church, baptized and confirmed in it. i've come to fear that, when i was confirmed, i wasn't old enough to know what i was doing." she took a deep breath, amazed at her boldness, for this wasn't in the least how she had meant to begin. and she gazed at the rector anxiously. to her surprise, he did not appear to be inordinately shocked. "do you know any better now?" he asked. "perhaps not," she admitted. "but the things of which i was sure at that time i am not sure of now. my faith is--is not as complete." "faith may be likened to an egg, mrs. goodrich," he said. "it must be kept whole. if the shell is chipped, it is spoiled." eleanor plucked up her courage. eggs, she declared, had been used as illustrations by conservatives before now. hodder relieved her by smiling in ready appreciation. "columbus had reference to this world," he said. "i was thinking of a more perfect cue." "oh!" she cried, "i dare say there is a more perfect one. i should hate to think there wasn't--but i can't imagine it. there's nothing in the bible in the way of description of it to make me really wish to go there. the new jerusalem is too insipid, too material. i'm sure i'm shocking you, but i must be honest, and say what i feel." "if some others were as honest," said the rector, "the problems of clergymen would be much easier. and it is precisely because people will not tell us what they feel that we are left in the dark and cannot help them. of course, the language of st. john about the future is figurative." "figurative,--yes," she consented, "but not figurative in a way that helps me, a modern american woman. the figures, to be of any use, ought to appeal to my imagination--oughtn't they? but they don't. i can't see any utility in such a heaven--it seems powerless to enter as a factor into my life." "it is probable that we are not meant to know anything about the future." "then i wish it hadn't been made so explicit. its very definiteness is somehow--stultifying. and, mr. hodder, if we were not meant to know its details, it seems to me that if the hereafter is to have any real value and influence over our lives here, we should know something of its conditions, because it must be in some sense a continuation of this. i'm not sure that i make myself clear." "admirably clear. but we have our lord's example of how to live here." "if we could be sure," said eleanor, "just what that example meant." hodder was silent a moment. "you mean that you cannot accept what the church teaches about his life?" he asked. "no, i can't," she faltered. "you have helped me to say it. i want to have the church's side better explained,--that's why i'm here." she glanced up at him, hesitatingly, with a puzzled wonder, such a positive, dynamic representative of that teaching did he appear. "and my husband can't,--so many people i know can't, mr. hodder. only, some of them don't mention the fact. they accept it. and you say things with such a certainty--" she paused. "i know," he replied, "i know. i have felt it since i have come here more than ever before." he did not add that he had felt it particularly about her, about her husband: nor did he give voice to his instinctive conviction that he respected and admired these two more than a hundred others whose professed orthodoxy was without a flaw. "what is it in particular," he asked, troubled, "that you cannot accept? i will do my best to help you." "well--" she hesitated again. "please continue to be frank," he begged. "i can't believe in the doctrine of the virgin birth," she responded in a low voice; "it seems to me so--so material. and i feel i am stating a difficulty that many have, mr. hodder. why should it have been thought necessary for god to have departed from what is really a sacred and sublime fact in nature, to resort to a material proof in order to convince a doubting humanity that jesus was his son? oughtn't the proof of christ's essential god-ship to lie in his life, to be discerned by the spiritual; and wasn't he continually rebuking those who demanded material proof? the very acceptance of a material proof, it seems to me, is a denial of faith, since faith ceases to have any worth whatever the moment the demand for such proof is gratified. knowledge puts faith out of the question, for faith to me means a trusting on spiritual grounds. and surely the acceptance of scriptural statements like that of the miraculous birth without investigation is not faith--it is mere credulity. if jesus had been born in a miraculous way, the disciples must have known it. joseph must have known it when he heard the answer 'i must be about my father's business,' and their doubts are unexplained." "i see you have been investigating," said the rector. "yes," replied eleanor, with an unconscious shade of defiance, "people want to know, mr. dodder,--they want to know the truth. and if you consider the preponderance of the evidence of the gospels themselves--my brother-in-law says--you will find that the miraculous birth has very little to stand on. take out the first two chapters of matthew and luke, and the rest of the four gospels practically contradict it. the genealogies differ, and they both trace through joseph." "i think people suffer in these days from giving too much weight to the critics of christianity," said the rector, "from not pondering more deeply on its underlying truths. do not think that i am accusing you of superficiality, mrs. goodrich; i am sure you wish to go to the bottom, or else you would be satisfied with what you have already read and heard." "i do," she murmured. "and the more one reflects on the life of our lord, the more one is convinced that the doctrine of the virgin birth is a vital essential; without it christianity falls to pieces. let us go at the matter the other way round. if we attribute to our lord a natural birth, we come at once to the dilemma of having to admit that he was merely an individual human person,--in an unsurpassed relationship with god, it is true, but still a human person. that doctrine makes christ historical, some one to go back to, instead of the ever-present, preexistent son of god and mankind. i will go as far as to assert that if the virgin birth had never been mentioned in the gospels, it would nevertheless inevitably have become a fundamental doctrine of the christian faith. such a truth is too vast, too far-reaching to have been neglected, and it has a much higher significance than the mere record of a fact. in spite of the contradictions of science, it explains as nothing else can the mystery of the divinity as well as the humanity of the saviour." eleanor was unconvinced. she felt, as she listened, the pressure of his sincerity and force, and had to strive to prevent her thoughts from becoming confused. "no, mr. hodder, i simply can't see any reason for resorting to a physical miracle in order to explain a spiritual mystery. i can see why the ancients demanded a sign of divinity as it were. but for us it has ceased even to be that. it can't be proved. you ask me, in the face of overwhelming evidence against it, to teach my children that the incarnation depends on it, but when they grow up and go to college and find it discredited they run the risk of losing everything else with it. and for my part, i fail utterly to see why, if with god all things are possible, it isn't quite as believable, as we gather from st. mark's gospel, that he incarnated himself in one naturally born. if you reach the conclusion that jesus was not a mere individual human person, you reach it through the contemplation of his life and death." "then it isn't the physical miracle you object to, especially?" he asked. "it's the uselessness of it, for this age," she exclaimed. "i think clergymen don't understand the harm it is doing in concentrating the attention on such a vulnerable and non-essential point. those of us who are striving to reorganize our beliefs and make them tenable, do not bother our heads about miracles. they may be true, or may not, or some of them may be. we are beginning to see that the virgin birth does not add anything to christ. we are beginning to see that perfection and individuality are not incompatible,--one is divine, and the other human. and isn't it by his very individuality that we are able to recognize jesus to-day?" "you have evidently thought and read a great deal," dodder said, genuinely surprised. "why didn't you come to me earlier?" eleanor bit her lip. he smiled a little. "i think i can answer that for you," he went on; "you believe we are prejudiced,--i've no doubt many of us are. you think we are bound to stand up for certain dogmas, or go down, and that our minds are consequently closed. i am not blaming you," he added quickly, as she gave a sign of protest, "but i assure you that most of us, so far as my observation has gone, are honestly trying to proclaim the truth as we see it." "insincerity is the last thing i should have accused you of, mr. hodder," she said flushing. "as i told you, you seem so sure." "i don't pretend to infallibility, except so far as i maintain that the church is the guardian of certain truths which human experience has verified. let me ask you if you have thought out the difference your conception of the incarnation;--the lack of a patently divine commission, as it were,--makes in the doctrine of grace?" "yes, i have," she answered, "a little. it gives me more hope. i cannot think i am totally depraved. i do not believe that god wishes me to think so. and while i am still aware of the distance between christ's perfection and my own imperfection, i feel that the possibility is greater of lessening that distance. it gives me more self-respect, more self-reliance. george bridges says that the logical conclusion of that old doctrine is what philosophers call determinism--calvinistic predestination. i can't believe in that. the kind of grace god gives me is the grace to help myself by drawing force from the element of him in my soul. he gives me the satisfaction of developing." "of one thing i am assured, mrs. goodrich," hodder replied, "that the logical result of independent thinking is anarchy. under this modern tendency toward individual creeds, the church has split and split again until, if it keeps on, we shall have no church at all to carry on the work of our lord on earth. history proves that to take anything away from the faith is to atrophy, to destroy it. the answer to your arguments is to be seen on every side, atheism, hypocrisy, vice, misery, insane and cruel grasping after wealth. there is only one remedy i can see," he added, inflexibly, yet with a touch of sadness, "believe." "what if we can't believe?" she asked. "you can." he spoke with unshaken conviction. "you can if you make the effort, and i am sure you will. my experience is that in the early stages of spiritual development we are impervious to certain truths. will you permit me to recommend to you certain books dealing with these questions in a modern way?" "i will read them gladly," she said, and rose. "and then, perhaps, we may have another talk," he added, looking down at her. "give my regards to your husband." yet, as he stood in the window looking after her retreating figure, there gradually grew upon him a vague and uncomfortable feeling that he had not been satisfactory, and this was curiously coupled with the realization that the visit had added a considerable increment to his already pronounced liking for eleanor goodrich. she was, paradoxically, his kind of a person--such was the form the puzzle took. and so ably had she presented her difficulties that, at one point of the discussion, it had ironically occurred to him to refer her to gordon atterbury. mr. atterbury's faith was like an egg, and he took precious care not to have it broken or chipped. hodder found himself smiling. it was perhaps inevitable that he began at once to contrast mrs. goodrich with other feminine parishioners who had sought him out, and who had surrendered unconditionally. they had evinced an equally disturbing tendency,--a willingness to be overborne. for had he not, indeed, overborne them? he could not help suspecting these other ladies of a craving for the luxury of the confessional. one thing was certain,--he had much less respect for them than for eleanor goodrich . . . . that afternoon he sent her the list of books. but the weeks passed, and she did not come back. once, when he met her at a dinner of mrs. preston's, both avoided the subject of her visit, both were conscious of a constraint. she did not know how often, unseen by her, his eyes had sought her out from the chancel. for she continued to come to church as frequently as before, and often brought her husband. ii one bright and boisterous afternoon in march, hodder alighted from an electric car amid a swirl of dust and stood gazing for a moment at the stone gate-houses of that 'rus in urbe', waverley place, and at the gold block-letters written thereon, "no thoroughfare." against those gates and their contiguous grill the rude onward rush of the city had beaten in vain, and, baffled, had swept around their serene enclosure, westward. within, a silvery sunlight lit up the grass of the island running down the middle, and in the beds the softening earth had already been broken by the crocus sheaves. the bare branches of the trees swayed in the gusts. as hodder penetrated this hallowed precinct he recognized, on either hand, the residences of several of his parishioners, each in its ample allotted space: mrs. larrabbee's; the laureston greys'; thurston gore's, of which mr. wallis plimpton was now the master,--mr. plimpton, before whose pertinacity the walls of jericho had fallen; and finally the queer, twisted richardson mansion of the everett constables, whither he was bound, with its recessed doorway and tiny windows peeping out from under mediaeval penthouses. he was ushered into a library where the shades were already drawn, where a-white-clothed tea-table was set before the fire, the red rays dancing on the silver tea-kettle. on the centre-table he was always sure to find, neatly set in a rack, the books about which the world was talking, or rather would soon begin to talk; and beside them were ranged magazines; french, english, and american, punch, the spectator, the nation, the 'revue des deux mondes'. like the able general she was, mrs. constable kept her communications open, and her acquaintance was by no means confined to the city of her nativity. and if a celebrity were passing through, it were pretty safe, if in doubt, to address him in her care. hodder liked and admired her, but somehow she gave him the impression of having attained her ascendancy at a price, an ascendancy which had apparently been gained by impressing upon her environment a new note --literary, aesthetic, cosmopolitan. she held herself, and those she carried with her, abreast of the times, and he was at a loss to see how so congenial an effort could have left despite her sweetness--the little mark of hardness he discerned, of worldliness. for she was as well born as any woman in the city, and her husband was a constable. he had inherited, so the rector had been informed, one of those modest fortunes that were deemed affluence in the eighties. his keeping abreast of the times was the enigma, and hodder had often wondered how financial genius had contrived to house itself in the well-dressed, gently pompous little man whose lack of force seemed at times so painfully evident. and yet he was rated one of the rich men of the city, and his name hodder had read on many boards with mr. parr's! a person more versed in the modern world of affairs than the late rector of bremerton would not have been so long in arriving at the answer to this riddle. hodder was astute, he saw into people more than they suspected, but he was not sophisticated. he stood picturing, now, the woman in answer to whose summons he had come. with her finely chiselled features, her abundant white hair, her slim figure and erect carriage she reminded him always of a vigee lebrun portrait. he turned at the sound of her voice behind him. "how good of you to come, mr. hodder, when you were so busy," she said, taking his hand as she seated herself behind the tea-kettle. "i wanted the chance to talk to you, and it seemed the best way. what is that you have, soter's book?" "i pinked it up on the table," he explained. "then you haven't read it? you ought to. as a clergyman, it would interest you. religion treated from the economic side, you know, the effect of lack of nutrition on character. very unorthodox, of course." "i find that i have very little time to read," he said. "i sometimes take a book along in the cars." "your profession is not so leisurely as it once was, i often think it such a pity. but you, too, are paying the penalty of complexity." she smiled at him sympathetically. "how is mr. parr? i haven't seen him for several weeks." "he seemed well when i saw him last," replied hodder. "he's a wonderful man; the amount of work he accomplishes without apparent effort is stupendous." mrs. constable cast what seemed a tentative glance at the powerful head, and handed him his tea. "i wanted to talk to you about gertrude," she said. he looked unenlightened. "about my daughter, mrs. warren. she lives in new york, you know --on long island." then he had remembered something he had heard. "yes," he said. "she met you, at the fergusons', just for a moment, when she was out here last autumn. what really nice and simple people the fergusons are, with all their money!" "very nice indeed," he agreed, puzzled. "i have been sorry for them in the past," she went on evenly. "they had rather a hard time--perhaps you may have heard. nobody appreciated them. they were entombed, so to speak, in a hideous big house over on the south side, which fortunately burned down, and then they bought in park street, and took a pew in st. john's. i suppose the idea of that huge department store was rather difficult to get used to. but i made up my mind it was nonsense to draw the line at department stores, especially since mr. ferguson's was such a useful and remarkable one, so i went across and called. mrs. ferguson was so grateful, it was almost pathetic. and she's a very good friend--she came here everyday when genevieve had appendicitis." "she's a good woman," the rector said. "and nan,--i adore nan, everybody adores nan. she reminds me of one of those exquisite, blue-eyed dolls her father imports. now if i were a bachelor, mr. hodder--!" mrs. constable left the rest to his imagination. he smiled. "i'm afraid miss ferguson has her own ideas." running through hodder's mind, a troubled current, were certain memories connected with mrs. warren. was she the divorced daughter, or was she not? "but i was going to speak to you about gertrude. she's had such a hard time, poor dear, my heart has bled for her." there was a barely perceptible tremor in mrs. constable's voice. "all that publicity, and the inevitable suffering connected with it! and no one can know the misery she went through, she is so sensitive. but now, at last, she has a chance for happiness--the real thing has come." "the real thing!" he echoed. "yes. she's going to marry a splendid man, eldridge sumner. i know the family well. they have always stood for public spirit, and this mr. summer, although he is little over thirty, was chairman of that vice commission which made such a stir in new york a year ago. he's a lawyer, with a fine future, and they're madly in love. and gertrude realizes now, after her experience, the true values in life. she was only a child when she married victor warren." "but mr. warren," hodder managed to say, "is still living." "i sometimes wonder, mr. hodder," she went on hurriedly, "whether we can realize how different the world is today from what it was twenty years ago, until something of this kind is actually brought home to us. i shall never forget how distressed, how overwhelmed mr. constable and i were when gertrude got her divorce. i know that they are regarding such things differently in the east, but out here!--we never dreamed that such a thing could happen to us, and we regarded it as a disgrace. but gradually--" she hesitated, and looked at the motionless clergyman --"gradually i began to see gertrude's point of view, to understand that she had made a mistake, that she had been too young to comprehend what she was doing. victor warren had been ruined by money, he wasn't faithful to her, but an extraordinary thing has happened in his case. he's married again, and gertrude tells me he's absurdly happy, and has two children." as he listened, hodder's dominating feeling was amazement that such a course as her daughter had taken should be condoned by this middle-aged lady, a prominent member of his congregation and the wife of a vestryman, who had been nurtured and steeped in christianity. and not only that: mrs. constable was plainly defending a further step, which in his opinion involved a breach of the seventh commandment! to have invaded these precincts, the muddy, turbulent river of individualism had risen higher than he would have thought possible . . . . "wait!" she implored, checking his speech,--she had been watching him with what was plainly anxiety, "don't say anything yet. i have a letter here which she wrote me--at the time. i kept it. let me read a part of it to you, that you may understand more fully the tragedy of it." mrs. constable thrust her hand into her lap and drew forth a thickly covered sheet. "it was written just after she left him--it is an answer to my protest," she explained, and began to read: "i know i promised to love victor, mother, but how can one promise to do a thing over which one has no control? i loved him after he stopped loving me. he wasn't a bit suited to me--i see that now--he was attracted by the outside of me, and i never knew what he was like until i married him. his character seemed to change completely; he grew morose and quick-tempered and secretive, and nothing i did pleased him. we led a cat-and-dog life. i never let you know--and yet i see now we might have got along in any other relationship. we were very friendly when we parted, and i'm not a bit jealous because he cares for another woman who i can see is much better suited to him. "'i can't honestly regret leaving him, and i'm not conscious of having done anything wrong. i don't want to shock you, and i know how terribly you and father must feel, but i can see now, somehow, that i had to go through this experience, terrible as it was, to find myself. if it were thirty years ago, before people began to be liberal in such matters, i shudder to think what might have become of me. i should now be one of those terrible women between fifty and sixty who have tried one frivolity and excess after another--but i'm not coming to that! and my friends have really been awfully kind, and supported me--even victor's family. don't, don't think that i'm not respectable! i know how you look at such things.'" mrs. constable closed the letter abruptly. "i did look at such things in that way," she added, "but i've changed. that letter helped to change me, and the fact that it was gertrude who had been through this. if you only knew gertrude, mr. hodder, you couldn't possibly think of her as anything but sweet and pure." although the extent of hodder's acquaintance with mrs. warren had been but five minutes, the letter had surprisingly retouched to something like brilliancy her faded portrait, the glow in her cheeks, the iris blue in her eyes. he recalled the little shock he had experienced when told that she was divorced, for her appeal had lain in her very freshness, her frank and confiding manner. she was one of those women who seem to say, "here i am, you can't but like me:" and he had responded--he remembered that--he had liked her. and now her letter, despite his resistance, had made its appeal, so genuinely human was it, so honest, although it expressed a philosophy he abhorred. mrs. constable was watching him mutely, striving to read in his grave eyes the effect of her pleadings. "you are telling me this, mrs. constable--why?" he asked. "because i wished you to know the exact situation before i asked you, as a great favour to me, to mr. constable, to--to marry her in st. john's. of course," she went on, controlling her rising agitation, and anticipating a sign of protest, "we shouldn't expect to have any people, ---and gertrude wasn't married in st. john's before; that wedding was at passumset our seashore place. oh, mr. hodder, before you answer, think of our feelings, mr. constable's and mine! if you could see mr. constable, you would know how he suffers--this thing has upset him more than the divorce. his family have such pride. i am so worried about him, and he doesn't eat anything and looks so haggard. i told him i would see you and explain and that seemed to comfort him a little. she is, after all, our child, and we don't want to feel, so far as our church is concerned, that she is an ishmaelite; we don't want to have the spectacle of her having to go around, outside, to find a clergyman--that would be too dreadful! i know how strict, how unflinching you are, and i admire you for it. but this is a special case." she paused, breathing deeply, and hodder gazed at her with pity. what he felt was more than pity; he was experiencing, indeed, but with a deeper emotion, something of that same confusion of values into which eleanor goodrich's visit had thrown him. at the same time it had not escaped his logical mind that mrs. constable had made her final plea on the score of respectability. "it gives me great pain to have to refuse you," he said gently. "oh, don't," she said sharply, "don't say that! i can't have made the case clear. you are too big, too comprehending, mr. hodder, to have a hard-and-fast rule. there must be times--extenuating circumstances--and i believe the canons make it optional for a clergyman to marry the innocent person." "yes, it is optional, but i do, not believe it should be. the question is left to the clergyman's' conscience. according to my view, mrs. constable, the church, as the agent of god, effects an indissoluble bond. and much as i should like to do anything in my power for you and mr. constable, you have asked the impossible,--believing as i do, there can be no special case, no extenuating circumstance. and it is my duty to tell you it is because people to-day are losing their beliefs that we have this lenient attitude toward the sacred things. if they still held the conviction that marriage is of god, they would labour to make it a success, instead of flying apart at the first sign of what they choose to call incompatibility." "but surely," she said, "we ought not to be punished for our mistakes! i cannot believe that christ himself intended that his religion should be so inelastic, so hard and fast, so cruel as you imply. surely there is enough unhappiness without making more. you speak of incompatibility --but is it in all cases such an insignificant matter? we are beginning to realize in these days something of the effects of character on character,--deteriorating effects, in many instances. with certain persons we are lifted up, inspired to face the battle of life and overcome its difficulties. i have known fine men and women whose lives have been stultified or ruined because they were badly mated. and i cannot see that the character of my own daughter has deteriorated because she has got a divorce from a man with whom she was profoundly out of sympathy--of harmony. on the contrary, she seems more of a person than she was; she has clearer, saner views of life; she has made her mistake and profited by it. her views changed--victor warren's did not. she began to realize that some other woman might have an influence over his life--she had none, simply because he did not love her. and love is not a thing we can compel." "you are making it very hard for me, mrs. constable," he said. "you are now advocating an individualism with which the church can have no sympathy. christianity teaches us that life is probationary, and if we seek to avoid the trials sent us, instead of overcoming them, we find ourselves farther than ever from any solution. we have to stand by our mistakes. if marriage is to be a mere trial of compatibility, why go through a ceremony than which there is none more binding in human and divine institutions? one either believes in it, or one does not. and, if belief be lacking, the state provides for the legalization of marriages." "oh!" she exclaimed. "if persons wish to be married in church in these days merely because it is respectable, if such be their only reason, they are committing a great wrong. they are taking an oath before god with reservations, knowing that public opinion will release them if the marriage does not fulfil their expectations." for a moment she gazed at him with parted lips, and pressing her handkerchief to her eyes began silently to cry. the sudden spectacle, in this condition, of a self-controlled woman of the world was infinitely distressing to hodder, whose sympathies were even more sensitive than (in her attempt to play upon them) she had suspected. . . she was aware that he had got to his feet, and was standing beside her, speaking with an oddly penetrating tenderness. "i did not mean to be harsh," he said, "and it is not that i do not understand how you feel. you have made my duty peculiarly difficult." she raised up to him a face from which the mask had fallen, from which the illusory look of youth had fled. he turned away. . . and presently she began to speak again; in disconnected sentences. "i so want her to be happy--i cannot think, i will not think that she has wrecked her life--it would be too unjust, too cruel. you cannot know what it is to be a woman!" before this cry he was silent. "i don't ask anything of god except that she shall have a chance, and it seems to me that he is making the world better--less harsh for women." he did not reply. and presently she looked up at him again, steadfastly now, searchingly. the barriers of the conventions were down, she had cast her pride to the winds. he seemed to read in her a certain relief. "i am going to tell you something, mr. hodder, which you may think strange, but i have a reason for saying it. you are still a young man, and i feel instinctively that you have an unusual career before you. you interested me the first time you stepped into the pulpit of st. john's --and it will do me good to talk to you, this once, frankly. you have reiterated to-day, in no uncertain terms, doctrines which i once believed, which i was brought up to think infallible. but i have lived since then, and life itself has made me doubt them. "i recognize in you a humanity, a sympathy and breadth which you are yourself probably not aware of, all of which is greater than the rule which you so confidently apply to fit all cases. it seems to me that christ did not intend us to have such rules. he went beyond them, into the spirit. "under the conditions of society--of civilization to-day, most marriages are merely a matter of chance. even judgment cannot foresee the development of character brought about by circumstances, by environment. and in many marriages i have known about intimately both the man and the woman have missed the most precious thing that life can give something i cannot but think--god intends us to have. you see,"--she smiled at him sadly--"i am still a little of an idealist. "i missed--the thing i am talking about, and it has been the great sorrow of my life--not only on my account, but on my husband's. and so far as i am concerned, i am telling you the truth when i say i should have been content to have lived in a log cabin if--if the gift had been mine. not all the money in the world, nor the intellect, nor the philanthropy--the so-called interests of life, will satisfy me for its denial. i am a disappointed woman, i sometimes think a bitter woman. i can't believe that life is meant to be so. those energies have gone into ambition which should have been absorbed by--by something more worth while. "and i can see so plainly now that my husband would have been far, far happier with another kind of woman. i drew him away from the only work he ever enjoyed--his painting. i do not say he ever could have been a great artist, but he had a little of the divine spark, in his enthusiasm at least--in his assiduity. i shall never forget our first trip abroad, after we were married--he was like a boy in the galleries, in the studios. i could not understand it then. i had no real sympathy with art, but i tried to make sacrifices, what i thought were christian sacrifices. the motive power was lacking, and no matter how hard i tried, i was only half-hearted, and he realized it instinctively--no amount of feigning could deceive him. something deep in me, which was a part of my nature, was antagonistic, stultifying to the essentials of his own being. of course neither of us saw that then, but the results were not long in developing. to him, art was a sacred thing, and it was impossible for me to regard it with equal seriousness. he drew into himself,--closed up, as it were,--no longer discussed it. i was hurt. and when we came home he kept on in business--he still had his father's affairs to look after--but he had a little workroom at the top of the house where he used to go in the afternoon . . . . "it was a question which one of us should be warped,--which personality should be annihilated, so to speak, and i was the stronger. and as i look back, mr. hodder, what occurred seems to me absolutely inevitable, given the ingredients, as inevitable as a chemical process. we were both striving against each other, and i won--at a tremendous cost. the conflict, one might say, was subconscious, instinctive rather than deliberate. my attitude forced him back into business, although we had enough to live on very comfortably, and then the scale of life began to increase, luxuries formerly unthought of seemed to become necessities. and while it was still afar off i saw a great wave rolling toward us, the wave of that new prosperity which threatened to submerge us, and i seized the buoy fate had placed in our hands,--or rather, by suggestion, i induced my husband to seize it--his name. "i recognized the genius, the future of eldon parr at a time when he was not yet independent and supreme, when association with a constable meant much to him. mr. parr made us, as the saying goes. needless to say; money has not brought happiness, but a host of hard, false ambitions which culminated in gertrude's marriage with victor warren. i set my heart on the match, helped it in every, way, and until now nothing but sorrow has come of it. but my point--is this,--i see so clearly, now that it is too late, that two excellent persons may demoralize each other if they are ill-mated. it may be possible that i had the germs of false ambition in me when i was a girl, yet i was conscious only of the ideal which is in most women's hearts . . . . "you must not think that i have laid my soul bare in the hope of changing your mind in regard to gertrude. i recognize clearly, now, that that is impossible. oh, i know you do not so misjudge me," she added, reading his quick protest in his face. "indeed, i cannot analyze my reasons for telling you something of which i have never spoken to any one else." mrs. constable regarded him fixedly. "you are the strongest reason. you have somehow drawn it out of me . . . . and i suppose i wish some one to profit by it. you can, mr. hodder,--i feel sure of that. you may insist now that my argument against your present conviction of the indissolubility of marriage is mere individualism, but i want you to think of what i have told you, not to answer me now. i know your argument by heart, that christian character develops by submission, by suffering, that it is the woman's place to submit, to efface herself. but the root of the matter goes deeper than that. i am far from deploring sacrifice, yet common-sense tells us that our sacrifice should be guided by judgment, that foolish sacrifices are worse than useless. and there are times when the very limitations of our individuality --necessary limitation's for us--prevent our sacrifices from counting. "i was wrong, i grant you, grievously wrong in the course i took, even though it were not consciously deliberate. but if my husband had been an artist i should always have remained separated from his real life by a limitation i had no power to remove. the more i tried, the more apparent my lack of insight became to him, the more irritated he grew. i studied his sketches, i studied masterpieces, but it was all hopeless. the thing wasn't in me, and he knew it wasn't. every remark made him quiver. "the church, i think, will grow more liberal, must grow more liberal, if it wishes to keep in touch with people in an age when they are thinking out these questions for themselves. the law cannot fit all cases, i am sure the gospel can. and sometimes women have an instinct, a kind of second sight into persons, mr. hodder. i cannot explain why i feel that you have in you elements of growth which will eventually bring you more into sympathy with the point of view i have set forth, but i do feel it." hodder did not attempt to refute her--she had, indeed, made discussion impossible. she knew his arguments, as she had declared, and he had the intelligence to realize that a repetition of them, on his part, would be useless. she brought home to him, as never before, a sense of the anomalistic position of the church in these modern days, of its appallingly lessened weight even with its own members. as a successor of the apostles, he had no power over this woman, or very little; he could neither rebuke her, nor sentence her to penance. she recognized his authority to marry her daughter, to baptize her daughter's children, but not to interfere in any way with her spiritual life. it was as a personality he had moved her--a personality apparently not in harmony with his doctrine. women had hinted at this before. and while mrs. constable had not, as she perceived, shaken his conviction, the very vividness and unexpectedness of a confession from her--had stirred him to the marrow, had opened doors, perforce, which he, himself had marked forbidden, and given him a glimpse beyond before he could lower his eyes. was there, after all, something in him that responded in spite of himself? he sat gazing at her, his head bent, his strong hands on the arms of the chair. "we never can foresee how we may change," he answered, a light in his eyes that was like a smile, yet having no suggestion of levity. and his voice--despite his disagreement--maintained the quality of his sympathy. neither felt the oddity, then, of the absence of a jarring note. "you may be sure, at least, of my confidence, and of my gratitude for what you have told me." his tone belied the formality of his speech. mrs. constable returned his gaze in silence, and before words came again to either, a step sounded on the threshold and mr. constable entered. hodder looked at him with a new vision. his face was indeed lined and worn, and dark circles here under his eyes. but at mrs. constable's "here's mr. hodder, dear," he came forward briskly to welcome the clergyman. "how do you do?" he said cordially. "we don't see you very often." "i have been telling mr. hodder that modern rectors of big parishes have far too many duties," said his wife. and after a few minutes of desultory conversation, the rector left. chapter vi "watchman, what of the night?" it was one of those moist nights of spring when the air is pungent with the odour of the softened earth, and the gentle breaths that stirred the curtains in mr. parr's big dining-room wafted, from the garden, the perfumes of a revived creation,--delicious, hothouse smells. at intervals, showers might be heard pattering on the walk outside. the rector of st. john's was dining with his great parishioner. here indeed were a subject for some modern master, a chance to picture for generations to come an aspect of a mighty age, an age that may some day be deemed but a grotesque and anomalistic survival of a more ancient logic; a gargoyle carved out of chaos, that bears on its features a resemblance to the past and the future. our scene might almost be mediaeval with its encircling gloom, through which the heavy tapestries and shadowy corners of the huge apartment may be dimly made out. in the center, the soft red glow of the candles, the gleaming silver, the shining cloth, the church on one side--and what on the other? no name given it now, no royal name, but still power. the two are still in apposition, not yet in opposition, but the discerning may perchance read a prophecy in the salient features of the priest. the man of power of the beginning of the twentieth century demands a subtler analysis, presents an enigma to which the immortal portraits of forgotten medicis and capets give no clew. imagine, if you can, a lorenzo or a grand louis in a tightly-buttoned frock coat! there must be some logical connection between the habit and the age, since crimson velvet and gold brocade would have made eldon parr merely ridiculous. he is by no means ridiculous, yet take him out of the setting and put him in the street, and you might pass him a dozen times without noticing him. nature, and perhaps unconscious art, have provided him with a protective exterior; he is the colour of his jungle. after he has crippled you --if you survive--you will never forget him. you will remember his eye, which can be unsheathed like a rapier; you will recall his lips as the expression of a relentless negative. the significance of the slight bridge on the narrow nose is less easy to define. he is neither tall nor short; his face is clean-shaven, save for scanty, unobtrusive reddish tufts high on the cheeks; his hair is thin. it must be borne in mind, however, that our rector did not see him in his jungle, and perhaps in the traditional nobility of the lion there is a certain truth. an interesting biography of some of the powerful of this earth might be written from the point of view of the confessor or the physician, who find something to love, something to pity, and nothing to fear--thus reversing the sentiments of the public. yet the friendship between john hodder and eldon parr defied any definite analysis on the rector's part, and was perhaps the strangest--and most disquieting element that had as yet come into hodder's life. the nature of his intimacy with the banker, if intimacy it might be called, might have surprised his other parishioners if they could have been hidden spectators of one of these dinners. there were long silences when the medium of communication, tenuous at best, seemed to snap, and the two sat gazing at each other as from mountain peaks across impassable valleys. with all the will in the world, their souls lost touch, though the sense in the clergyman of the other's vague yearning for human companionship was never absent. it was this yearning that attracted hodder, who found in it a deep pathos. after one of these intervals of silence, eldon parr looked up from his claret. "i congratulate you, hodder, on the stand you took in regard to constable's daughter," he said. "i didn't suppose it was known," answered the rector, in surprise. "constable told me. i have reason to believe that he doesn't sympathize with his wife in her attitude on this matter. it's pulled him down, --you've noticed that he looks badly?" "yes," said the rector. he did not care to discuss the affair; he had hoped it would not become known; and he shunned the congratulations of gordon atterbury, which in such case would be inevitable. and in spite of the conviction that he had done his duty, the memory of his talk with mrs. constable never failed to make him, uncomfortable. exasperation crept into mr. pares voice. "i can't think what's got into women in these times--at mrs. constable's age they ought to know better. nothing restrains them. they have reached a point where they don't even respect the church. and when that happens, it is serious indeed. the church is the governor on our social engine, and it is supposed to impose a restraint upon the lawless." hodder could not refrain from smiling a little at the banker's conception. "doesn't that reduce the church somewhere to the level of the police force?" he asked. "not at all," said eldon parr, whose feelings seemed to be rising. "i am sorry for constable. he feels the shame of this thing keenly, and he ought to go away for a while to one of these quiet resorts. i offered him my car. sometimes i think that women have no morals. at any rate, this modern notion of giving them their liberty is sheer folly. look what they have done with it! instead of remaining at home, where they belong, they are going out into the world and turning it topsy-turvy. and if a man doesn't let them have a free hand, they get a divorce and marry some idiot who will." mr. parr pushed back his chair and rose abruptly, starting for the door. the rector followed him, forcibly struck by the unusual bitterness in his tone. "if i have spoken strongly, it is because i feel strongly," he said in a strange, thickened voice. "hodder, how would you like to live in this house--alone?" the rector looked down upon him with keen, comprehending eyes, and saw eldon parr as he only, of all men, had seen him. for he himself did not understand his own strange power of drawing forth the spirit from its shell, of compelling the inner, suffering thing to reveal itself. "this poison," eldon parr went on unevenly, "has eaten into my own family. my daughter, who might have been a comfort and a companion, since she chose not to marry, was carried away by it, and thought it incumbent upon her to have a career of her own. and now i have a choice of thirty rooms, and not a soul to share them with. sometimes, at night, i make up my mind to sell this house. but i can't do it--something holds me back, hope, superstition, or whatever you've a mind to call it. you've never seen all of the house, have you?" he asked. the rector slowly shook his head, and the movement might have been one that he would have used in acquiescence to the odd whim of a child. mr. parr led the way up the wide staircase to the corridor above, traversing chamber after chamber, turning on the lights. "these were my wife's rooms," he said, "they are just as she left them. and these my daughter alison's, when she chooses to pay me a visit. i didn't realize that i should have to spend the last years of my life alone. and i meant, when i gave my wife a house, to have it the best in the city. i spared nothing on it, as you see, neither care nor money. i had the best architect i could find, and used the best material. and what good is it to me? only a reminder--of what might have been. but i've got a boy, hodder,--i don't know whether i've ever spoken of him to you--preston. he's gone away, too. but i've always had the hope that he might come back and get decently married, and live, here. that's why i stay. i'll show you his picture." they climbed to the third floor, and while mr. parr way searching for the electric switch, a lightning flash broke over the forests of the park, prematurely revealing the room. it was a boy's room, hung with photographs of school and college crews and teams and groups of intimates, with deep window seats, and draped pennons of harvard university over the fireplace. eldon parr turned to one of the groups on the will, the earliest taken at school. "there he is," he said, pointing out a sunny little face at the bottom, a boy of twelve, bareheaded, with short, crisping yellow hair, smiling lips and laughing eyes. "and here he is again," indicating another group. thus he traced him through succeeding years until they came to those of college. "there he is," said the rector. "i think i can pick him out now." "yes; that's preston," said his father, staring hard at the picture. the face had developed, the body had grown almost to man's estate, but the hint of crispness was still in the hair, the mischievous laughter in the eyes. the rector gazed earnestly at the face, remembering his own boyhood, his own youth, his mind dwelling, too, on what he had heard of the original of the portrait. what had happened to the boy, to bring to naught the fair promise of this earlier presentment? he was aroused by the voice of eldon parr, who had sunk into one of the leather chairs. "i can see him now," he was saying, "as he used to come running down that long flight of stone steps in ransome street to meet me when i came home. such laughter! and once, in his eagerness, he fell and cut his forehead. i shall never forget how i felt. and when i picked him up he tried to laugh still, with the tears rolling down his face. you know the way a child's breath catches, hodder? he was always laughing. and how he used to cling to me, and beg me to take him out, and show such an interest in everything! he was a bright boy, a remarkable child, i thought, but i suppose it was my foolishness. he analyzed all he saw, and when he used to go off in my car, brennan, the engineer, would always beg to have him in the cab. and such sympathy! he knew in an instant when i was worried. i had dreams of what that boy would become, but i was too sure of it. i went on doing other things--there were so many things, and i was a slave to them. and before i knew it, he'd gone off to school. that was the year i moved up here, and my wife died. and after that, all seemed to go wrong. perhaps i was too severe; perhaps they didn't understand him at boarding-school; perhaps i didn't pay enough attention to him. at any rate, the first thing i knew his whole nature seemed to have changed. he got into scrape after scrape at harvard, and later he came within an ace of marrying a woman. "he's my weakness to-day. i can say no to everybody in the world but to him, and when i try to remember him as he used to come down those steps on ransome street . . . . "he never knew how much i cared--that what i was doing was all for him, building for him, that he might carry on my work. i had dreams of developing this city, the great southwest, and after i had gone preston was to bring them to fruition. "for some reason i never was able to tell him all this--as i am telling you. the words would not come. we had grown apart. and he seemed to think--god knows why!--he seemed to think i disliked him. i had langmaid talk to him, and other men i trusted--tell him what an unparalleled opportunity he had to be of use in the world. once i thought i had him started straight and then a woman came along--off the streets, or little better. he insisted on marrying her and wrecking his life, and when i got her out of the way, as any father would have done, he left me. he has never forgiven me. most of the time i haven't even the satisfaction of knowing were he is--london, paris, or new york. i try not to think of what he does. i ought to cut him off,--i can't do it--i can't do it, hodder--he's my one weakness still. i'm afraid--he'd sink out of sight entirely, and it's the one hold i have left on him." eldon parr paused, with a groan that betokened not only a poignant sorrow, but also something of relief--for the tortures of not being able to unburden himself had plainly become intolerable. he glanced up and met the compassionate eyes of the rector, who stood leaning against the mantel. "with alison it was different," he said. "i never understood her--even when she was a child--and i used to look at her and wonder that she could be my daughter. she was moody, intense, with a yearning for affection i've since sometimes thought--she could not express. i did not feel the need of affection in those days, so absorbed was i in building up, --so absorbed and driven, you might say. i suppose i must accept my punishment as just. but the child was always distant with me, and i always remember her in rebellion; a dark little thing with a quivering lip, hair awry, and eyes that flashed through her tears. she would take any amount of punishment rather than admit she had been in the wrong. i recall she had once a fox terrier that never left her, that fought all the dogs in the neighbourhood and destroyed the rugs and cushions in the house. i got rid of it one summer when she was at the sea, and i think she never forgave me. the first question she asked when she came home was for that dog--mischief, his name was--for mischief. i told her what i had done. it took more courage than i had thought. she went to her room, locked herself in, and stayed there, and we couldn't get her to come out for two days; she wouldn't even eat. "perhaps she was jealous of preston, but she never acknowledged it. when she was little she used once in a while to come shyly and sit on my lap, and look at me without saying anything. i hadn't the slightest notion what was in the child's mind, and her reserve increased as she grew older. she seemed to have developed a sort of philosophy of her own even before she went away to school, and to have certain strongly defined tastes. she liked, for instance, to listen to music, and for that very reason would never learn to play. we couldn't make her, as a child. "bad music, she said, offended her. she painted, she was passionately fond of flowers, and her room was always filled with them. when she came back from school to live with me, she built a studio upstairs. after the first winter, she didn't care to go out much. by so pronounced a character, young men in general were not attracted, but there were a few who fell under a sort of spell. i can think of no other words strong enough, and i used to watch them when they came here with a curious interest. i didn't approve of all of them. alison would dismiss them or ignore them or be kind to them as she happened to feel, yet it didn't seem to make any difference. one i suspect she was in love with --a fellow without a cent. "then there was bedloe hubbell. i have reason enough to be thankful now that she didn't care for him. they've made him president, you know, of this idiotic municipal league, as they call it. but in those days he hadn't developed any nonsense, he was making a good start at the bar, and was well off. his father was elias hubbell, who gave the botanical garden to the city. i wanted her to marry gordon atterbury. he hung on longer than any of them--five or six years; but she wouldn't hear of it. that was how the real difference developed between us, although the trouble was deep rooted, for we never really understood each other. i had set my heart on it, and perhaps i was too dictatorial and insistent. i don't know. i meant the best for her, god knows . . . . gordon never got over it. it dried him up." . . . . irritation was creeping back into the banker's voice. "then it came into alison's head that she wanted to 'make something of her life,'--as she expressed it. she said she was wasting herself, and began going to lectures with a lot of faddish women, became saturated with these nonsensical ideas about her sex that are doing so much harm nowadays. i suppose i was wrong in my treatment from the first. i never knew how to handle her, but we grew like flint and steel. i'll say this for her, she kept quiet enough, but she used to sit opposite me at the table, and i knew all the time what she was thinking of, and then i'd break out. of course she'd defend herself, but she had her temper under better control than i. she wanted to go away for a year or two and study landscape gardening, and then come back and establish herself in an office here. i wouldn't listen to it. and one morning, when she was late to breakfast, i delivered an ultimatum. i gave her a lecture on a woman's place and a woman's duty, and told her that if she didn't marry she'd have to stay here and live quietly with me, or i'd disinherit her." hodder had become absorbed in this portrait of alison parr, drawn by her father with such unconscious vividness. "and then?" he asked. in spite of the tone of bitterness in which he had spoken, eldon parr smiled. it was a reluctant tribute to his daughter. "i got an ultimatum in return," he said. "alison should have been a man." his anger mounted quickly as he recalled the scene. "she said she had thought it all out: that our relationship had become impossible; that she had no doubt it was largely her fault, but that was the way she was made, and she couldn't change. she had, naturally, an affection for me as her father, but it was very plain we couldn't get along together: she was convinced that she had a right to individual freedom,--as she spoke of it,--to develop herself. she knew, if she continued to live with me on the terms i demanded, that her character would deteriorate. certain kinds of sacrifice she was capable of, she thought, but what i asked would be a useless one. perhaps i didn't realize it, but it was slavery. slavery!" he repeated, "the kind of slavery her mother had lived . . . ." he took a turn around the room. "so far as money was concerned, she was indifferent to it. she had enough from her mother to last until she began to make more. she wouldn't take any from me in any case. i laughed, yet i have never been so angry in my life. nor was it wholly anger, hodder, but a queer tangle of feelings i can't describe. there was affection mixed up in it--i realized afterward--but i longed to take her and shake her and lock her up until she should come to her senses: i couldn't. i didn't dare. i was helpless. i told her to go. she didn't say anything more, but there was a determined look in her eyes when she kissed me as i left for the office. i spent a miserable day. more than once i made up my mind to go home, but pride stopped me. i really didn't think she meant what she said. when i got back to the house in the afternoon she had left for new york. "then i began to look forward to the time when her money would give out. she went to paris with another young woman, and studied there, and then to england. she came back to new york, hired an apartment and a studio, and has made a success." the rector seemed to detect an unwilling note of pride at the magic word. "it isn't the kind of success i think much of, but it's what she started out to do. she comes out to see me, once in a while, and she designed that garden." he halted in front of the clergyman. "i suppose you think it's strange, my telling you this," he said. "it has come to the point," he declared vehemently, "where it relieves me to tell somebody, and you seem to be a man of discretion and common-sense." hodder looked down into mr. parr's face, and was silent. perhaps he recognized, as never before, the futility of the traditional words of comfort, of rebuke. he beheld a soul in torture, and realized with sudden sharpness how limited was his knowledge of the conditions of existence of his own time. everywhere individualism reared its ugly head, everywhere it seemed plausible to plead justification; and once more he encountered that incompatibility of which mrs. constable had spoken! he might blame the son, blame the daughter, yet he could not condemn them utterly . . . . one thing he saw clearly, that eldon parr had slipped into what was still, for him, a meaningless hell. the banker's manner suddenly changed, reverted to what it had been. he arose. "i've tried to do my duty as i saw it, and it comes to this--that we who have spent the best years of our lives in striving to develop this country have no thanks from our children or from any one else." with his hand on the electric switch, he faced hodder almost defiantly as he spoke these words, and suddenly snapped off the light, as though the matter admitted of no discussion. in semi-darkness they groped down the upper flight of stairs . . . . chapter vii the kingdoms of the world i when summer arrived, the birds of brilliant plumage of mr. hodder's flock arose and flew lightly away, thus reversing the seasons. only the soberer ones came fluttering into the cool church out of the blinding heat, and settled here and there throughout the nave. the ample mr. bradley, perspiring in an alpaca coat, took up the meagre collection on the right of the centre aisle; for mr. parr, properly heralded, had gone abroad on one of those periodical, though lonely tours that sent anticipatory shivers of delight down the spines of foreign picture-dealers. the faithful gordon atterbury was worshipping at the sea, and even mr. constable and mr. plimpton, when recalled to the city by financial cares, succumbed to the pagan influence of the sun, and were usually to be found on sunday mornings on the wide veranda of the country club, with glasses containing liquid and ice beside them, and surrounded by heaps of newspapers. to judge by st. john's, the city was empty. but on occasions, before he himself somewhat tardily departed,--drawn thither by a morbid though impelling attraction, hodder occasionally walked through dalton street of an evening. if not in st. john's, summer was the season in dalton street. it flung open its doors and windows and moved out on the steps and the pavements, and even on the asphalt; and the music of its cafes and dance-halls throbbed feverishly through the hot nights. dalton street resorted neither to country club nor church. mr. mccrae, hodder's assistant, seemed to regard these annual phenomena with a grim philosophy,--a relic, perhaps, of the calvinistic determinism of his ancestors. he preached the same indefinite sermons, with the same imperturbability, to the dwindled congregations in summer and the enlarged ones in winter. but hodder was capable of no such resignation --if resignation it were, for the self-contained assistant continued to be an enigma; and it was not without compunction that he left, about the middle of july, on his own vacation. he was tired, and yet he seemed to have accomplished nothing in this first year of the city parish whereof he had dreamed. and it was, no doubt, for that very reason that he was conscious of a depressing exhaustion as his train rolled eastward over that same high bridge that spanned the hot and muddy waters of the river. he felt a fugitive. in no months since he had left the theological seminary, had he seemingly accomplished so little; in no months had he had so magnificent an opportunity. after he had reached the peaceful hills at bremerton--where he had gone on mrs. whitely's invitation--he began to look back upon the spring and winter as a kind of mad nightmare, a period of ceaseless, distracted, and dissipated activity, of rushing hither and thither with no results. he had been aware of invisible barriers, restricting, hemming him in on all sides. there had been no time for reflection; and now that he had a breathing space, he was unable to see how he might reorganize his work in order to make it more efficient. there were other perplexities, brought about by the glimpses he had had into the lives and beliefs--or rather unbeliefs--of his new parishioners. and sometimes, in an unwonted moment of pessimism, he asked himself why they thought it necessary to keep all that machinery going when it had so little apparent effect on their lives? he sat wistfully in the chancel of the little bremerton church and looked into the familiar faces of those he had found in it when he came to it, and of those he had brought into it, wondering why he had been foolish enough to think himself endowed for the larger work. here, he had been a factor, a force in the community, had entered into its life and affections. what was he there? nor did it tend to ease his mind that he was treated as one who has passed on to higher things. "i was afraid you'd work too hard," said mrs. whitely, in her motherly way. "i warned you against it, mr. hodder. you never spared yourself, but in a big city parish it's different. but you've made such a success, nelson tells me, and everybody likes you there. i knew they would, of course. that is our only comfort in losing you, that you have gone to the greater work. but we do miss you." ii the air of bremerton, and later the air of bar harbor had a certain reviving effect. and john hodder, although he might be cast down, had never once entertained the notion of surrender. he was inclined to attribute the depression through which he had passed, the disappointment he had undergone as a just punishment for an overabundance of ego,--only hodder used the theological term for the same sin. had he not, after all, laboured largely for his own glory, and not gods? had he ever forgotten himself? had the idea ever been far from his thoughts that it was he, john hodder, who would build up the parish of st. john's into a living organization of faith and works? the curious thing was that he had the power, and save in moments of weariness he felt it in him. he must try to remember always that this power was from god. but why had he been unable to apply it? and there remained disturbingly in his memory certain phrases of mrs. constable's, such as "elements of growth." he would change, she had said; and he had appeared to her as one with depths. unsuspected depths--pockets that held the steam, which was increasing in pressure. at bremerton, it had not gathered in the pockets, he had used it all--all had counted; but in the feverish, ceaseless activity of the city parish he had never once felt that intense satisfaction of emptying himself, nor, the sweet weariness that follows it. his seemed the weariness of futility. and introspection was revealing a crack--after so many years--in that self that he had believed to be so strongly welded. such was the strain of the pent-up force. he recognized the danger-signal. the same phenomenon had driven him into the church, where the steam had found an outlet--until now. and yet, so far as his examination went, he had not lost his beliefs, but the power of communicating them to others. bremerton, and the sight of another carrying on the work in which he had been happy, weighed upon him, and bar harbor offered distraction. mrs. larrabbee had not hesitated to remind him of his promise to visit her. if the gallery of portraits of the congregation of st. john's were to be painted, this lady's, at the age of thirty, would not be the least interesting. it would have been out of place in no ancestral hall, and many of her friends were surprised, after her husband's death, that she did not choose one wherein to hang it. she might have. for she was the quintessence of that feminine product of our country at which europe has never ceased to wonder, and to give her history would no more account for her than the process of manufacture explains the most delicate of scents. her poise, her quick detection of sham in others not so fortunate, her absolute conviction that all things were as they ought to be; her charity, her interest in its recipients; her smile, which was kindness itself; her delicate features, her white skin with its natural bloom; the grace of her movements, and her hair, which had a different color in changing lights--such an ensemble is not to be depicted save by a skilled hand. the late mr. larrabbee's name was still printed on millions of bright labels encircling cubes of tobacco, now manufactured by a trust. however, since the kind that entered mrs. larrabbee's house, or houses, was all imported from egypt or cuba, what might have been in the nature of an unpleasant reminder was remote from her sight, and she never drove into the northern part of the city, where some hundreds of young women bent all day over the cutting-machines. to enter too definitely into mrs. larrabbee's history, therefore, were merely to be crude, for she is not a lady to caricature. her father had been a steamboat captain--once an honoured calling in the city of her nativity--a devout presbyterian who believed in the most rigid simplicity. few who remembered the gaucheries of captain corington's daughter on her first presentation to his family's friends could recognize her in the cosmopolitan mrs. larrabbee. why, with new york and london at her disposal, she elected to remain in the middle west, puzzled them, though they found her answer, "that she belonged there," satisfying grace larrabbee's cosmopolitanism was of that apperception that knows the value of roots, and during her widowhood she had been thrusting them out. mrs. larrabbee followed by "of" was much more important than just mrs. larrabbee. and she was, moreover, genuinely attached to her roots. her girlhood shyness--rudeness, some called it, mistaking the effect for the cause--had refined into a manner that might be characterized as 'difficile', though hodder had never found her so. she liked direct men; to discover no guile on first acquaintance went a long way with her, and not the least of the new rector's social triumphs had been his simple conquest. enveloped in white flannel, she met his early train at the ferry; an unusual compliment to a guest, had he but known it, but he accepted it as a tribute to the church. "i was so afraid you wouldn't come," she said, in a voice that conveyed indeed more than a perfunctory expression. she glanced at him as he sat beside her on the cushions of the flying motor boat, his strange eyes fixed upon the blue mountains of the island whither they were bound, his unruly hair fanned by the wind. "why?" he asked, smiling at the face beneath the flying veil. "you need the rest. i believe in men taking their work seriously, but not so seriously as you do." she was so undisguisedly glad to see him that he could scarcely have been human if he had not responded. and she gave him, in that fortnight, a glimpse of a life that was new and distracting: at times made him forget --and he was willing to forget--the lower forms of which it was the quintessence,--the factories that hummed, the forges that flung their fires into the night in order that it might exist; the dalton streets that went without. the effluvia from hot asphalt bore no resemblance to the salt-laden air that rattled the venetian blinds of the big bedroom to which he was assigned. her villa was set high above the curving shore, facing a sheltered terrace-garden resplendent in its august glory; to seaward, islands danced in the haze; and behind the house, in the sunlight, were massed spruces of a brilliant arsenic green with purple cones. the fluttering awnings were striped cardinal and white. nature and man seemed to have conspired to make this place vividly unreal, as a toy village comes painted from the shop. there were no half-tones, no poverty--in sight, at least; no litter. on the streets and roads, at the casino attached to the swimming-pool and at the golf club were to be seen bewildering arrays of well-dressed, well-fed women intent upon pleasure and exercise. some of them gave him glances that seemed to say, "you belong to us," and almost succeeded in establishing the delusion. the whole effect upon hodder, in the state of mind in which he found himself, was reacting, stimulating, disquieting. at luncheons and dinners, he was what is known as a "success"--always that magic word. he resisted, and none so quick as women to scent resistance. his very unbending attitude aroused their inherent craving for rigidity in his profession; he was neither plastic, unctuous, nor subservient; his very homeliness, redeemed by the eyes and mouth, compelled their attention. one of them told mrs. larrabbee that that rector of hers would "do something." but what, he asked himself, was he resisting? he was by no means a puritan; and while he looked upon a reasonable asceticism as having its place in the faith that he professed, it was no asceticism that prevented a more complete acquiescence on his part in the mad carnival that surrounded him. "i'm afraid you don't wholly approve of bar harbor," his hostess remarked; one morning. "at first sight, it is somewhat staggering to the provincial mind," he replied. she smiled at him, yet with knitted brows. "you are always putting me off--i never can tell what you think. and yet i'm sure you have opinions. you think these people frivolous, of course." "most of them are so," he answered, "but that is a very superficial criticism. the question is, why are they so? the sight of bar harbor leads a stranger to the reflection that the carnival mood has become permanent with our countrymen, and especially our countrywomen." "the carnival mood," she repeated thoughtfully, "yes, that expresses it. we are light, we are always trying to get away from ourselves, and sometimes i wonder whether there are any selves to get away from. you ought to atop us," she added, almost accusingly, "to bring us to our senses." "that's just it," he agreed, "why don't we? why can't we?" "if more clergymen were like you, i think perhaps you might." his tone, his expression, were revelations. "i--!" he exclaimed sharply, and controlled himself. but in that moment grace larrabbee had a glimpse of the man who had come to arouse in her an intense curiosity. for an instant a tongue of the fires of vulcan had shot forth, fires that she had suspected. "aren't you too ambitious?" she asked gently. and again, although she did not often blunder, she saw him wince. "i don't mean ambitious for yourself. but surely you have made a remarkable beginning at st. john's. everybody admires and respects you, has confidence in you. you are so sure of yourself," she hesitated a moment, for she had never ventured to discuss religion with him, "of your faith. clergymen ought not to be apologetic, and your conviction cannot fail, in the long run, to have its effect." "its effect,--on what?" he asked. mrs. larrabbee was suddenly, at sea. and she prided herself on a lack of that vagueness generally attributed to her sex. "on--on everything. on what we were talking about,--the carnival feeling, the levity, on the unbelief of the age. isn't it because the control has been taken off?" he saw an opportunity to slip into smoother waters. "the engine has lost its governor?" "exactly!" cried mrs. larrabbee. "what a clever simile!" "it is mr. pares," said hodder. "only he was speaking of other symptoms, socialism, and its opposite, individualism,--not carnivalism." "poor man," said mrs. larrabbee, accepting the new ground as safer, yet with a baffled feeling that hodder had evaded her once more, "he has had his share of individualism and carnivalism. his son preston was here last month, and was taken out to the yacht every night in an unspeakable state. and alison hasn't been what might be called a blessing." "she must be unusual," said the rector, musingly. "oh, alison is a person. she has become quite the fashion, and has more work than she can possibly attend to. very few women with her good looks could have done what she has without severe criticism, and something worse, perhaps. the most extraordinary thing about her is her contempt for what her father has gained, and for conventionalities. it always amuses me when i think that she might have been the wife of gordon atterbury. the goddess of liberty linked to--what?" hodder thought instinctively of the church. but he remained silent. "as a rule, men are such fools about the women they wish to marry," she continued. "she would have led him a dance for a year or two, and then calmly and inexorably left him. and there was her father, with all his ability and genius, couldn't see it either, but fondly imagined that alison as gordon atterbury's wife, would magically become an atterbury and a bourgeoise, see that the corners were dusted in the big house, sew underwear for the poor, and fast in lent." "and she is happy--where she is?" he inquired somewhat naively. "she is self-sufficient," said mrs. larrabbee, with unusual feeling, "and that is just what most women are not, in these days. oh, why has life become such a problem? sometimes i think, with all that i have, i'm not, so well off as one of those salesgirls in ferguson's, at home. i'm always searching for things to do--nothing is thrust on me. there are the charities--galt house, and all that, but i never seem to get at anything, at the people i'd like to help. it's like sending money to china. there is no direct touch any more. it's like seeing one's opportunities through an iron grating." hodder started at the phrase, so exactly had she expressed his own case. "ah," he said, "the iron grating bars the path of the church, too." and just what was the iron grating? they had many moments of intimacy during that fort night, though none in which the plumb of their conversation descended to such a depth. for he was, as she had said, always "putting her off." was it because he couldn't satisfy her craving? give her the solution for which--he began to see--she thirsted? why didn't that religion that she seemed outwardly to profess and accept without qualification--the religion he taught set her at rest? show her the path? down in his heart he knew that he feared to ask. that mrs. larrabbee was still another revelation, that she was not at rest, was gradually revealed to him as the days passed. her spirit, too, like his own, like 'mrs constable's, like eldon parr's, like eleanor goodrich's, was divided against itself; and this phenomenon in mrs. larrabbee was perhaps a greater shock to him, since he had always regarded her as essentially in equilibrium. one of his reasons, indeed, --in addition to the friendship that had grown up between them,--for coming to visit her had been to gain the effect of her poise on his own. poise in a modern woman, leading a modern life. it was thus she attracted him. it was not that he ignored her frivolous side; it was nicely balanced by the other, and that other seemed growing. the social, she accepted at what appeared to be its own worth. unlike mrs. plimpton, for instance, she was so innately a lady that she had met with no resistance in the eastern watering places, and her sense of values had remained the truer for it. he did not admire her the less now he had discovered that the poise was not so adjusted as he had thought it, but his feeling about her changed, grew more personal, more complicated. she was showing an alarming tendency to lean on him at a time when he was examining with some concern his own supports. she possessed intelligence and fascination, she was a woman whose attentions would have flattered and disturbed any man with a spark of virility, and hodder had constantly before his eyes the spectacle of others paying her court. here were danger-signals again! mrs. plaice, a middle-aged english lady staying in the house, never appeared until noon. breakfast was set out in the tiled and sheltered loggia, where they were fanned by the cool airs of a softly breathing ocean. the world, on these mornings, had a sparkling unreality, the cold, cobalt sea stretching to sun-lit isles, and beyond, the vividly painted shore,--the setting of luxury had never been so complete. and the woman who sat opposite him seemed, like one of her own nectarines, to be the fruit that crowned it all. why not yield to the enchantment? why rebel, when nobody else complained? were it not more simple to accept what life sent in its orderly course instead of striving for an impossible and shadowy ideal? very shadowy indeed! and to what end were his labours in that smoky, western city, with its heedless dalton streets, which went their inevitable ways? for he had the choice. to do him justice, he was slow in arriving at a realization that seemed to him so incredible, so preposterous. he was her rector! and he had accepted, all unconsciously, the worldly point of view as to mrs. larrabbee,--that she was reserved for a worldly match. a clergyman's wife! what would become of the clergyman? and yet other clergymen had married rich women, despite the warning of the needle's eye. she drove him in her buckboard to jordan's pond, set, like a jewel in the hills, and even to the deep, cliff bordered inlet beyond north east, which reminded her, she said, of a norway fiord. and sometimes they walked together through wooded paths that led them to beetling shores, and sat listening to the waves crashing far below. silences and commonplaces became the rule instead of the eager discussions with which they had begun,--on such safer topics as the problem of the social work of modern churches. her aromatic presence, and in this setting, continually disturbed him: nature's perfumes, more definable, --exhalations of the sea and spruce,--mingled with hers, anaesthetics compelling lethargy. he felt himself drowning, even wished to drown, --and yet strangely resisted. "i must go to-morrow," he said. "to-morrow--why? there is a dinner, you know, and mrs. waterman wished so particularly to meet you." he did not look at her. the undisguised note of pain found an echo within him. and this was mrs. larrabbee! "i am sorry, but i must," he told her, and she may not have suspected the extent to which the firmness was feigned. "you have promised to make other visits? the fergusons,--they said they expected you." "i'm going west--home," he said, and the word sounded odd. "at this season! but there is nobody in church, at least only a few, and mr. mccrae can take care of those--he always does. he likes it." hodder smiled in spite of himself. he might have told her that those outside the church were troubling him. but he did not, since he had small confidence in being able to bring them in. "i have been away too long, i am getting spoiled," he replied, with an attempt at lightness. he forced his eyes to meet hers, and she read in them an unalterable resolution. "it is my opinion you are too conscientious, even for a clergyman," she said, and now it was her lightness that hurt. she protested no more. and as she led the way homeward through the narrow forest path, her head erect, still maintaining this lighter tone, he wondered how deeply she had read him; how far her intuition had carried her below the surface; whether she guessed the presence of that stifled thing in him which was crying feebly for life; whether it was that she had discovered, or something else? he must give it the chance it craved. he must get away--he must think. to surrender now would mean destruction. . . early the next morning, as he left the pier in the motor boat, he saw a pink scarf waving high above him from the loggia. and he flung up his hand in return. mingled with a faint sense of freedom was intense sadness. chapter viii the line of least resistance from the vantage point of his rooms in the parish house, hodder reviewed the situation. and despite the desires thronging after him in his flight he had the feeling of once who, in the dark, has been very near to annihilation. what had shaken him most was the revelation of an old enemy which, watching its chance, had beset him at the first opportunity; and at a time when the scheme of life, which he flattered himself to have solved forever, was threatening once more to resolve itself into fragments. he had, as if by a miracle, escaped destruction in some insidious form. he shrank instinctively from an analysis of the woman in regard to whom his feelings were, so complicated, and yet by no means lacking in tenderness. but as time went on, he recognized more and more that she had come into his life at a moment when he was peculiarly vulnerable. she had taken him off his guard. that the brilliant mrs. larrabbee should have desired him--or what she believed was him--was food enough for thought, was an indication of an idealism in her nature that he would not have suspected. from a worldly point of view, the marriage would have commended itself to none of her friends. yet hodder perceived clearly that he could not have given her what she desired, since the marriage would have killed it in him. she offered him the other thing. once again he had managed somehow to cling to his dream of what the relationship between man and woman should be, and he saw more and more distinctly that he had coveted not only the jewel, but its setting. he could not see her out of it--she faded. nor could he see himself in it. luxury,--of course,--that was what he had spurned. luxury in contrast to dalton street, to the whirring factories near the church which discharged, at nightfall, their quotas of wan women and stunted children. and yet here he was catering to luxury, providing religion for it! religion! early in november he heard that mrs. larrabbee had suddenly decided to go abroad without returning home. . . . that winter hodder might have been likened to a niagara for energy; an unharnessed niagara--such would have been his own comment. he seemed to turn no wheels, or only a few at least, and feebly. and while the spectacle of their rector's zeal was no doubt an edifying one to his parishioners, they gave him to understand that they would have been satisfied with less. they admired, but chided him gently; and in february mr. parr offered to take him to florida. he was tired, and it was largely because he dreaded the reflection inevitable in a period of rest, that he refused. . . . and throughout these months, the feeling recurred, with increased strength, that mccrae was still watching him, --the notion persisted that his assistant held to a theory of his own, if he could but be induced to reveal it. hodder refrained from making the appeal. sometimes he was on the point of losing patience with this enigmatic person. congratulations on the fact that his congregation was increasing brought him little comfort, since a cold analysis of the newcomers who were renting pews was in itself an indication of the lack of that thing he so vainly sought. the decorous families who were now allying themselves with st. john's did so at the expense of other churches either more radical or less fashionable. what was it he sought? what did he wish? to fill the church to overflowing with the poor and needy as well as the rich, and to enter into the lives of all. yet at a certain point he met a resistance that was no less firm because it was baffling. the word, on his lips at least, seemed to have lost it efficacy. the poor heeded it not, and he preached to the rich as from behind a glass. they went on with their carnival. why this insatiate ambition on his part in an age of unbelief? other clergymen, not half so fortunate, were apparently satisfied; or else--from his conversation with them--either oddly optimistic or resigned. why not he? it was strange, in spite of everything, that hope sprang up within him, a recurrent geyser. gradually, almost imperceptibly, he found himself turning more and more towards that line of least resistance which other churches were following, as the one modern solution,--institutional work. after all, in the rescuing of bodies some method might yet be discovered to revive the souls. and there were the children! hodder might have been likened to an explorer, seeking a direct path when there was none--a royal road. and if this were oblique it offered, at least, a definite outlet for his energy. such was, approximately, the state of his mind early in march when gordon atterbury came back from a conference in new york on institutional work, and filled with enthusiasm. st. john's was incredibly behind the times, so he told hodder, and later the vestry. now that they had, in mr. hodder, a man of action and ability--ahem! there was no excuse for a parish as wealthy as st. john's, a parish with their opportunities, considering the proximity of dalton street neighbourhood, not enlarging and modernizing the parish house, not building a settlement house with kindergartens, schools, workshops, libraries, a dispensary and day nurseries. it would undoubtedly be an expense--and mr. atterbury looked at mr. parr, who drummed on the vestry table. they would need extra assistants, deaconesses, trained nurses, and all that. but there were other churches in the city that were ahead of st. john's--a reproach --ahem! mr. parr replied that he had told the rector that he stood ready to contribute to such a scheme when he, the rector; should be ready to approve it. and he looked at mr. hodder. mr. hodder said he had been considering the matter ever since his arrival. he had only one criticism of institutional work, that in his observation it did not bring the people whom it reached into the church in any great numbers. perhaps that were too much to ask, in these days. for his part he would willingly assume the extra burden, and he was far from denying the positive good such work accomplished through association and by the raising of standards. mr. ferguson declared his readiness to help. many of his salesgirls, he said, lived in this part of the city, and he would be glad to do anything in his power towards keeping them out of the dance-halls and such places. a committee was finally appointed consisting of mr. parr, mr. atterbury, and the rector, to consult architects and to decide upon a site. hodder began a correspondence with experts in other cities, collected plans, pamphlets, statistics; spent hours with the great child-specialist, dr. jarvis, and with certain clergymen who believed in institutionalism as the hope of the future. but mccrae was provokingly non-committal. "oh, they may try it," he assented somewhat grudgingly, one day when the rector had laid out for his inspection the architects' sketch for the settlement house. "no doubt it will help many poor bodies along." "is there anything else?" the rector asked, looking searchingly at his assistant. "it may as well be that," replied mccrae. the suspicion began to dawn on hodder that the scotch man's ideals were as high as his own. both of them, secretly, regarded the new scheme as a compromise, a yielding to the inevitable . . . . mr. ferguson's remark that an enlarged parish house and a new settlement house might help to keep some of the young women employed in his department store out of the dance-halls interested hodder, who conceived the idea of a dance-hall of their own. for the rector, in the course of his bachelor shopping, often resorted to the emporium of his vestryman, to stand on the stairway which carried him upward without lifting his feet, to roam, fascinated, through the mazes of its aisles, where he invariably got lost, and was rescued by suave floor-walkers or pert young women in black gowns and white collars and cuffs. but they were not all pert--there were many characters, many types. and he often wondered whether they did not get tired standing on their feet all day long, hesitating to ask them; speculated on their lives--flung as most of them were on a heedless city, and left to shift for themselves. why was it that the church which cared for mr. ferguson's soul was unable to get in touch with, or make an appeal to, those of his thousand employees? it might indeed have been said that francis ferguson cared for his own soul, as he cared for the rest of his property, and kept it carefully insured,--somewhat, perhaps, on the principle of pascal's wager. that he had been a benefactor to his city no one would deny who had seen the facade that covered a whole block in the business district from tower to vine, surmounted by a red standard with the familiar motto, "when in doubt, go to ferguson's." at ferguson's you could buy anything from a pen-wiper to a piano or a paris gown; sit in a cool restaurant in summer or in a palm garden in winter; leave your baby--if you had one--in charge of the most capable trained nurses; if your taste were literary, mull over the novels in the book department; if you were stout, you might be reduced in the hygiene department, unknown to your husband and intimate friends. in short, if there were any virtuous human wish in the power of genius to gratify, ferguson's was the place. they, even taught you how to cook. it was a modern aladdin's palace: and, like everything else modern, much more wonderful than the original. and the soda might be likened to the waters of trevi,--to partake of which is to return. "when in doubt, go to ferguson!" thus mrs. larrabbee and other ladies interested in good works had altered his motto. he was one of the supporters of galt house, into which some of his own young saleswomen had occasionally strayed; and none, save mr. parr alone, had been so liberal in his gifts. holder invariably found it difficult to reconcile the unassuming man, whose conversation was so commonplace, with the titanic genius who had created ferguson's; nor indeed with the owner of the imposing marble mansion at number , park street. the rector occasionally dined there. he had acquired a real affection for mrs. ferguson, who resembled a burgomaster's wife in her evening gowns and jewels, and whose simple social ambitions had been gratified beyond her dreams. her heart had not shrunken in the process, nor had she forgotten her somewhat heterogeneous acquaintances in the southern part of the city. and it was true that when gertrude constable had nearly died of appendicitis, it was on this lady's broad bosom that mrs. constable had wept. mrs. ferguson had haunted the house, regardless of criticism, and actually quivering with sympathy. her more important dinner parties might have been likened to ill-matched fours-in-hand, and holder had sometimes felt more of pity than of amusement as she sat with an expression of terror on her face, helplessly watching certain unruly individuals taking their bits in their teeth and galloping madly downhill. on one occasion, when he sat beside her, a young man, who shall be nameless, was suddenly heard to remark in the midst of an accidental lull: "i never go to church. what's the use? i'm afraid most of us don't believe in hell any more." a silence followed: of the sort that chills. and the young man, glancing down the long board at the clergyman, became as red as the carnation in his buttonhole, and in his extremity gulped down more champagne. "things are in a dreadful state nowadays!" mrs. ferguson gasped to a paralyzed company, and turned an agonized face to holder. "i'm so sorry," she said, "i don't know why i asked him to-night, except that i have to have a young man for nan, and he's just come to the city, and i was sorry for him. he's very promising in a business way; he's in mr. plimpton's trust company." "please don't let it trouble you." holder turned and smiled a little, and added whimsically: "we may as well face the truth." "oh, i should expect you to be good about it, but it was unpardonable," she cried . . . . in the intervals when he gained her attention he strove, by talking lightly of other things, to take her mind off the incident, but somehow it had left him strangely and--he felt--disproportionately depressed, --although he had believed himself capable of facing more or less philosophically that condition which the speaker had so frankly expressed. yet the remark, somehow, had had an illuminating effect like a flashlight, revealing to him the isolation of the church as never before. and after dinner, as they were going to the smoking-room, the offender accosted him shamefacedly. "i'm awfully sorry, mr. holder," he stammered. that the tall rector's regard was kindly did not relieve his discomfort. hodder laid a hand on his shoulder. "don't worry about it," he answered, "i have only one regret as to what you said--that it is true." the other looked at him curiously. "it's mighty decent of you to take it this way," he laid. further speech failed him. he was a nice-looking young man, with firm white teeth, and honesty was written all over his boyish face. and the palpable fact that his regret was more on the clergyman's account than for the social faux pas drew holder the more, since it bespoke a genuineness of character. he did not see the yearning in the rector's eyes as he turned away. . . why was it they could not be standing side by side, fighting the same fight? the church had lost him, and thousands like him, and she needed them; could not, indeed, do without them. where, indeed, were the young men? they did not bother their heads about spiritual matters any more. but were they not, he asked himself, franker than many of these others, the so-called pillars of the spiritual structure? mr. plimpton accosted him. "i congratulate you upon the new plans, mr. hodder,--they're great," he said. "mr. parr and our host are coming down handsomely, eh? when we get the new settlement house we'll have a plant as up-to-date as any church in the country. when do you break ground?" "not until autumn, i believe," hodder replied. "there are a good many details to decide upon yet." "well, i congratulate you." mr. plimpton was forever congratulating. "up-to-date"--"plant"! more illuminating words, eloquent of mr. plimpton's ideals. st. john's down at the heels, to be brought up to the state of efficiency of mr. plimpton's trust company! it was by no means the first time he had heard modern attributes on mr. plimpton's lips applied to a sacred institution, but to-night they had a profoundly disquieting effect. to-night, a certain clairvoyance had been vouchsafed him, and he beheld these men, his associates and supporters, with a detachment never before achieved. they settled in groups about the room, which was square and high, and panelled in italian walnut, with fluted pilasters,--the capitals of which were elaborately carved. and hodder found himself on a deep leather sofa in a corner engaged in a desultory and automatic conversation with everett constable. mr. plimpton, with a large cigar between his lips, was the radiating centre of one of the liveliest groups, and of him the rector had fallen into a consideration, piecing together bits of information that hitherto had floated meaninglessly in his mind. it was mrs. larrabbee who had given character to the career of the still comparatively youthful and unquestionably energetic president of the chamber of commerce by likening it to a great spiral, starting somewhere in outer regions of twilight, and gradually drawing nearer to the centre, from which he had never taken his eyes. at the centre were eldon parr and charlotte gore. wallis plimpton had made himself indispensable to both. his campaign for the daughter of thurston gore had been comparable to one of the great sieges of history, for mr. plimpton was a laughing-stock when he sat down before that fortress. at the end of ten years, charlotte had capitulated, with a sigh of relief, realizing at last her destiny. she had become slightly stout, revealing, as time went on, no wrinkles--a proof that the union was founded on something more enduring than poetry: statesmanship--that was the secret! step by step, slowly but surely, the memoranda in that matrimonial portfolio were growing into accomplished facts; all events, such as displacements of power, were foreseen; and the plimptons, like bismarck, had only to indicate, in case of sudden news, the pigeonhole where the plan of any particular campaign was filed. mrs. larrabbee's temptation to be witty at the expense of those for whom she had no liking had led hodder to discount the sketch. he had not disliked mr. plimpton, who had done him many little kindnesses. he was good-natured, never ruffled, widely tolerant, hail-fellow-well-met with everybody, and he had enlivened many a vestry meeting with his stories. it were hypercritical to accuse him of a lack of originality. and if by taking thought, he had arrived, from nowhere, at his present position of ease and eminence, success had not turned to ashes in his mouth. he fairly exhaled well-being, happiness, and good cheer. life had gone well with him, he wished the same to others. but to-night, from his corner, hodder seemed to see mr. plimpton with new eyes. not that he stood revealed a villain, which he was far from being; it was the air of sophistication, of good-natured if cynical acceptance of things as they were--and plenty good enough, too!--that jarred upon the rector in his new mood, and it was made manifest to him as never before why his appeals from the pulpit had lacked efficacy. mr. plimpton didn't want the world changed! and in this desire he represented the men in that room, and the majority of the congregation of st. john's. the rector had felt something of this before, and it seemed to him astonishing that the revelation had not come to him sooner. did any one of them, in his heart, care anything for the ideals and aspirations of the church? as he gazed at them through the gathering smoke they had become strangers, receded all at once to a great distance. . . . across the room he caught the name, bedloe hubbell, pronounced with peculiar bitterness by mr. ferguson. at his side everett constable was alert, listening. "ten years ago," said a stout mr. varnum, the president of the third national bank, "if you'd told me that that man was to become a demagogue and a reformer, i wouldn't have believed you. why, his company used to take rebates from the l. & g., and the southern--i know it." he emphasized the statement with a blow on the table that made the liqueur glasses dance. "and now, with his municipal league, he's going to clean up the city, is he? put in a reform mayor. show up what he calls the consolidated tractions company scandal. pooh!" "you got out all right, varnum. you won't be locked up," said mr. plimpton, banteringly. "so did you," retorted varnum. "so did ferguson, so did constable." "so did eldon parr," remarked another man, amidst a climax of laughter. "langmaid handled that pretty well." hodder felt everett constable fidget. "bedloe's all right, but he's a dreamer," mr. plimpton volunteered. "then i wish he'd stop dreaming," said mr. ferguson, and there was more laughter, although he had spoken savagely. "that's what he is, a dreamer," varnum ejaculated. "say, he told george carter the other day that prostitution wasn't necessary, that in fifty years we'd have largely done away with it. think of that, and it's as old as sodom and gomorrah!" "if hubbell had his way, he'd make this town look like a connecticut hill village--he'd drive all the prosperity out of it. all the railroads would have to abandon their terminals--there'd be no more traffic, and you'd have to walk across the bridge to get a drink." "well," said mr. plimpton, "tom beatty's good enough for me, for a while." beatty, hodder knew, was the "boss," of the city, with headquarters in a downtown saloon. "beatty's been maligned," mr. varnum declared. "i don't say he's a saint, but he's run the town pretty well, on the whole, and kept the vice where it belongs, out of sight. he's made his pile, but he's entitled to something we all are. you always know where you stand with beatty. but say, if hubbell and his crowd--" "don't worry about bedloe,--he'll get called in, he'll come home to roost like the rest of them," said mr. plimpton, cheerfully. "the people can't govern themselves,--only bedloe doesn't know it. some day he'll find it out." . . . the french window beside him was open, and hodder slipped out, unnoticed, into the warm night and stood staring at the darkness. his one desire had been to get away, out of hearing, and he pressed forward over the tiled pavement until he stumbled against a stone balustrade that guarded a drop of five feet or so to the lawn below. at the same time he heard his name called. "is that you, mr. hodder?" he started. the voice had a wistful tremulousness, and might almost have been the echo of the leaves stirring in the night air. then he perceived, in a shaft of light from one of the drawing-room windows near by, a girl standing beside the balustrade; and as she came towards him, with tentative steps, the light played conjurer, catching the silvery gauze of her dress and striking an aura through the film of her hair. "it's nan ferguson," she said. "of course," he exclaimed, collecting himself. "how stupid of me not to have recognized you!" "i'm so glad you came out," she went on impulsively, yet shyly, "i wanted to tell you how sorry i was that that thing happened at the table." "i like that young man," he said. "do you?" she exclaimed, with unexpected gratitude. so do i. he really isn't--so bad as he must seem." "i'm sure of it," said the rector, laughing. "i was afraid you'd think him wicked," said nan. "he works awfully hard, and he's sending a brother through college. he isn't a bit like--some others i know. he wants to make something of himself. and i feel responsible, because i had mother ask him to-night." he read her secret. no doubt she meant him to do so. "you know we're going away next week, for the summer--that is, mother and i," she continued. "father comes later. and i do hope you'll make us a visit, mr. hodder--we were disappointed you couldn't come last year." nan hesitated, and thrusting her hand into her gown drew forth an envelope and held it out to him. "i intended to give you this to-night, to use--for anything you thought best." he took it gravely. she looked up at him. "it seems so little--such a selfish way of discharging one's obligations, just to write out a cheque, when there is so much trouble in the world that demands human kindness as well as material help. i drove up dalton street yesterday, from downtown. you know how hot it was! and i couldn't help thinking how terrible it is that we who have everything are so heedless of all that misery. the thought of it took away all my pleasure. "i'd do something more, something personal, if i could. perhaps i shall be able to, next winter. why is it so difficult for all of us to know what to do?" "we have taken a step forward, at any rate, when we know that it is difficult," he said. she gazed up at him fixedly, her attention caught by an indefinable something in his voice, in his smile, that thrilled and vaguely disturbed her. she remembered it long afterwards. it suddenly made her shy again; as if, in faring forth into the darkness, she had come to the threshold of a mystery, of a revelation withheld; and it brought back the sense of adventure, of the palpitating fear and daring with which she had come to meet him. "it is something to know," she repeated, half comprehending. the scraping of chairs within alarmed her, and she stood ready to fly. "but i haven't thanked you for this," he said, holding up the envelope. "it may be that i shall find some one in dalton street--" "oh, i hope so," she faltered, breathlessly, hesitating a moment. and then she was gone, into the house. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xxvii. retribution xxviii. light chapter xxvii retribution i the bishop's house was a comfortable, double dwelling of a smooth, bright red brick and large, plate-glass windows, situated in a plot at the western end of waverley place. it had been bought by the diocese in the nineties, and was representative of that transitional period in american architecture when the mansard roof had been repudiated, when as yet no definite types had emerged to take its place. the house had pointed gables, and a tiny and utterly useless porch that served only to darken the front door, made of heavy pieces of wood fantastically curved. it was precisely ten o'clock in the morning when hodder rang the bell and was shown into the ample study which he had entered on other and less vital occasions. he found difficulty in realizing that this pleasant room, lined with well-worn books and overlooking a back lawn where the clothes of the episcopal family hung in the yellow autumn sun, was to be his judgment seat, whence he might be committed to trial for heresy. and this was the twentieth century! the full force of the preposterous fact smote him, and a consciousness of the distance he himself had travelled since the comparatively recent days of his own orthodoxy. and suddenly he was full again of a resentful impatience, not only that he should be called away from his labours, his cares, the strangers who were craving his help, to answer charges of such an absurd triviality, but that the performance of the great task to which he had set his hand, with god's help, should depend upon it. would his enemies be permitted to drive him out thus easily? the old bishop came in, walking by the aid of a cane. he smiled at hodder, who greeted him respectfully, and bidding him sit down, took a chair himself behind his writing table, from whence he gazed awhile earnestly and contemplatively at the rugged features and strong shoulders of the rector of st. john's. the effect of the look was that of a visual effort to harmonize the man with the deed he had done, the stir he had created in the city and the diocese; to readjust impressions. a hint of humour crept into the bishop's blue eyes, which were watery, yet strong, with heavy creases in the corners. he indicated by a little gesture three bundles of envelopes, bound by rubber bands, on the corner of his blotter. "hodder," he said, "see what a lot of trouble you have made for me in my old age! all those are about you." the rector's expression could not have been deemed stern, but it had met the bishop's look unflinchingly. now it relaxed into a responding smile, which was not without seriousness. "i am sorry, sir," hodder answered, "to have caused you any worry--or inconvenience." "perhaps," said the bishop, "i have had too much smooth sailing for a servant of christ. indeed, i have come to that conclusion." hodder did not reply. he was moved, even more by the bishop's manner and voice than his words. and the opening to their conversation was unexpected. the old man put on his spectacles, and drew from the top of one of the bundles a letter. "this is from one of your vestrymen, mr. gordon atterbury," he said, and proceeded to read it, slowly. when he had finished he laid it down. "is that, according to your recollection, mr. hodder, a fairly accurate summary of the sermon you gave when you resumed the pulpit at the end of the summer?" "yes, sir," answered the rector, "it is surprisingly accurate, with the exception of two or three inferences which i shall explain at the proper moment." "mr. atterbury is to be congratulated on his memory," the bishop observed a little dryly. "and he has saved me the trouble of reading more. now what are the inferences to which you object?" hodder stated them. "the most serious one," he added, "is that which he draws from my attitude on the virgin birth. mr. atterbury insists, like others who cling to that dogma, that i have become what he vaguely calls an unitarian. he seems incapable of grasping my meaning, that the only true god the age knows, the world has ever known, is the god in christ, is the spirit in christ, and is there not by any material proof, but because we recognize it spiritually. and that doctrine and dogma, ancient speculations as to how, definitely, that spirit came to be in christ, are fruitless and mischievous to-day. mr. atterbury and others seem actually to resent my identification of our lord's spirit with the social conscience as well as the individual conscience of our time." the bishop nodded. "hodder," he demanded abruptly, leaning forward over his desk, "how did this thing happen?" "you mean, sir--" there was, in the bishop's voice, a note almost pathetic. "oh, i do not mean to ask you anything you may deem too personal. and god forbid, as i look at you, as i have known you, that i should doubt your sincerity. i am not your inquisitor, but your bishop and your friend, and i am asking for your confidence. six months ago you were, apparently, one of the most orthodox rectors in the diocese. i recognize that you are not an impulsive, sensational man, and i am all the more anxious to learn from your own lips something of the influences, of the processes which have changed you, which have been strong enough to impel you to risk the position you have achieved." by this unlooked-for appeal hodder was not only disarmed, but smitten with self-reproach at the thought of his former misjudgment and underestimation of the man in whose presence he sat. and it came over him, not only the extent to which, formerly, he had regarded the bishop as too tolerant and easygoing, but the fact that he had arrived here today prepared to find in his superior anything but the attitude he was showing. considering the bishop's age, hodder had been ready for a lack of understanding of the step he had taken, even for querulous reproaches and rebuke. he had, therefore, to pull himself together, to adjust himself to the unexpected greatness of soul with which he was being received before he began to sketch the misgivings he had felt from the early days of his rectorship of st. john's; the helplessness and failure which by degrees had come over him. he related how it had become apparent to him that by far the greater part of his rich and fashionable congregation were christians only in name, who kept their religion in a small and impervious compartment where it did not interfere with their lives. he pictured the yearning and perplexity of those who had come to him for help, who could not accept the old explanations, and had gone away empty; and he had not been able to make christians of the poor who attended the parish house. finally, trusting in the bishop's discretion, he spoke of the revelations he had unearthed in dalton street, and how these had completely destroyed his confidence in the christianity he had preached, and how he had put his old faith to the test of unprejudiced modern criticism, philosophy, and science. . . the bishop listened intently, his head bent, his eyes on he rector. "and you have come out--convinced?" he asked tremulously. "yes, yes, i see you have. it is enough." he relapsed into thought, his wrinkled hand lying idly on the table. "i need not tell you, my friend," he resumed at length, "that a great deal of pressure has been brought to bear upon me in this matter, more than i have ever before experienced. you have mortally offended, among others, the most powerful layman in the diocese, mr. parr, who complains that you have presumed to take him to task concerning his private affairs." "i told him," answered holder, "that so long as he continued to live the life he leads, i could not accept his contributions to st. john's." "i am an old man," said the bishop, "and whatever usefulness i have had is almost finished. but if i were young to-day, i should pray god for the courage and insight you have shown, and i am thankful to have lived long enough to have known you. it has, at least, been given one to realize that times have changed, that we are on the verge of a mighty future. i will be frank to say that ten years ago, if this had happened, i should have recommended you for trial. now i can only wish you godspeed. i, too, can see the light, my friend. i can see, i think, though dimly, the beginnings of a blending of all sects, of all religions in the increasing vision of the truth revealed in jesus christ, stripped, as you say, of dogma, of fruitless attempts at rational explanation. in japan and china, in india and persia, as well as in christian countries, it is coming, coming by some working of the spirit the mystery of which is beyond us. and nations and men who even yet know nothing of the gospels are showing a willingness to adopt what is christ's, and the god of christ." holder was silent, from sheer inability to speak. "if you had needed an advocate with me," the bishop continued, "you could not have had one to whose counsel i would more willingly have listened, than that of horace bentley. he wrote asking to come and see me, but i went to him in dalton street the day i returned. and it gives me satisfaction, mr. holder, to confess to you freely that he has taught me, by his life, more of true christianity than i have learned in all my experience elsewhere." "i had thought," exclaimed the rector, wonderingly, "that i owed him more than any other man." "there are many who think that--hundreds, i should say," the bishop replied . . . . "eldon parr ruined him, drove him from the church.... it is strange how, outside of the church, his influence has silently and continuously grown until it has borne fruit in--this. even now," he added after a pause, "the cautiousness, the dread of change which comes with old age might, i think, lead me to be afraid of it if i--didn't perceive behind it the spirit of horace bentley." it struck holder, suddenly, what an unconscious but real source of confidence this thought had likewise been to him. he spoke of it. "it is not that i wouldn't trust you," the bishop went on. "i have watched you, i have talked to asa waring, i have read the newspapers. in spite of it all, you have kept your head, you have not compromised the dignity of the church. but oh, my friend, i beg you to bear in mind that you are launched upon deep waters, that you have raised up many enemies --enemies of christ--who seek to destroy you. you are still young. and the uncompromising experiment to which you are pledged, of freeing your church, of placing her in the position of power and influence in the community which is rightfully hers, is as yet untried. and no stone will be left unturned to discourage and overcome you. you have faith,--you have made me feel it as you sat here,--a faith which will save you from bitterness in personal defeat. you may not reap the victory, or even see it in your lifetime. but of this i am sure, that you will be able to say, with paul, 'i have planted, apollos watered, but god gave the increase.' whatever happens, you may count upon my confidence and support. i can only wish that i were younger, that my arm were stronger, and that i had always perceived the truth as clearly as i see it now." holder had risen involuntarily while these words were being spoken. they were indeed a benediction, and the intensity of his feeling warned him of the inadequacy of any reply. they were pronounced in sorrow, yet in hope, and they brought home to him, sharply, the nobility of the bishop's own sacrifice. "and you, sir?" he asked. "ah," answered the bishop, "with this i shall have had my life. i am content. . . ." "you will come to me again, hodder? some other day," he said, after an interval, "that we may talk over the new problems. they are constructive, creative, and i am anxious to hear how you propose to meet them. for one thing, to find a new basis for the support of such a parish. i understand they have deprived you of your salary." "i have enough to live on, for a year or so," replied the rector, quickly. "perhaps more." "i'm afraid," said the bishop, with a smile in his old eyes, "that you will need it, my friend. but who can say? you have strength, you have confidence, and god is with you." ii life, as hodder now grasped it, was a rapidly whirling wheel which gave him no chance to catch up with the impressions and experiences through which it was dragging him. here, for instance, were two far-reaching and momentous events, one crowding upon the other, and not an hour for reflection, realization, or adjustment! he had, indeed, after his return from the bishop's, snatched a few minutes to write alison the unexpected result of that interview. but even as he wrote and rang for a messenger to carry the note to park street, he was conscious of an effort to seize upon and hold the fact that the woman he had so intensely desired was now his helpmate; and had, of her own freewill, united herself with him. a strong sense of the dignity of their relationship alone prevented his calling her on the telephone--as it doubtless had prevented her. while she remained in her father's house, he could not. . . in the little room next to the office several persons were waiting to see him. but as he went downstairs he halted on the, landing, his hand going to his forehead, a reflex movement significant of a final attempt to achieve the hitherto unattainable feat of imagining her as his wife. if he might only speak to her again--now, this morning! and yet he knew that he needed no confirmation. the reality was there, in the background; and though refusing to come forward to be touched, it had already grafted itself as an actual and vital part of his being, never to be eliminated. characteristically perfecting his own ideal, she had come to him in the hour when his horizon had been most obscure. and he experienced now an exultation, though solemn and sacred, that her faith had so far been rewarded in the tidings he now confided to the messenger. he was not, as yet, to be driven out from the task, to be deprived of the talent, the opportunity intrusted to him by lord--the emancipation of the parish of st. john's. the first to greet him, when he entered his office, was one who, unknown to himself, had been fighting the battle of the god in christ, and who now, thanks to john hodder, had identified the spirit as the transforming force. bedloe hubbell had come to offer his services to the church. the tender was unqualified. "i should even be willing, mr. hodder," he said with a smile, "to venture occasionally into a pulpit. you have not only changed my conception of religion, but you have made it for me something which i can now speak about naturally." hodder was struck by the suggestion. "ah, we shall need the laymen in the pulpits, mr. hubbell," he said quickly. "a great spiritual movement must be primarily a lay movement. and i promise you you shall not lack for opportunity." iii at nine o'clock that evening, when a reprieve came, hodder went out. anxiety on the score of kate marcy, as well as a desire to see mr. bentley and tell him of the conversation with the bishop, directed his steps toward dalton street. and hodder had, indeed, an intention of confiding to his friend, as one eminently entitled to it, the news of his engagement to alison parr. nothing, however, had been heard of kate. she was not in dalton street, mr. bentley feared. the search of gratz, the cabinet-maker, had been fruitless. and sally grover had even gone to see the woman in the hospital, whom kate had befriended, in the hope of getting a possible clew. they sat close together before the fire in mr. bentley's comfortable library, debating upon the possibility of other methods of procedure, when a carriage was heard rattling over the pitted asphalt without. as it pulled up at the curb, a silence fell between them. the door-bell rang. holder found himself sitting erect, rigidly attentive, listening to the muffled sound of a woman's voice in the entry. a few moments later came a knock at the library door, and sam entered. the old darky was plainly frightened. "it's miss kate, marse ho'ace, who you bin tryin' to fin'," he stammered. holder sprang to his feet and made his way rapidly around the table, where he stood confronting the woman in the doorway. there she was, perceptibly swaying, as though the floor under her were rocked by an earthquake. her handsome face was white as chalk, her pupils widened in terror. it was curious, at such an instant, that he should have taken in her costume,--yet it was part of the mystery. she wore a new, close-fitting, patently expensive suit of dark blue cloth and a small hat, which were literally transforming in their effect, demanding a palpable initial effort of identification. he seized her by the arm. "what is it?" he demanded. "oh, my god!" she cried. "he--he's out there--in the carriage." she leaned heavily against the doorpost, shivering . . . . holder saw sally grover coming down the stairs. "take her," he said, and went out of the front door, which sam had left open. mr. bentley was behind him. the driver had descended from the box and was peering into the darkness of the vehicle when he heard them, and turned. at sight of the tall clergyman, an expression of relief came into his face. "i don't like the looks of this, sir," he said. "i thought he was pretty bad when i went to fetch him--" holder pushed past him and looked into the carriage. leaning back, motionless, in the corner of the seat was the figure of a man. for a terrible moment of premonition, of enlightenment, the rector gazed at it. "they sent for me from a family hotel in ayers street," the driver was explaining. mr. bentley's voice interrupted him. "he must be brought in, at once. do you know where dr. latimer's office is, on tower street?" he asked the man. "go there, and bring this doctor back with you as quickly as possible. if he is not in, get another, physician." between them, the driver and holder got the burden out of the carriage and up the steps. the light from the hallway confirmed the rector's fear. "it's preston parr," he said. the next moment was too dreadful for surprise, but never had the sense of tragedy so pierced the innermost depths of holder's being as now, when horace bentley's calmness seemed to have forsaken him; and as he gazed down upon the features on the pillow, he wept . . . . holder turned away. whatever memories those features evoked, memories of a past that still throbbed with life these were too sacred for intrusion. the years of exile, of uncomplaining service to others in this sordid street and over the wide city had not yet sufficed to allay the pain, to heal the wound of youth. nay, loyalty had kept it fresh--a loyalty that was the handmaid of faith. . . the rector softly left the room, only to be confronted with another harrowing scene in the library, where a frantic woman was struggling in sally grover's grasp. he went to her assistance. . . words of comfort, of entreaty were of no avail,--kate marcy did not seem to hear them. hers, in contrast to that other, was the unmeaning grief, the overwhelming sense of injustice of the child; and with her regained physical strength the two had all they could do to restrain her. "i will go to him," she sobbed, between her paroxysms, "you've got no right to keep me--he's mine . . . he came back to me--he's all i ever had . . . ." so intent were they that they did not notice mr. bentley standing beside them until they heard his voice. "what she says is true," he told them. "her place is in there. let her go." kate marcy raised her head at the words, and looked at him a strange, half-comprehending, half-credulous gaze. they released her, helped her towards the bedroom, and closed the door gently behind her. . . the three sat in silence until the carriage was heard returning, and the doctor entered. the examination was brief, and two words, laconically spoken, sufficed for an explanation--apoplexy, alcohol. the prostrate, quivering woman was left where they had found her. dr. latimer was a friend of mr. bentley's, and betrayed no surprise at a situation which otherwise might have astonished him. it was only when he learned the dead man's name, and his parentage, that he looked up quickly from his note book. "the matter can be arranged without a scandal," he said, after an instant. "can you tell me something of the circumstances?" it was hodder who answered. "preston parr had been in love with this woman, and separated from her. she was under mr. bentley's care when he found her again, i infer, by accident. from what the driver says, they were together in a hotel in ayers street, and he died after he had been put in a carriage. in her terror, she was bringing him to mr. bentley." the doctor nodded. "poor woman!" he said unexpectedly. "will you be good enough to let mr: parr know that i will see him at his house, to-night?" he added, as he took his departure. iv sally grower went out with the physician, and it was mr. bentley who answered the question in the rector's mind, which he hesitated to ask. "mr. parr must come here," he said. as the rector turned, mechanically, to pick up his hat, mr. bentley added "you will come back, hodder?" "since you wish it, sir," the rector said. once in the street, he faced a predicament, but swiftly decided that the telephone was impossible under the circumstances, that there could be no decent procedure without going himself to park street. it was only a little after ten. the electric car which he caught seemed to lag, the stops were interminable. his thoughts flew hither and thither. should he try first to see alison? he was nearest to her now of all the world, and he could not suffer the thought of her having the news otherwise. yes, he must tell her, since she knew nothing of the existence of kate marcy. having settled that,--though the thought of the blow she was to receive lay like a weight on his heart,--mr. bentley's reason for summoning eldon parr to dalton street came to him. that the feelings of mr. bentley towards the financier were those of christian forgiveness was not for a moment to be doubted: but a meeting, particularly under such circumstances, could not but be painful indeed. it must be, it was, hodder saw, for kate marcy's sake; yes, and for eldon parr's as well, that he be given this opportunity to deal with the woman whom he had driven away from his son, and ruined. the moon, which had shed splendours over the world the night before, was obscured by a low-drifting mist as hodder turned in between the ornamental lamps that marked the gateway of the park street mansion, and by some undiscerned thought--suggestion he pictured the heart-broken woman he had left beside the body of one who had been heir to all this magnificence. useless now, stone and iron and glass, pictures and statuary. all the labour, all the care and cunning, all the stealthy planning to get ahead of others had been in vain! what indeed were left to eldon parr! it was he who needed pity,--not the woman who had sinned and had been absolved because of her great love; not the wayward, vice-driven boy who lay dead. the very horror of what eldon parr was now to suffer turned hodder cold as he rang the bell and listened for the soft tread of the servant who would answer his summons. the man who flung open the door knew him, and did not conceal his astonishment. "will you take my card to miss parr," the rector said, "if she has not retired, and tell her i have a message?" "miss parr is still in the library, sir." "alone?" "yes, sir." the man preceded him, but before his name had been announced alison was standing, her book in her hand, gazing at him with startled eyes, his name rising, a low cry, to her lips. "john!" he took the book from her, gently, and held her hands. "something has happened!" she said. "tell me--i can bear it." he saw instantly that her dread was for him, and it made his task the harder. it's your brother, alison." "preston! what is it? he's done something----" hodder shook his head. "he died--to-night. he is at mr. bentley's." it was like her that she did not cry out, or even speak, but stood still, her hands tightening on his, her breast heaving. she was not, he knew, a woman who wept easily, and her eyes were dry. and he had it to be thankful for that it was given him to be with her, in this sacred relationship, at such a moment. but even now, such was the mystery that ever veiled her soul, he could not read her feelings, nor know what these might be towards the brother whose death he announced. "i want to tell you, first, alison, to prepare you," he said. her silence was eloquent. she looked up at him bravely, trustfully, in a way that made him wince. whatever the exact nature of her suffering, it was too deep for speech. and yet she helped him, made it easier for him by reason of her very trust, once given not to be withdrawn. it gave him a paradoxical understanding of her which was beyond definition. "you must know--you would have sometime to know that there was a woman he loved, whom he intended to marry--but she was separated from him. she was not what is called a bad woman, she was a working girl. i found her, this summer, and she told me the story, and she has been under the care of mr. bentley. she disappeared two or three days ago. your brother met her again, and he was stricken with apoplexy while with her this evening. she brought him to mr. bentley's house." "my father--bought her and sent her away." "you knew?" "i heard a little about it at the time, by accident. i have always remembered it . . . . i have always felt that something like this would happen." her sense of fatality, another impression she gave of living in the deeper, instinctive currents of life, had never been stronger upon him than now. . . . she released his hands. "how strange," she said, "that the end should have come at mr. bentley's! he loved my mother--she was the only woman he ever loved." it came to hodder as the completing touch of the revelation he had half glimpsed by the bedside. "ah," he could not help exclaiming, "that explains much." she had looked at him again, through sudden tears, as though divining his reference to mr. bentley's grief, when a step make them turn. eldon parr had entered the room. never, not even in that last interview, had his hardness seemed so concretely apparent as now. again, pity seemed never more out of place, yet pity was hodder's dominant feeling as he met the coldness, the relentlessness of the glance. the thing that struck him, that momentarily kept closed his lips, was the awful, unconscious timeliness of the man's entrance, and his unpreparedness to meet the blow that was to crush him. "may i ask, mr. hodder," he said, in an unemotional voice, "what you are doing in this house?" still hodder hesitated, an unwilling executioner. "father," said alison, "mr. hodder has come with a message." never, perhaps, had eldon parr given such complete proof of his lack of spiritual intuition. the atmosphere, charged with presage for him, gave him nothing. "mr. hodder takes a strange way of delivering it," was his comment. mercy took precedence over her natural directness. she laid her hand gently on his arm. and she had, at that instant, no thought of the long years he had neglected her for her brother. "it's about--preston," she said. "preston!" the name came sharply from eldon parr's lips. "what about him? speak, can't you?" "he died this evening," said alison, simply. hodder plainly heard the ticking of the clock on the mantel . . . . and the drama that occurred was the more horrible because it was hidden; played, as it were, behind closed doors. for the spectators, there was only the black wall, and the silence. eldon parr literally did nothing, --made no gesture, uttered no cry. the death, they knew, was taking place in his soul, yet the man stood before them, naturally, for what seemed an interminable time . . . . "where is he?" he asked. "at mr. bentley's, in dalton street." it was alison who replied again. even then he gave no sign that he read retribution in the coincidence, betrayed no agitation at the mention of a name which, in such a connection, might well have struck the terror of judgment into his heart. they watched him while, with a firm step, he crossed the room and pressed a button in the wall, and waited. "i want the closed automobile, at once," he said, when the servant came. "i beg pardon; sir, but i think gratton has gone to bed. he had no orders." "then wake him," said eldon parr, "instantly. and send for my secretary." with a glance which he perceived alison comprehended, hodder made his way out of the room. he had from eldon parr, as he passed him, neither question, acknowledgment, nor recognition. whatever the banker might have felt, or whether his body had now become a mere machine mechanically carrying on a life-long habit of action, the impression was one of the tremendousness of the man's consistency. a great effort was demanded to summon up the now almost unimaginable experience of his confidence; of the evening when, almost on that very spot, he had revealed to hodder the one weakness of his life. and yet the effort was not to be, presently, without startling results. in the darkness of the street the picture suddenly grew distinct on the screen of the rector's mind, the face of the banker subtly drawn with pain as he had looked down on it in compassion; the voice with its undercurrent of agony: "he never knew how much i cared--that what i was doing was all for him, building for him, that he might carry on my work." v so swift was the trolley that ten minutes had elapsed, after hodder's arrival, before the purr of an engine and the shriek of a brake broke the stillness of upper dalton street and announced the stopping of a heavy motor before the door. the rector had found mr. bentley in the library, alone, seated with bent head in front of the fire, and had simply announced the intention of eldon parr to come. from the chair hodder had unobtrusively chosen, near the window, his eyes rested on the noble profile of his friend. what his thoughts were, hodder could not surmise; for he seemed again, marvellously, to have regained the outward peace which was the symbol of banishment from the inner man of all thought of self. "i have prepared her for mr. parr's coming," he said to hodder at length. and yet he had left her there! hodder recalled the words mr. bentley had spoken, "it is her place." her place, the fallen woman's, the place she had earned by a great love and a great renunciation, of which no earthly power might henceforth deprive her . . . . then came the motor, the ring at the door, the entrance of eldon parr into the library. he paused, a perceptible moment, on the threshold as his look fell upon the man whom he had deprived of home and fortune,--yes and of the one woman in the world for them both. mr. bentley had risen, and stood facing him. that shining, compassionate gaze should have been indeed a difficult one to meet. vengeance was the lord's, in truth! what ordeal that horace bentley in anger and retribution might have devised could have equalled this! and yet eldon parr did meet it--with an effort. hodder, from his corner, detected the effort, though it were barely discernible, and would have passed a scrutiny less rigid,--the first outward and visible sign of the lesion within. for a brief instant the banker's eyes encountered mr. bentley's look with a flash of the old defiance, and fell, and then swept the room. "will you come this way, mr. parr?" mr. bentley said, indicating the door of the bedroom. alison followed. her eyes, wet with unheeded tears, had never left mr. bentley's face. she put out her hand to him . . . . eldon parr had halted abruptly. he knew from alison the circumstances in which his son had died, and how he had been brought hither to this house, but the sight of the woman beside the bed fanned into flame his fury against a world which had cheated him, by such ignominious means, of his dearest wish. he grew white with sudden passion. "what is she doing here?" he demanded. kate marcy, who had not seemed to hear his entrance, raised up to him a face from which all fear had fled, a face which, by its suggestive power, compelled him to realize the absolute despair clutching now at his own soul, and against which he was fighting wildly, hopelessly. it was lying in wait for him, with hideous patience, in the coming watches of the night. perhaps he read in the face of this woman whom he had condemned to suffer all degradation, and over whom he was now powerless, something which would ultimately save her from the hell now yawning for him; a redeeming element in her grief of which she herself were not as yet conscious, a light shining in the darkness of her soul which in eternity would become luminous. and he saw no light for him--he thrashed in darkness. he had nothing, now, to give, no power longer to deprive. she had given all she possessed, the memorial of her kind which would outlast monuments. it was alison who crossed the room swiftly. she laid her hand protectingly on kate marcy's shoulder, and stooped, and kissed her. she turned to her father. "it is her right," she said. "he belonged to her, not to us. and we must take her home with us. "no," answered kate marcy' "i don't want to go. i wouldn't live," she added with unexpected intensity, "with him." "you would live with me," said alison. "i don't want to live!" kate marcy got up from the chair with an energy they had not thought her to possess, a revival of the spirit which had upheld her when she had contended, singly, with a remorseless world. she addressed herself to eldon parr. "you took him from me, and i was a fool to let you. he might have saved me and saved himself. i listened to you when you told me lies as to how it would ruin him . . . . well,--i had him you never did." the sudden, intolerable sense of wrong done to her love, the swift anger which followed it, the justness of her claim of him who now lay in the dignity of death clothed her--who in life had been crushed and blotted out--with a dignity not to be gainsaid. in this moment of final self-assertion she became the dominating person in the room, knew for once the birthright of human worth. they watched her in silence as she turned and gave one last, lingering look at the features of the dead; stretched out her hand towards them, but did not touch them . . . and then went slowly towards the door. beside alison she stopped. "you are his sister?" she said. "yes." she searched alison's face, wistfully. "i could have loved you." "and can you not--still?" kate mercy did not answer the question. "it is because you understand," she said. "you're like those i've come to know--here. and you're like him . . . . i don't mean in looks. he, too, was good--and square." she spoke the words a little defiantly, as though challenging the verdict of the world. "and he wouldn't have been wild if he could have got going straight." "i know," said alison, in a low voice. "yes," said kate mercy, "you look as if you did. he thought a lot of you, he said he was only beginning to find out what you was. i'd like you to think as well of me as you can." "i could not think better," alison replied. kate mercy shook her head. "i got about as low as any woman ever got," she said "mr. hodder will tell you. i want you to know that i wouldn't marry --your brother," she hesitated over the name. "he wanted me to--he was mad with me to night, because i wouldn't--when this happened." she snatched her hand free from alison's, and fled out of the room, into the hallway. eldon parr had moved towards the bed, seemingly unaware of the words they had spoken. perhaps, as he gazed upon the face, he remembered in his agony the sunny, smiling child who need to come hurrying down the steps in ransome street to meet him. in the library mr. bentley and john hodder, knowing nothing of her flight, heard the front door close on kate marcy forever . . . . chapter xxviii light i two days after the funeral, which had taken place from calvary, and not from st. john's, hodder was no little astonished to receive a note from eldon parr's secretary requesting the rector to call in park street. in the same mail was a letter from alison. "i have had," she wrote, "a talk with my father. the initiative was his. i should not have thought of speaking to him of my affairs so soon after preston's death. it seems that he strongly suspected our engagement, which of course i at once acknowledged, telling him that it was your intention, at the proper time, to speak to him yourself. "i was surprised when he said he would ask you to call. i confess that i have not an idea of what he intends to say to you, john, but i trust you absolutely, as always. you will find him, already, terribly changed. i cannot describe it--you will see for yourself. and it has all seemed to happen so suddenly. as i wrote you, he sat up both nights, with preston--he could not be induced to leave the room. and after the first night he was different. he has hardly spoken a word, except when he sent for me this evening, and he eats nothing . . . . and yet, somehow, i do not think that this will be the end. i feel that he will go on living. . . . . "i did not realize how much he still hoped about preston. and on monday, when preston so unexpectedly came home, he was happier than i have known him for years. it was strange and sad that he could not see, as i saw, that whatever will power my brother had had was gone. he could not read it in the face of his own son, who was so quick to detect it in all others! and then came the tragedy. oh, john, do you think we shall ever find that girl again?--i know you are trying but we mustn't rest until we do. do you think we ever shall? i shall never forgive myself for not following her out of the door, but, i thought she had gone to you and mr. bentley." hodder laid the letter down, and took it up again. he knew that alison felt, as he felt, that they never would find kate marcy . . . . he read on. "my father wished to speak to me about the money. he has plans for much of it, it appears, even now. oh. john, he will never understand. i want so much to see you, to talk to you--there are times when i am actually afraid to be alone, and without you. if it be weakness to confess that i need your reassurance, your strength and comfort constantly, then i am weak. i once thought i could stand alone, that i had solved all problems for myself, but i know now how foolish i was. i have been face to face with such dreadful, unimagined things, and in my ignorance i did not conceive that life held such terrors. and when i look at my father, the thought of immortality turns me faint. after you have come here this afternoon there can be no longer any reason why we should not meet, and all the world know it. i will go with you to mr. bentley's. "of course i need not tell you that i refused to inherit anything. but i believe i should have consented if i possibly could have done so. it seemed so cruel--i can think of no other word--to have, to refuse at such a moment. perhaps i have been cruel to him all my life--i don't know. as i look back upon everything, all our relations, i cannot see how i could have been different. he wouldn't let me. i still believe to have stayed with him would have been a foolish and useless sacrifice . . . but he looked at me so queerly, as though he, too, had had a glimmering of what we might have been to each other after my mother died. why is life so hard? and why are we always getting glimpses of things when it is too late? it is only honest to say that if i had it to do all over again, i should have left him as i did. "it is hard to write you this, but he actually made the condition of my acceptance of the inheritance that i should not marry you. i really do not believe i convinced him that you wouldn't have me take the money under any circumstances. and the dreadful side of it all was that i had to make it plain to him--after what has happened that my desire to marry you wasn't the main reason of my refusal. i had to tell him that even though you had not been in question, i couldn't have taken what he wished to give me, since it had not been honestly made. he asked me why i went on eating the food bought with such money, living under his roof? but i cannot, i will not leave him just yet . . . . it is two o'clock. i cannot write any more to-night." ii the appointed time was at the november dusk, hurried forward nearly an hour by the falling panoply of smoke driven westward over the park by the wet east wind. and the rector was conducted, with due ceremony, to the office upstairs which he had never again expected to enter, where that other memorable interview had taken place. the curtains were drawn. and if the green-shaded lamp--the only light in the room--had been arranged by a master of dramatic effect, it could not have better served the setting. in spite of alison's letter, holder was unprepared for the ravages a few days had made in the face of eldon parr. not that he appeared older: the impression was less natural, more sinister. the skin had drawn sharply over the cheek-bones, and strangely the eyes both contradicted and harmonized with the transformation of the features. these, too, had changed. they were not dead and lustreless, but gleamed out of the shadowy caverns into which they had sunk, unyielding, indomitable in torment,--eyes of a spirit rebellious in the fumes . . . . this spirit somehow produced the sensation of its being separated from the body, for the movement of the hand, inviting holder to seat himself, seemed almost automatic. "i understand," said eldon parr, "that you wish to marry my daughter." "it is true that i am to marry alison," holder answered, "and that i intended, later on, to come to inform you of the fact." he did not mention the death of preston. condolences, under the circumstances, were utterly out of the question. "how do you propose to support her?" the banker demanded. "she is of age, and independent of you. you will pardon me if i reply that this is a matter between ourselves," holder said. "i had made up my mind that the day she married you i would not only disinherit her, but refuse absolutely, to have anything to do with her." "if you cannot perceive what she perceives, that you have already by your own life cut her off from you absolutely and that seeing her will not mend matters while you remain relentless, nothing i can say will convince you." holder did not speak rebukingly. the utter uselessness of it was never more apparent. the man was condemned beyond all present reprieve, at least. "she left me," exclaimed eldon parr, bitterly. "she left you, to save herself." "we need not discuss that." "i am far from wishing to discuss it," holder replied. "i do not know why you have asked me to come here, mr. parr. it is clear that your attitude has not changed since our last conversation. i tried to make it plain to you why the church could not accept your money. your own daughter, cannot accept it." "there was a time," retorted the banker, "when you did not refuse to accept it." "yes," holder replied, "that is true." it came to him vividly then that it had been alison herself who had cast the enlightening gleam which revealed his inconsistency. but he did not defend himself. "i can see nothing in all this, mr. hodder, but a species of insanity," said eldon parr, and there crept into his tone both querulousness and intense exasperation. "in the first place, you insist upon marrying my daughter when neither she nor you have any dependable means of support. she never spared her criticisms of me, and you presume to condemn me, a man who, if he has neglected his children, has done so because he has spent too much of his time in serving his community and his country, and who has--if i have to say it myself--built up the prosperity which you and others are doing your best to tear down, and which can only result in the spread of misery. you profess to have a sympathy with the masses, but you do not know them as i do. they cannot control themselves, they require a strong hand. but i am not asking for your sympathy. i have been misunderstood all my life, i have become used to ingratitude, even from my children, and from the rector of the church for which i have done more than any other man." hodder stared at him in amazement. "you really believe that!" he exclaimed. "believe it!" eldon parr repeated. "i have had my troubles, as heavy bereavements as a man can have. all of them, even this of my son's death, all the ingratitude and lack of sympathy i have experienced--" (he looked deliberately at hodder) "have not prevented me, do not prevent me to-day from regarding my fortune as a trust. you have deprived st. john's, at least so long as you remain there, of some of its benefits, and the responsibility for that is on your own head. and i am now making arrangements to give to calvary the settlement house which st. john's should have had." the words were spoken with such an air of conviction, of unconscious plausibility, as it were, that it was impossible for hodder to doubt the genuineness of the attitude they expressed. and yet it was more than his mind could grasp . . . . horace bentley, richard garvin, and the miserable woman of the streets whom he had driven to destroy herself had made absolutely no impression whatever! the gifts, the benefactions of eldon parr to his fellow-men would go on as before! "you ask me why i sent for you," the banker went on. "it was primarily because i hoped to impress upon you the folly of marrying my daughter. and in spite of all the injury and injustice you have done me, i do not forget that you were once in a relationship to me which has been unique in my life. i trusted you, i admired you, for your ability, for your faculty of getting on with men. at that time you were wise enough not to attempt to pass comment upon accidents in business affairs which are, if deplorable, inevitable." eldon parr's voice gave a momentary sign of breaking. "i will be frank with you. my son's death has led me, perhaps weakly, to make one more appeal. you have ruined your career by these chimerical, socialistic notions you have taken up, and which you mistake for christianity. as a practical man i can tell you, positively, that st. john's will run downhill until you are bankrupt. the people who come to you now are in search of a new sensation, and when that grows stale they will fall away. even if a respectable number remain in your congregation, after this excitement and publicity have died down, i have reason to know that it is impossible to support a large city church on contributions. it has been tried again and again, and failed. you have borrowed money for the church's present needs. when that is gone i predict that you will find it difficult to get more." this had every indication of being a threat, but hodder, out of sheer curiosity, did not interrupt. and it was evident that the banker drew a wrong conclusion from his silence, which he may actually have taken for reluctant acquiescence. his tone grew more assertive. "the church, mr. hodder, cannot do without the substantial business men. i have told the bishop so, but he is failing so rapidly from old age that i might as well not have wasted my breath. he needs an assistant, a suffragan or coadjutor, and i intend to make it my affair to see that he gets one. when i remember him as he was ten years ago, i find it hard to believe that he is touched with these fancies. to be charitable, it is senile decay. he seems to forget what i have done for him, personally, made up his salary, paid his expenses at different times, and no appeal for the diocese to me was ever in vain. but again, i will let that go. "what i am getting at is this. you have made a mess of the affairs of st. john's, you have made a mess of your life. i am willing to give you the credit for sincerity. some of my friends might not be. you want to marry my daughter, and she is apparently determined to marry you. if you are sensible and resign from st. john's now i will settle on alison a sufficient sum to allow you both to live in comfort and decency the rest of your lives. i will not have it said of me that i permitted my daughter to become destitute." after he had finished, the rector sat for so long a time that the banker nervously shifted in his chair. the clergyman's look had a cumulative quality, an intensity which seemed to increase as the silence continued. there was no anger in it, no fanaticism. on the contrary, the higher sanity of it was disturbing; and its extraordinary implication--gradually borne in upon eldon parr--was that he himself were not in his right mind. the words, when they came, were a confirmation of this inference. "it is what i feared, mr. parr," he said. "you are as yet incapable of comprehending." "what do you mean?" asked the banker, jerking his hand from the table. the rector shook his head. "if this great chastisement with which you have been visited has given you no hint of the true meaning of life, nothing i can say will avail. if you will not yet listen to the spirit which is trying to make you comprehend, how then will you listen to me? how am i to open your eyes to the paradox of truth, that he who would save his life shall lose it, that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of god? if you will not believe him who said that, you will not believe me. i can only beg of you, strive to understand, that your heart many be softened, that your suffering soul may be released." it is to be recorded, strangely, that eldon parr did not grow angry in his turn. the burning eyes looked out at hodder curiously, as at a being upon whom the vials of wrath were somehow wasted, against whom the weapons of power were of no account. the fanatic had become a phenomenon which had momentarily stilled passion to arouse interest. . . "art thou a master of israel, and knowest not these things?" "do you mean to say"--such was the question that sprang to eldon parr's lips--"that you take the bible literally? what is your point of view? you speak about the salvation of souls, i have heard that kind of talk all my life. and it is easy, i find, for men who have never known the responsibilities of wealth to criticize and advise. i regard indiscriminate giving as nothing less than a crime, and i have always tried to be painstaking and judicious. if i had taken the words you quoted at their face value, i should have no wealth to distribute to-day. "i, too, mr. hodder, odd as it may seem to you, have had my dreams--of doing my share of making this country the best place in the world to live in. it has pleased providence to take away my son. he was not fitted to carry on my work,--that is the way--with dreams. i was to have taught him to build up, and to give, as i have given. you think me embittered, hard, because i seek to do good, to interpret the gospel in my own way. before this year is out i shall have retired from all active business. "i intend to spend the rest of my life in giving away the money i have earned--all of it. i do not intend to spare myself, and giving will be harder than earning. i shall found institutions for research of disease, hospitals, playgrounds, libraries, and schools. and i shall make the university here one of the best in the country. what more, may i ask, would you have me do?" "ah," replied the rector, "it is not what i would have you do. it is not, indeed, a question of 'doing,' but of seeing." "of seeing?" the banker repeated. "as i say, of using judgment." "judgment, yes, but the judgment which has not yet dawned for you, the enlightenment which is the knowledge of god's will. worldly wisdom is a rule of thumb many men may acquire, the other wisdom, the wisdom of the soul, is personal--the reward of revelation which springs from desire. you ask me what i think you should do. i will tell you--but you will not do it, you will be powerless to do it unless you see it for yourself, unless the time shall come when you are willing to give up everything you have held dear in life,--not your money, but your opinions, the very judgment and wisdom you value, until you have gained the faith which proclaims these worthless, until you are ready to receive the kingdom of god as a little child. you are not ready, now. your attitude, your very words, proclaim your blindness to all that has happened you, your determination to carry out, so far as it is left to you, your own will. you may die without seeing." crazy as it all sounded, a slight tremor shook eldon parr. there was something in the eyes, in the powerful features of the clergyman that kept him still, that made him listen with a fascination which had he taken cognizance of it--was akin to fear. that this man believed it, that he would impress it upon others, nay, had already done so, the banker did not then doubt. "you speak of giving," hodder continued, "and you have nothing to give --nothing. you are poorer to-day than the humblest man who has seen god. but you have much, you have all to restore." without raising his voice, the rector had contrived to put a mighty emphasis on the word. "you speak of the labour of giving, but if you seek your god and haply find him you will not rest night or day while you live until you have restored every dollar possible of that which you have wrongfully taken from others." john hodder rose and raised his arm in effective protest against the interruption eldon parr was about to make. he bore him down. "i know what you are going to say, mr. parr,--that it is not practical. that word 'practical' is the barrier between you and your god. i tell you that god can make anything practical. your conscience, the spirit, tortures you to-day, but you have not had enough torture, you still think to escape easily, to keep the sympathy of a world which despises you. you are afraid to do what god would have you do. you have the opportunity, through grace, by your example to leave the world better than you found it, to do a thing of such magnitude as is given to few men, to confess before all that your life has been blind and wicked. that is what the spirit is trying to teach you. but you fear the ridicule of the other blind men, you have not the faith to believe that many eyes would be opened by your act. the very shame of such a confession, you think, is not to be borne." "suppose i acknowledge, which i do not, your preposterous charge, how would you propose to do this thing?" "it is very simple," said the rector, "so far as the actual method of procedure goes. you have only to establish a board of men in whom you have confidence,--a court of claims, so to speak,--to pass upon the validity of every application, not from a business standpoint alone, but from one of a broad justice and equity. and not only that. i should have it an important part of the duties of this board to discover for themselves other claimants who may not, for various reasons, come forward. in the case of the consolidated tractions, for instances there are doubtless many men like garvin who invested their savings largely on the strength of your name. you cannot bring him back to life, restore him to his family as he was before you embittered him, but it would be a comparatively easy matter to return to his widow, with compound interest, the sum which he invested." "for the sake of argument," said eldon parr, "what would you do with the innumerable impostors who would overwhelm such a board with claims that they had bought and sold stock at a loss? and that is only one case i could mention." "would it be so dreadful a thing," asked hodder, "to run the risk of making a few mistakes? it would not be business, you say. if you had the desire to do this, you would dismiss such an obsession from your brain, you would prefer to err on the aide of justice and mercy. and no matter how able your board, in making restitution you could at best expect to mend only a fraction of the wrongs you have done." "i shall waive, for the moment, my contention that the consolidated tractions company, had it succeeded, would greatly have benefited the city. even if it had been the iniquitous, piratical transaction you suggest, why should i assume the responsibility for all who were concerned in it?" "if the grace were given you to do this, that question would answer itself," the rector replied. "the awful sense of responsibility, which you now lack, would overwhelm you." "you have made me out a rascal and a charlatan," said eldon parr, "and i have listened' patiently in my desire to be fair, to learn from your own lips whether there were anything in the extraordinary philosophy you have taken up, and which you are pleased to call christianity. if you will permit me to be as frank as you have been, it appears to me as sheer nonsense and folly, and if it were put into practice the world would be reduced at once to chaos and anarchy." "there is no danger, i am sorry to say, of its being put into practice at once," said hodder, smiting sadly. "i hope not," answered the banker, dryly. "utopia is a dream in which those who do the rough work of the world cannot afford to indulge. and there is one more question. you will, no doubt, deride it as practical, but to my mind it is very much to the point. you condemn the business practices in which i have engaged all my life as utterly unchristian. if you are logical, you will admit that no man or woman who owns stock in a modern corporation is, according to your definition, christian, and, to use your own phrase, can enter the kingdom of god. i can tell you, as one who knows, that there is no corporation in this country which, in the struggle to maintain itself, is not forced to adopt the natural law of the survival of the fittest, which you condemn. your own salary, while you had it, came from men who had made the money in corporations. business is business, and admits of no sentimental considerations. if you can get around that fact, i will gladly bow to your genius. should you succeed in reestablishing st. john's on what you call a free basis --and in my opinion you will not--even then the money, you would live on, and which supported the church, would be directly or indirectly derived from corporations." "i do not propose to enter into an economics argument with you, mr. parr, but if you tell me that the flagrant practices indulged in by those who organized the consolidated tractions company can be excused under any code of morals, any conception of christianity, i tell you they cannot. what do we see today in your business world? boards of directors, trusted by stockholders, betraying their trust, withholding information in order to profit thereby, buying and selling stock secretly; stock watering, selling to the public diluted values,--all kinds of iniquity and abuse of power which i need not go into. do you mean to tell me, on the plea that business is business and hence a department by itself, that deception, cheating, and stealing are justified and necessary? the awakened conscience of the public is condemning you. "the time is at hand, though neither you nor i may live to see it, when the public conscience itself is beginning to perceive thin higher justice hidden from you. and you are attempting to mislead when you do not distinguish between the men who, for their own gain and power, mismanage such corporations as are mismanaged, and those who own stock and are misled. "the public conscience of which i speak is the leaven of christianity at work. and we must be content to work with it, to await its fulfilment, to realize that no one of us can change the world, but can only do his part in making it better. the least we can do is to refuse to indulge in practices which jeopardize our own souls, to remain poor if we cannot make wealth honestly. say what you will, the christian government we are approaching will not recognize property, because it is gradually becoming clear that the holding of property delays the kingdom at which you scoff, giving the man who owns it a power over the body of the man who does not. property produces slavery, since it compels those who have none to work for those who have. "the possession of property, or of sufficient property to give one individual an advantage over his fellows is inconsistent with christianity. hence it will be done away with, but only when enough have been emancipated to carry this into effect. hence the saying of our lord about the needle's eye--the danger to the soul of him who owns much property." "and how about your christian view of the world as a vale of tears?" eldon parr inquired. "so long as humanity exists, there will always be tears," admitted the rector. "but it is a false christianity which does not bid us work for our fellow-men, to relieve their suffering and make the world brighter. it is becoming clear that the way to do this effectively is through communities, cooperation, through nations, and not individuals. and this, if you like, is practical,--so practical that the men like you, who have gained unexampled privilege, fear it more and more. the old christian misconception, that the world is essentially a bad place, and which has served the ends of your privilege, is going by forever. and the motto of the citizens of the future will be the christian motto, 'i am my brother's keeper.' the world is a good place because the spirit is continually working in it, to make it better. and life is good, if only we take the right view of it,--the revealed view." "what you say is all very fine," said eldon parr. "and i have heard it before, from the discontented, the socialists. but it does not take into account the one essential element, human nature." "on the other hand, your scheme of life fails to reckon with the greater factor, divine nature," hodder replied. "when you have lived as long as i have, perhaps you will think differently, mr. hodder." eldon parr's voice had abruptly grown metallic, as though the full realization had come over him of the severity of the clergyman's arraignment; the audacity of the man who had ventured to oppose him and momentarily defeated him, who had won the allegiance of his own daughter, who had dared condemn him as an evil-doer and give advice as to his future course. he, eldon parr, who had been used to settle the destinies of men! his anger was suddenly at white heat; and his voice, which he strove to control, betrayed it. "since you have rejected my offer, which was made in kindness, since you are bent on ruining my daughter's life as well as your own, and she has disregarded my wishes, i refuse to see either of you, no matter to what straits you may come, as long as i live. that is understood. and she leaves this house to-day, never to enter it again. it is useless to prolong this conversation, i think." "quite useless, as i feared, mr. parr. do you know why alison is willing to marry me? it is because the strength has been given me to oppose you in the name of humanity, and this in spite of the fact that her love for you to-day is greater than it has ever been before. it is a part of the heavy punishment you have inflicted on yourself that you cannot believe in her purity. you insist on thinking that the time will come when she will return to you for help. in senseless anger and pride you are driving her away from you whom you will some day need. and in that day, should god grant you a relenting heart to make the sign, she will come to you,--but to give comfort, not to receive it. and even as you have threatened me, i will warn you, yet not in anger. except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of god, nor understand the motives of those who would enter into it. seek and pray for repentance." infuriated though he was, before the commanding yet compassionate bearing of the rector he remained speechless. and after a moment's pause, hodder turned and left the room . . . . iii when hodder had reached the foot of the stairs, alison came out to him. the mourning she wore made her seem even taller. in the face upturned to his, framed in the black veil and paler than he had known it, were traces of tears; in the eyes a sad, yet questioning and trustful smile. they gazed at each other an instant, before speaking, in the luminous ecstasy of perfect communion which shone for them, undimmed, in the surrounding gloom of tragedy. and thus, they felt, it would always shine. of that tragedy of the world's sin and sorrow they would ever be conscious. without darkness there could be no light. "i knew," she said, reading his tidings, "it would be of no use. tell me the worst." "if you marry me, alison, your father refuses to see you again. he insists that you leave the house." "then why did he wish to see you?" "it was to make an appeal. he thinks, of course, that i have made a failure of life, and that if i marry you i shall drag you down to poverty and disgrace." she raised her head, proudly. "but he knows that it is i who insist upon marrying you! i explained it all to him--how i had asked you. of course he did not understand. he thinks, i suppose, that it is simply an infatuation." in spite of the solemnity of the moment, hodder smiled down at her, touched by the confession. "that, my dear, doesn't relieve me of responsibility. i am just as responsible as though i had spoken first, instead of you." "but, john, you didn't--?" a sudden fear made her silent. he took her hand and pressed it reassuringly. "give you up? no, alison," he answered simply. "when you came to me, god put you in my keeping." she clung to him suddenly, in a passion of relief. "oh, i never could give you up, i never would unless you yourself told me to. then i would do it,--for you. but you won't ask me, now?" he put his arm around her shoulders, and the strength of it seemed to calm her. "no, dear. i would make the sacrifice, ask you to make it, if it would be of any good. as you say, he does not understand. and you couldn't go on living with him and loving me. that solution is impossible. we can only hope that the time will come when he will realize his need of you, and send for you." "and did he not ask you anything more?" hodder hesitated. he had intended to spare her that . . . . her divination startled him. "i know, i know without your telling me. he offered you money, he consented to our--marriage if you would give up st. john's. oh, how could he," she cried. "how could he so misjudge and insult you!" "it is not me he misjudges, alison, it is mankind, it is god. that is his terrible misfortune." hodder released her tenderly. "you must see him--you must tell him that when he needs you, you will come." "i will see him now, she said. you will wait for, me?" "now?" he repeated, taken aback by her resolution, though it was characteristic. "yes, i will go as i am. i can send for my things. my father has given me no choice, no reprieve,--not that i ask one. i have you, dear. i will stay with mr. bentley to-night, and leave for new york to-morrow, to do what i have to do--and then you will be ready for me." "yes," he said, "i shall be ready." he lingered in the well-remembered hall . . . . and when at last she came down again her eyes shone bravely through her tears, her look answered the question of his own. there was no need for speech. with not so much as a look behind she left, with him, her father's house. outside, the mist had become a drizzle, and as they went down the walk together beside the driveway she slipped her arm into his, pressing close to his side. her intuition was perfect, the courage of her love sublime. "i have you, dear," she whispered, "never in my life before have i been rich." "alison!" it was all he could say, but the intensity of his mingled feeling went into the syllables of her name. an impulse made them pause and turn, and they stood looking back together at the great house which loomed the greater in the thickening darkness, its windows edged with glow. never, as in this moment when the cold rain wet their faces, had the thought of its comfort and warmth and luxury struck him so vividly; yes, and of its terror and loneliness now, of the tortured spirit in it that found no rest. "oh, john," she cried, "if we only could!" he understood her. such was the perfect quality of their sympathy that she had voiced his thought. what were rain and cold, the inclemency of the elements to them? what the beauty and the warmth of those great, empty rooms to eldon parr? out of the heaven of their happiness they looked down, helpless, into the horrors of the luxury of hell. "it must be," he answered her, "in god's good time." "life is terrible!" she said. "think of what he must have done to suffer so, to be condemned to this! and when i went to him, just now, he wouldn't even kiss me good-by. oh, my dear, if i hadn't had you to take me, what should i have done? . . . it never was a home to me--to any of us. and as i look back now, all the troubles began when we moved into it. i can only think of it as a huge prison, all the more sinister for its costliness." a prison! it had once been his own conceit. he drew her gently away, and they walked together along park street towards the distant arc-light at the corner which flung a gleaming band along the wet pavement. "perhaps it was because i was too young to know what trouble was when we lived in ransome street," she continued. "but i can remember now how sad my mother was at times--it almost seemed as though she had a premonition." alison's voice caught . . . . the car which came roaring through the darkness, and which stopped protestingly at their corner, was ablaze with electricity, almost filled with passengers. a young man with a bundle changed his place in order that they might sit together in one of the little benches bordering the aisle; opposite them was a laughing, clay-soiled group of labourers going home from work; in front, a young couple with a chubby child. he stood between his parents, facing about, gazing in unembarrassed wonder at the dark lady with the veil. alison's smile seemed only to increase the solemnity of his adoration, and presently he attempted to climb over the barrier between them. hodder caught him, and the mother turned in alarm, recapturing him. "you mustn't bother the lady, jimmy," she said, when she had thanked the rector. she had dimpled cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, but their expression changed as they fell on alison's face, expressing something of the wonder of the child's. "oh, he isn't bothering me," alison protested. "do let him stand." "he don't make up to everybody," explained the mother, and the manner of her speech was such a frank tribute that alison flushed. there had been, too, in the look the quick sympathy for bereavement of the poor. "aren't they nice?" alison leaned over and whispered to hodder, when the woman had turned back. "one thing, at least, i shall never regret,--that i shall have to ride the rest of my life in the streetcars. i love them. that is probably my only qualification, dear, for a clergyman's wife." hodder laughed. "it strikes me," he said, "as the supreme one." they came at length to mr. bentley's door, flung open in its usual wide hospitality by sam. whatever theist fortunes, they would always be welcome here . . . . but it turned out, in answer to their question, that their friend was not at home. "no, sah," said sam, bowing and smiling benignantly, "but he done tole me to say, when you and miss alison come, hit was to make no diffunce, dat you bofe was to have supper heah. and i'se done cooked it--yassah. will you kindly step into the liba'y, suh, and miss alison? dar was a lady 'crost de city, marse ho'ace said--yassah." "john," said alison with a questioning smile, when they were alone before the fire, "i believe he went out on purpose,--don't you?--just that we might be here alone." "he knew we were coming?" "i wrote him." "i think he might be convicted on the evidence," hodder agreed. "but--?" his question remained unasked. alison went up to him. he had watched her, absorbed and fascinated, as with her round arms gracefully lifted in front of the old mirror she had taken off her hat and veil; smoothing, by a few deft touches, the dark crown of her hair. the unwonted intimacy of the moment, invoking as it did an endless reflection of other similar moments in their future life together, was in its effect overwhelming, bringing with it at last a conviction not to be denied. her colour rose as she faced him, her lashes fell. "did you seriously think, dear, that we could have deceived mr. bentley? then you are not as clever as i thought you. as soon as it happened i sent him a note? that very night. for i felt that he ought to be told first of all." "and as usual," hodder answered, "you were right." supper was but a continuation of that delicious sense of intimacy. and sam, beaming in his starched shirt and swallow-tail, had an air of presiding over a banquet of state. and for that matter, none had ever gone away hungry from this table, either for meat or love. it was, indeed, a consecrated meal,--consecrated for being just there. such was the tact which the old darky had acquired from his master that he left the dishes on the shining mahogany board, and bowed himself out. "when you wants me, miss alison, des ring de bell." she was seated upright yet charmingly graceful, behind the old english coffee service which had been mr. bentley's mother's. and it was she who, by her wonderful self-possession, by the reassuring smile she gave him as she handed him his cup, endowed it all with reality. "it's strange," she said, "but it seems as though i had been doing it all my life, instead of just beginning." "and you do it as though you had," he declared. "which is a proof," she replied, "of the superior adaptability of women." he did not deny it. he would not then, in truth, have disputed her wildest statement. . . but presently, after they had gone back into the library and were seated side by side before the coals, they spoke again of serious things, marvelling once more at a happiness which could be tinged and yet unmarred by vicarious sorrow. theirs was the soberer, profounder happiness of gratitude and wonder, too wise to exult, but which of itself is exalted; the happiness which praises, and passes understanding. "there are many things i want to say to you, john," she told him, once, "and they trouble me a little. it is only because i am so utterly devoted to you that i wish you to know me as i am. i have always had queer views, and although much has happened to change me since i have known and loved you, i am not quite sure how much those views have changed. love," she added, "plays such havoc with one's opinions." she returned his smile, but with knitted brows. "it's really serious--you needn't laugh. and it's only fair to you to let you know the kind of a wife you are getting, before it is too late. for instance, i believe in divorce, although i can't imagine it for us. one never can, i suppose, in this condition--that's the trouble. i have seen so many immoral marriages that i can't think god intends people to live degraded. and i'm sick and tired of the argument that an indissoluble marriage under all conditions is good for society. that a man or woman, the units of society, should violate the divine in themselves for the sake of society is absurd. they are merely setting an example to their children to do the same thing, which means that society in that respect will never get any better. in this love that has come to us we have achieved an ideal which i have never thought to reach. oh, john, i'm sure you won't misunderstand me when i say that i would rather die than have to lower it." "no," he answered, "i shall not misunderstand you." "even though it is so difficult to put into words what i mean. i don't feel that we really need the marriage service, since god has already joined us together. and it is not through our own wills, somehow, but through his. divorce would not only be a crime against the spirit, it would be an impossibility while we feel as we do. but if love should cease, then god himself would have divorced us, punished us by taking away a priceless gift of which we were not worthy. he would have shut the gates of eden in our faces because we had sinned against the spirit. it would be quite as true to say 'whom god has put asunder no man may join together.' am i hurting you?" her hand was on the arm of his chair, and the act of laying his own on it was an assurance stronger than words. alison sighed. "yes, i believed you would understand, even though i expressed myself badly,--that you would help me, that you have found a solution. i used to regard the marriage service as a compromise, as a lowering of the ideal, as something mechanical and rational put in the place of the spiritual; that it was making the church, and therefore god, conform to the human notion of what the welfare of society ought to be. and it is absurd to promise to love. we have no control over our affections. they are in god's hands, to grant or withdraw. "and yet i am sure--this is new since i have known you--that if such a great love as ours be withdrawn it would be an unpardonable wrong for either of us to marry again. that is what puzzles me--confounds the wisdom i used to have, and which in my littleness and pride i thought so sufficient. i didn't believe in god, but now i feel him, through you, though i cannot define him. and one of many reasons why i could not believe in christ was because i took it for granted that he taught, among other things, a continuation of the marriage relation after love had ceased to justify it." hodder did not immediately reply. nor did alison interrupt his silence, but sat with the stillness which at times so marked her personality, her eyes trustfully fixed on him. the current pulsing between them was unbroken. hodder's own look, as he gazed into the grate, was that of a seer. "yes," he said at length, "it is by the spirit and not the letter of our lord's teaching that we are guided. the spirit which we draw from the gospels. and everything written down there that does not harmonize with it is the mistaken interpretation of men. once the spirit possesses us truly, we are no longer troubled and confused by texts. "the alpha and omega of christ's message is rebirth into the knowledge of that spirit, and hence submission to its guidance. and that is what paul meant when he said that it freed us from the law. you are right, alison, when you declare it to be a violation of the spirit for a man and woman to live together when love does not exist. christ shows us that laws were made for those who are not reborn. laws are the rules of society, to be followed by those who have not found the inner guidance, who live and die in the flesh. but the path which those who live under the control of the spirit are to take is opened up to them as they journey. if all men and women were reborn we should have the paradox, which only the reborn can understand, of what is best for the individual being best for society, because under the will of the spirit none can transgress upon the rights and happiness of others. the spirit would make the laws and rules superfluous. "and the great crime of the church, for which she is paying so heavy an expiation, is that her faith wavered, and she forsook the spirit and resumed the law her master had condemned. she no longer insisted on that which christ proclaimed as imperative, rebirth. she became, as you say, a mechanical organization, substituting, as the jews had done, hard and fast rules for inspiration. she abandoned the communion of saints, sold her birthright for a mess of pottage, for worldly, temporal power when she declared that inspiration had ceased with the apostles, when she failed to see that inspiration is personal, and comes through rebirth. for the sake of increasing her membership, of dominating the affairs of men, she has permitted millions who lived in the law and the flesh, who persisted in forcing men to live by the conventions and customs christ repudiated, and so stultify themselves, to act in christ's name. the unpardonable sin against the spirit is to doubt its workings, to maintain that society will be ruined if it be substituted for the rules and regulations supposed to make for the material comforts of the nations, but which in reality suppress and enslave the weak. "nevertheless in spite of the church, marvellously through the church the germ of our lord's message has come down to us, and the age in which we live is beginning to realize its purport, to condemn the church for her subservient rationalism. "let us apply the rule of the spirit to marriage. if we examine the ideal we shall see clearly that the marriage-service is but a symbol. like baptism, it is a worthless and meaningless rite unless the man and the woman have been born again into the spirit, released from the law. if they are still, as st. paul would say, in the flesh, let them have, if they wish, a civil permit to live together, for the spirit can have nothing to do with such an union. true to herself, the church symbolizes the union of her members, the reborn. she has nothing to do with laws and conventions which are supposedly for the good of society, nor is any union accomplished if those whom she supposedly joins are not reborn. if they are, the church can neither make it or dissolve it, but merely confirm and acknowledge the work of the spirit. and every work of the spirit is a sacrament. not baptism and communion and marriage only, but every act of life. "oh, john," she exclaimed, her eyes lighting, "i can believe that! how beautiful a thought! i see now what is meant when it is said that man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of god. that is the hourly guidance which is independent of the law. and how terrible to think that all the spiritual beauty of such a religion should have been hardened into chapter and verse and regulation. you have put into language what i think of mr. bentley, --that has acts are sacraments . . . . it is so simple when you explain it this way. and yet i can see why it was said, too, that we must become as children to understand it." "the difficult thing," replied holder, gravely, "is to retain it, to hold it after we have understood it--even after we have experienced it. to continue to live in the spirit demands all our effort, all our courage and patience and faith. we cannot, as you say, promise to love for life. but the marriage service, interpreted, means that we will use all our human endeavour, with the help of the spirit, to remain in what may be called the reborn state, since it is by the spirit alone that true marriage is sanctified. when the spirit is withdrawn, man and woman are indeed divorced. "the words 'a sense of duty' belong to moral philosophy and not to religion. love annuls them. i do not mean to decry them, but the reborn are lifted far above them by the subversion of the will by which our will is submitted to god's. it is so we develop, and become, as it were, god. and hence those who are not married in the spirit are not spiritually man and wife. no consecration has taken place, church or no church. if rebirth occurs later, to either or both, the individual conscience--which is the spirit, must decide whether, as regards each other, they are bound or free, and we must stand or fall by that. men object that this is opening the door to individualism. what they fail to see is that the door is open, wide, to-day and can never again be closed: that the law of the naturally born is losing its power, that the worn-out authority of the church is being set at naught because that authority was devised by man to keep in check those who were not reborn. the only check to material individualism is spiritual individualism, and the reborn man or woman cannot act to the detriment of his fellow-creatures." in her turn she was silent, still gazing at him, her breath coming deeply, for she was greatly moved. "yes," she said simply, "i can see now why divorce between us would be a sacrilege. i felt it, john, but i couldn't reason it out. it is the consecration of the spirit that justifies the union of the flesh. for the spirit, in that sense, does not deny the flesh." "that would be to deny life," hodder replied. "i see. why was it all so hidden!" the exclamation was not addressed to him--she was staring pensively into the fire. but presently, with a swift movement, she turned to him. "you will preach this, john,--all of it!" it was not a question, but the cry of a new and wider vision of his task. her face was transfigured. and her voice, low and vibrating, expressed no doubts. "oh, i am proud of you! and if they put you out and persecute you i shall always be proud, i shall never know why it was given me to have this, and to live. do you remember saying to me once that faith comes to us in some human form we love? you are my faith. and faith in you is my faith in humanity, and faith in god." ere he could speak of his own faith in her, in mankind, by grace of which he had been lifted from the abyss, there came a knock at the door. and even as they answered it a deeper knowledge filtered into their hearts. horace bentley stood before them. and the light from his face, that shone down upon them, was their benediction. afterword although these pages have been published serially, it is with a feeling of reluctance that i send them out into the world, for better or worse, between the covers of a book. they have been written with reverence, and the reading of the proofs has brought back to me vividly the long winters in which i pondered over the matter they contain, and wrote and rewrote the chapters. i had not thought to add anything to them by way of an afterword. nothing could be farther from my mind than to pose as a theologian; and, were it not for one or two of the letters i have received, i should have supposed that no reader could have thought of making the accusation that i presumed to speak for any one except myself. in a book of this kind, the setting forth of a personal view of religion is not only unavoidable, but necessary; since, if i wrote sincerely, mr. hodder's solution must coincide with my own--so far as i have been able to work one out. such as it is, it represents many years of experience and reflection. and i can only crave the leniency of any trained theologian who may happen to peruse it. no one realizes, perhaps, the incompleteness of the religious interpretations here presented more keenly than i. more significant, more vital elements of the truth are the rewards of a mind which searches and craves, especially in these days when the fruit of so many able minds lies on the shelves of library and bookshop. since the last chapter was written, many suggestions have come to me which i should like to have the time to develop for this volume. but the nature of these elements is positive,--i can think of nothing i should care to subtract. here, then, so far as what may be called religious doctrine is concerned, is merely a personal solution. we are in an age when the truth is being worked out through many minds, a process which seems to me both christian and democratic. yet a gentleman has so far misunderstood this that he has already accused me, in a newspaper, of committing all the heresies condemned by the council of chalcedon,--and more! i have no doubt that he is right. my consolation must be that i have as company--in some of my heresies, at least--a goodly array of gentlemen who wear the cloth of the orthodox churches whose doctrines he accuses me of denying. the published writings of these clergymen are accessible to all. the same critic declares that my interpretations are without "authority." this depends, of course; on one's view of "authority." but his accusation is true equally against many men who--if my observation be correct--are doing an incalculable service for religion by giving to the world their own personal solutions, interpreting christianity in terms of modern thought. no doubt these, too, are offending the champions of the council of chalcedon. and does the gentleman, may i ask, ever read the pages of the hibbert journal? finally, i have to meet a more serious charge, that mr. hodder remains in the church because of "the dread of parting with the old, strong anchorage, the fear of anathema and criticism, the thought of sorrowing and disapproving friends." or perhaps he infers that it is i who keep mr. hodder in the church for these personal reasons. alas, the concern of society is now for those upon whom the church has lost her hold, who are seeking for a solution they can accept. and the danger to-day is not from the side of heresy. the rector of st. john's, as a result of his struggle, gained what i believe to be a higher and surer faith than that which he formerly held, and in addition to this the realization of the presence of a condition which was paralyzing the church's influence. one thing i had hoped to make clear, that if mr. hodder had left the church under these circumstances he would have made the great refusal. the situation which he faced demanded something of the sublime courage of his master. lastly, may i be permitted to add that it is far from my intention to reflect upon any particular denomination. the instance which i have taken is perhaps a pronounced rather than a particular case of the problem to which i have referred, and which is causing the gravest concern to thoughtful clergymen and laymen of all denominations. winston churchill santa barbara, california march , . questionable amusements and worthy substitutes by j. m. judy introduction by george h. trever, ph.d., d.d. the manuscript of this book was not submitted to any publisher, but was put in its present form by jennings & pye, for a friend of the author. address. chicago: western methodist book concern, . introduction. by george h. trever, ph.d., d.d. author of comparative theology, etc. a book on "questionable amusements and worthy substitutes" is timely to-day. such a grouping of subject matter is in itself a commendation. possibly we have been saying "don't" quite enough without offering the positive substitute. the "expulsive power of a new affection" is, after all, the mightiest agency in reform. "thou shalt not" is quite easy to say; but though the house be emptied, swept, and garnished, unless pure angels hasten to occupy the vacated chambers, other spirits worse than the first will soon rush in to befoul them again. the author of these papers, the rev. j.m. judy, writes out of a full, warm heart. we know him to be a correct, able preacher of the gospel, and an efficient fisher of men. having thoroughly prepared himself for his work by courses in northwestern university and garrett biblical institute, by travel in the south and west of our own country, and by a visitation of the old world, he has served on the rugged frontier of his conference, and among foreign populations grappling successfully with some of the most difficult problems in modern church work. the following articles aroused much interest when delivered to his own people, and must do good wherever read. in style they are clear and vivid; in logical arrangement excellent; glow with sacred fervor, and pulse with honest, eager conviction. we bespeak for them a wide reading, and would especially commend them to the young people of our epworth leagues. whitewater, wis., march , . preface. "questionable amusements and worthy substitutes" is a consideration of the "so-called questionable amusements," and an outlook for those forms of social, domestic, and personal practices which charm the life, secure the present, and build for the future. to take away the bad is good; to give the good is better; but to take away the bad and to give the good in its stead is best of all. this we have tried to do, not in our own strength, but with the conscious presence of the spirit of god. the spiritual indifference of christendom to-day as one meets with it in all forms of christian work has led us to send out this message. "questionable amusements," form both a cause and a result of this widespread indifference. an underlying cause of this indifference among those who profess to be followers of jesus christ, is lack of conviction for sin, want of positive faith in the fundamental truths of the scriptures, too little and superficial prayer, and lack of personal, soul-saving work. is the class-meeting becoming extinct? is the prayer-meeting lifeless? is the revival spirit decaying? is family worship formal, or has it ceased? however some may answer these questions, still we believe that the church has a warm heart, and that signs of her vigorous life are expressed in her tenacious hold for high moral standards, and in her generous giving of money and of men. our point of view has been that of the person, old or young, regardless of sect, race, party, occupation, or circumstances, who has a life to live, and who wants to make the most out of it for himself and for his fellow-men, and who believes that he will find this life disclosed in nature, in history, and in the word of god. j.m.j. orfordville, wis., march, . contents part i. questionable amusements chapter i tobacco ii drunkenness iii gambling, cards iv dancing v theater-going part ii worthy substitutes vi books and reading vii social recreation viii friendship ix travel x home and the home-maker part i. questionable amusements. "the excesses of our youth are drafts on our old age, payable about one hundred years after date without interest."--john ruskin. i. tobacco. tobacco wastes the body. it is used for the nicotine that is in it. this peculiar ingredient is a poisonous, oily, colorless liquid, and gives to tobacco its odor. this odor and the flavor of tobacco are developed by fermentation in the process of preparation for use. "poison" is commonly defined as "any substance that when taken into the system acts in an injurious manner, tending to cause death or serious detriment to health." and different poisons are defined as those which act differently upon the human organism. for example, one class, such as nicotine in tobacco, is defined as that which acts as a stimulant or an irritant; while another class, such as opium, acts with a quieting, soothing influence. but the fact is that poison does not act at all upon the human system, but the human system acts upon the poison. in one class of poisons, such as opium, the reason why the system does not arouse itself and try to cast off the poison, is that the nerves become paralyzed so that it can not. and in the case of nicotine in tobacco the nerves are not thus paralyzed, so that they try in every way to cast off the poison. let the human body represent the house, and the sensitive nerves and the delicate blood vessels the sleeping inmates of that house. let the foe opium come to invade that house and to destroy the inmates, for every poison is a deadly foe. at the first appearance of this subtle foe terror is struck into the heart of the inmates, so that they fall back helpless, paralyzed with fear. when the intruder tobacco comes, he comes boisterously, rattling the windows and jostling the furniture, so that the inmates of the house set up a life-and-death conflict against him. this is just what happens when tobacco is taken into the human system. every nerve cries out against it, and every effort is made to resist it. you ask, will one's body be healthier and live longer without tobacco than with it? we answer, by asking, will one's home be happier and more prosperous without some deadly foe continually invading it, or with such a foe? when the membranes and tissues of the body, with their host of nerves and blood vessels, have to be fighting against some deadly poison in connection with their ordinary work, will they not wear out sooner than if they could be left to do their ordinary work quietly? to illustrate: a particle of tobacco dust no sooner comes into contact with the lining membrane of the nose, than violent sneezing is produced. this is the effort of the besieged nerves and blood vessels to protect themselves. a bit of tobacco taken into the mouth causes salivation because the salivary glands recognize the enemy and yield an increased flow of their precious fluid to wash him away. taken into the stomach unaccustomed to its presence, and it produces violent vomiting. the whole lining membrane of that much-abused organ rebels against such an intruder, and tries to eject him. tobacco dust and smoke taken into the lungs at once excretes a mucous-like fluid in the mouth, throat, windpipe, bronchial tubes, and in the lungs themselves. excretions such as this mean a violent wasting away of vitality and power. taken in large quantities into the stomach, tobacco not only causes an excretion of mucus from the mouth, throat, and breathing organs, but it produces an overtaxing of the liver; that is, this organ overworks in order to counteract the presence of the poison. but one asks, if tobacco is so injurious, why is it used with such apparent pleasure? a small quantity of tobacco received into the system by smoking, chewing, or snuffing is carried through the circulation to the skin, lungs, liver, kidneys, and to all the organs of the body, by which it is moderately resisted. the result is a gentle excitement of all these organs. they are in a state of morbid activity. and as sensibility depends upon vital action of the bodily organisms, there is necessarily produced a degree of sense gratification or pleasure. the reason why these sensations are pleasurable instead of painful is, in this state of moderate excitement the circulation is materially increased without being materially unbalanced. but as with every sense indulgence, when the craving for increased doses becomes satisfied, when larger doses are taken the circulation becomes unbalanced, vital resistance centers in one point, congestion occurs, then the sensation becomes one of pain instead of one of pleasure. this disturbance or excitement caused by tobacco is nothing more nor less than disease. for it is abnormal action, and abnormal action is fever, and fever is disease. it is state on good authority, "that no one who smokes tobacco before the bodily powers are developed ever makes a strong, vigorous man." dr. h. gibbons says: "tobacco impairs digestion, poisons the blood, depresses the vital powers, causes the limbs to tremble, and weakens and otherwise disorders the heart." it is conceded by the medical profession that tobacco causes cancer of the tongue and lips, dimness of vision, deafness, dyspepsia, bronchitis, consumption, heart palpitation, spinal weakness, chronic tonsillitis, paralysis, impotency, apoplexy, and insanity. it is held by some men that tobacco aids digestion. dr. mcallister, of utica, new york, says that it "weakens the organs of digestion and assimilation, and at length plunges one into all the horrors of dyspepsia." *tobacco dulls the mind.* it does this not only by wasting the body, the physical basis of the mind, but it does it through habits of intellectual idleness, which the user of tobacco naturally forms. whoever heard of a first-class loafer who did not e-a-t the weed or burn it, or both? on the rail train recently we were compelled to ride for an hour in the smoking-car, which dr. talmage has called "the nastiest place in christendom." in front of me sat a young man, drawing and puffing away at a cigar, polluting the entire region about him. in the short hour enough time was lost by that young man to have carefully read ten pages of the best standard literature. all this we observed by an occasional glance from the delightful volume in our own hands. the ordinary user of tobacco has little taste for reading, little passion for knowledge, and superficial habits of continued reasoning. his leisure moments are absorbed in the sense-gratification of the weed. but if as much attention had been given in acquiring the habit of reading as had been given in learning the use of tobacco, the most valuable of all habits would take the place of one of the most useless of all habits. when we see a person trying to read with a cigar or a pipe in his mouth, knowing that nine-tenths of his real consciousness is given to his smoking, and one-tenth to what he is reading, we are reminded of the commercial traveler who "wanted to make the show of a library at home, so he wrote to a book merchant in london, saying: 'send me six feet of theology, and about as much metaphysics, and near a yard of civil law in old folio.'" not a sentimentalist, a reformer, nor a crank, but dr. james copeland says: "tobacco weakens the nervous powers, favors a dreamy, imaginative, and imbecile state of mind, produces indolence and incapacity for manly or continuous exertion, and sinks its votary into a state of careless inactivity and selfish enjoyment of vice." professor l. h. gause writes: "the intellect becomes duller and duller, until at last it is painful to make any intellectual effort, and we sink into a sensuous or sensual animal. any one who would retain a clear mind, sound lungs, undisturbed heart, or healthy stomach, must not smoke or chew the poisonous plant." it is commonly known that in a number of american and foreign colleges, by actual testing, the non-user of tobacco is superior in mental vigor and scholarship to the user of it. in view of this fact, our government will not allow the use of tobacco at west point or at annapolis. and in the examinations in the naval academy a large percentage of those who fail to pass, fail because of the evil effects of smoking. tobacco drains the pocketbook. "will you please look through my mouth and nose?" asked a young man once of a new york physician. the man of medicine did so, and reported nothing there. "strange! look again. why, sir, i have blown ten thousand dollars--a great tobacco plantation and a score of slaves--through that nose." the partido cigar regularly retails at from twenty-five to thirty cents each. an ordinary smoker will smoke four cigars a day. three hundred and sixty-five dollars a year, besides his treating. a small fortune every ten years! a neighbor of ours on the farm used to go to town in the spring and buy enough chewing tobacco to last him until after harvest, and flour to last the family for two weeks. among all classes of people this useless drain of the pocketbook is increasing. in our country last year more money was spent for tobacco than was spent for foreign missions, for the churches, and for public education, all combined. our tobacco bill in one year costs our nation more than our furniture and our boots and shoes; more than our flour and our silk goods; one hundred and forty-five million dollars more than all our printing and publishing; one hundred and thirty-five million dollars more than the sawed lumber of the nation. each year france buys of us twenty-nine million pounds of tobacco, great britain fifty millions, and germany sixty-nine million pounds, to say nothing of how much these nations import from other countries. never before has the use of tobacco been so widespread as to-day. "the turks and persians are the greatest smokers in the world. in india all classes and both sexes smoke; in china the practice--perhaps there more ancient--is universal, and girls from the age of eight or nine wear as an appendage to their dress a small silken pocket to hold tobacco and a pipe." nor can the expense and widespread use of tobacco be defended on the ground that it is a luxury, for the abstainer from tobacco counts it the greater luxury not to use it. the only explanation for its use is, that it is a habit which binds one hand and foot, and from which no person with ordinary will power in his own strength can free himself. tobacco blunts the moral nature. it is not certain how long tobacco has been used as a narcotic. some authorities hold that the smoking of tobacco was an ancient custom among the chinese. but if this is true, we know that it did not spread among the neighboring nations. when columbus came to america he found the natives of the west indies and the american indian smoking the weed. with the indian its use has always had a religious and legal significance. early in the sixteenth century tobacco was introduced into england, later into spain, and still later, in , into italy. used for its medicinal properties at first, soon it came to be used as a luxury. the popes of italy saw its harm and thundered against it. the priests and sultans of turkey declared smoking a crime. one sultan made it punishable with death. the pipes of smokers were thrust through their noses in turkey, and in russia the noses of smokers were cut off in the earlier part of the seventeenth century. "king james i of england issued a counterblast to tobacco, in which he described its use as a 'custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black, stinking fumes thereof nearest resembling the horrible stygian smoke of the pit that is bottomless.'" as one contrasts this sentiment with the practice of the present sovereign of england, his breath is almost taken away in his great fall from the sublime to the ridiculous! while we do not believe a moderate use of tobacco for a mature person is necessarily a sin, yet we do believe that it does blunt the moral sense, and soon leads to spiritual weakness and indifference, which are sins. to love god with all one's heart, mind, soul, and strength, and one's neighbor as himself, means not only a denial of that which is questionable in morals, but a practice of that which is positively good. however noble or worthy in character may be some who use tobacco, yet by common consent it is a "tool of the devil." every den of gamblers, every low-down grogshop, every smoking-car, every public resort and waiting-room departments for men, every rendezvous of rogues, loafers, villains, and tramps is thoroughly saturated with the vile stench of the cuspidor and the poisonous odors of the pipe and cigar. "rev. dr. cox abandoned tobacco after a drunken loafer asked him for a light." not until then had he seen and felt the disreputable fraternity that existed between the users of tobacco. owen meredith gives us a standard of strength and freedom, which is an inspiration to every lover of rounded, perfected manhood and womanhood: "strong is that man, he only strong, to whose well-ordered will belong, for service and delight, all powers that in the face of wrong establish right. and free is he, and only he, who, from his tyrant passions free, by fortune undismayed, has power within himself to be, by self obeyed. if such a man there be, where'er beneath the sun and moon he fare, he can not fare amiss; great nature hath him in her care. her cause is his." only let the "will," the "powers," the "freedom," and the "self" of which the writer speaks become the "christ will," the "christ powers," the "christ freedom," and the "christ self." then the strongest chains of bondage must fly into flinters. for "if the son make you free, ye are free indeed." (john viii, .) ii. drunkenness. i. a temperance platform. we bring to you three words of counsel with respect to this subject. first, beware of the social glass; second, study the drink evil; third, openly oppose it. this is a temperance platform upon which every sober, informed, and conscientious person may stand. would it be narrow or uncharitable to assert that not to stand upon this platform argues that one is not sober, or not informed, or not conscientious? the crying need of to-day is, that men and women shall be urged into positions of conviction and activity against this most colossal evil of our time. in our country the responsibility for drunkenness rests not with the illiterate, blasphemous, ex-prison convicts who operate the , saloons of our nation, nor yet with the , finished products of the saloon who go down into drunkards' graves every year, but with the sober, respectable, hard-working, voting citizens of our country. nor does this exempt women, whose opportunity to shape the moral and political convictions of the home is far greater than that of the men. when the women of america say to the saloon, you go! the saloon will have to go. the moral and political measures of any people are easily traceable to the sisters and wives and mothers of that people. you and i and every ordinary citizen of our country had as well try to escape our own shadow, as to try to escape the responsibility that rests upon us for the drunkenness of our people. to help us to do our whole duty in our day and generation in this matter is the purpose of our message. ii. beware of the social glass. the first and least thing that one can do to destroy drunkenness, is to be a total abstainer. beware of the social glass! but quickly one replies, "why should there be any social glass?" "why allow sparkling, attractive springs of refreshing poison to issue forth in all of our social centers, and then cry to our sons and daughters, to our brothers and sisters, beware?" my friend, we must deal with facts as they are. there should not be a social glass; but what has that to do with the fact that the social glass is here? you answer, "why allow these fountains of death to exist?" while we cry to our loved ones, "beware!" we do not advocate the presence of these fountains; but while we seek to destroy them beseechingly we cry, "beware!" the social factor in the liquor traffic is its gibraltar of defense. rare is the young man who has the intellectual stamina and moral courage to resist the invitations to take a social drink. and in our frontier and foreign towns many of our bright and respected girls use the social glass. but in its use is the beginning of a fateful end. the subtlest thing in this world is sin. listen! "sin is a monster of so frightful mien; to be hated needs but to be seen; but seen too oft, familiar with the face, we first endure, then pity, then embrace." the subtle thing about it is, that the first embracing of any sin seems to be but a trifling, an occasional affair. for one who lives in an ordinary city of a thousand inhabitants or upwards, unless he is an "out-and-out" christian and selects only associates like himself, it becomes a real embarrassment not to indulge in a social drink. it seems polite, clever, the kindly thing to do. and the sad fact is, that the majority of unchristian young people and many older ones do not decline. to prove this we have but to look at the human wrecks along the shore. two young men lived near our home. their parents were well-to-do. the family grew tired of the farm and moved to town. the boys fell in with bad company. they did not decline the social glass. soon they furnished other young men with drink from their own pocket. this was fifteen years ago. to-day one of them is a hardened sinner, violent in his passions and blasphemous against god. the other one, having spent a term in our illinois state university at champaign, married a beautiful neighbor girl and moved to missouri. here he lived off the money of his father's estate, practicing his early-learned habits of drinking, gambling, and loafing. he moved from state to state until, finally left in poverty, he tended bar in a saloon. while visiting with relatives in his old neighborhood a few years ago he stole a watch and some money from his own nephew, and was tried in the courts, and sentenced to the penitentiary for one year. his wife, having carried the burden of disgrace and want through all these years, with the seven unfortunate children were released from him to struggle alone. all this we have seen with our own eyes as the years have come and gone. the downfall and ruin of this young man, and the unsaved fate of his brother, easily may be traceable to the "social glass" and the boon companions of the social glass--tobacco and playing-cards. last year i met a man who had prided himself in the fact that he could drink or let it alone, and thought that it was all right to take a "social glass" occasionally. election time came around; he fell in with his friends, and, as one always will do sooner or later who tampers with it at all, went too far. before he knew it he was as low in the gutter as a beast. it was three days before he was a sober man again. he work had ceased, he had disgusted his fellow-workmen, disgraced his christian family, and had humiliated himself so that he was ashamed to look any man in the face until he had repented of his sins before god, and had promised him, by his help, that he would never drink another glass. what a pleasure it was to hear that old man, as he is close to sixty years of age, to hear him tell in a spirited religious service of how he had strayed from his path and had got lost in the woods, but thanked god that he was out of the woods, and by his help would remain out. when we become undone in christ he lifts us up and starts us on our new way rejoicing in his love. if christ himself were here in body, do you know what he would advise on this point? he would say: "as it is written;" "look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth its color in the cup, when it goeth down smoothly: at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder." beware of the social glass, my friend, for though it promises pleasure, it gives but pain; it promises joy, it gives but sorrow; it promises deliverance, it gives but eternal death! iii. study the drink evil. we hear it said, "no use to picture the horrors of the drink evil; every one knows them already." in part, this is true. all of us know more than we wish it were possible to be true; and yet no one can ever realize its horrors until caught, and torn, and mangled in its pinching, jagged, griping meshes. it is one thing to know by a distant glance, it is another thing to know by the pangs of a broken heart and of a wrecked life. for those who are not thus caught in its meshes to realize its horrors so as to seek its destruction but one course is possible; namely, to study the evil. let the teacher tell of its ravages; let the minister proclaim its curses; let the poet sing it; the painter paint it; the editor report it; the novelist portray it; the scientist describe it; the philosopher decry it; the sisters and wives and mothers denounce it--until all shall unite in smiting it to its death! we should study the drink evil in its relation to disease. that strong drink tends to produce disease is no longer questioned. "during the cholera in new york city in , of two hundred and four cases in the park hospital only six were temperate, and all of these recovered; while one hundred and twenty-two of the others died. in great britain in the same year five-sixths of all who perished were intemperate. in one or two villages every drunkard died, while not a single member of a temperance society lost his life." "in paisley, england, in , there were three hundred and thirty-seven cases of cholera, and every case except one was a dram-drinker. the cases of cholera were one for every one hundred and eighty-one inhabitants; but among the temperate portion there was only one case to each two thousand." "of three hundred and eighty-six persons connected with the total abstinence societies only one died, and he was a reformed drunkard" of three months' standing. "in new orleans during the last epidemic the order of the sons of temperance appointed a committee to ascertain the number of deaths from cholera among their members. it was found that there were twelve hundred and forty-three members in the city and suburbs, and among these only three deaths had occurred, being only one-sixth the average death-rate." "in new york, in , only two out of five thousand members of temperance societies died." the northwestern life insurance company of milwaukee, wisconsin, one of the oldest and most successful companies in the northwest, has lived for nearly forty years next neighbor to lager beer interests. the shrewd men of this company have studied the influence of the beer industry upon those who engage in it. the result is, that they will no longer grant an insurance policy to a beer-brewer, nor to any one in any way engaged in the business. in their own words their reason is this: "our statistics show that our business has been injured by the short lives of those men who drink lager beer." then, we need to study the drink evil in its relation to society. "a recent report of the chaplain of the madalen society of new york shows that of eight-nine fallen women in the asylum at one time, all but two ascribed their fall to the effect of the drink habit." "a lady missionary makes the statement that of two thousand sinful women known personally to her, there were only ten cases in which intoxicating liquors were not largely responsible for their fall." "a leading worker for reform in new york says that the suppression of the curse of strong drink would include the destruction of ninety-nine of every one hundred of the houses of ill-fame." "a missionary on going at the written request of one of these lost women to rescue her from a den of infamy remonstrated with her for being even then slightly under the influence of drink." "why," was her indignant reply as tears filled her eyes, "do you suppose we girls are so dead that we have lost our memories of mother, home, and everything good? no, indeed; and if it were not for liquor and opium, we would all have to run away from our present life or go mad by pleadings of our own hearts and home memories." only by a study of the drink evil shall we know its ravages in the home. those of us who have lived in the pure air of free, country home-life can not easily realize the moral plague of drunkenness as it blights the home in the crowded districts of city slum life. nor is the home of the city alone cursed by the drink evil. three years ago this last holiday season we were doing some evangelistic work in a neighboring town, a mere village of a couple hundred inhabitants. i shall never forget how the mother of a dejected home cried and pleaded for help from the ravages of her drunken husband. she said that he had spent all of his wages, and had made no provision for the home, in furniture, in books for the children, nor in clothing for them nor for her. she had come almost to despair, and was blaming god for allowing her little ones to suffer because of a worthless man. o, the world is full of this sort of thing to-day, if we only knew the sighs and heartaches and blasted hopes of those who suffer! in a smoking-car one day a commercial traveler refused to drink with his old comrades, by saying: "no, i won't drink with you to-day, boys. the fact is, boys, i have sworn off." he was taunted and laughed at, and urged to tell what had happened to him. they said: "if you've quit drinking, something's up; tell us what it is." "well, boys," he said, "i will, though i know you will laugh at me; but i will tell you all the same. i have been a drinking man all my life, and have kept it up since i was married, as you all know. i love whisky; it's as sweet in my mouth as sugar, and god only knows how i'll quit it. for seven years not a day has passed over my head that i didn't have at least one drink. but i am done. yesterday i was in chicago. down on south clark street a customer of mine keeps a pawnshop in connection with his business. i called on him, and while i was there a young man of not more than twenty-five, wearing thread-bare clothes, and looking as hard as if he had not seen a sober day for a month, came in with a little package in his hand. tremblingly he unwrapped it, and handed the articles to the pawnbroker, saying, 'give me ten cents.' and, boys, what do you suppose that package was? a pair of baby's shoes; little things with the buttons only a trifle soiled, as if they had been worn once or twice. 'where did you get them?' asked the pawnbroker. 'got 'em at home,' replied the man, who had an intelligent face and the manner of a gentleman, despite his sad condition. 'my wife bought 'em for our baby. give me ten cents for 'em. i want a drink.' 'you had better take those back to your wife; the baby will need them,' said the pawnbroker. 'no, she won't..she's lying at home now; she died last night.' as he said this the poor fellow broke down, bowed his head on the showcase, and cried like a child. 'boys,' said the drummer, 'you can laugh if you want to, but i have a baby of my own at home, and by the help of god i'll never drink another drop.'" the man went into another car, the bottle had disappeared, and the boys pretended to read some papers that lay scattered about the car. ah, this is only one out of hundreds of such scenes that are being enacted every day in our saloon-cursed cities. we should study the drink evil to see how it makes people poor and keeps them poor. a story is told of a drinking man who related to his family a dream that he had had the night before. he dreamed that he saw three cats, a fat one, a lean one, and a blind one; and he was anxious to know what it meant that he should have such a strange dream. quickly his little boy answered, "i can tell what it means. the fat cat is the saloon-keeper who sells you drink, the lean cat is mother and me, and the blind cat is yourself." "in one of our large cities," one day, "a laboring man, leaving a saloon, saw a costly carriage and pair of horses standing in front, occupied by two ladies elegantly dressed, conversing with the proprietor. 'whose establishment is that?' he said to the saloon-keeper, as the carriage rolled away. 'it is mine,' replied the dealer, proudly. 'it cost thirty-five hundred dollars. my wife and daughter couldn't do without that.' the mechanic bowed his head a moment in deep thought; then, looking up, said with the energy of a man suddenly aroused by some startling flash, 'i see it!' 'i see it!' 'see what?' asked the saloonkeeper. 'see where for years my wages have gone. i helped to pay for that carriage, for those horses and gold-mounted harnesses, and for the silks and laces for your family. the money i have earned, that should have given my wife and children a home of their own and good clothing, i have spent at your bar. by the help of god i will never spend another dime for drink.'" south milwaukee has five thousand inhabitants. three large mills operate there. a reliable business man, foreman in one of the mills, told me that the laboring people of south milwaukee put $ , each month into the tills of the saloons. dr. j.o. peck, one of the most successful pastor evangelists of recent years, tells of a man who crossed chelsea ferry to boston one morning, and turned into commercial street for his usual glass. as he poured out the poison, the saloonkeeper's wife came in, and confidently asked for $ to purchase an elegant shawl she had seen at the store of jordan, march & co.. he drew from his pocket a well-filled pocketbook, and counted out the money. the man outside the counter pushed aside his glass untouched, and laying down ten cents departed in silence. that very morning his devoted christian wife had asked him for ten dollars to buy a cloak, so that she might look presentable at church. he had crossly told her he had not the money. as he left the saloon he thought, 'here i am helping to pay for five-hundred-dollar cashmeres for that man's wife, but my wife asks in vain for a ten-dollar cloak. i can't stand this. i have spent my last dime for drink.' when the next pay-day came that meek, loving wife was surprised with a beautiful cloak from her reformed husband. she could scarcely believe her own eyes as he laid it on the table. 'there, emma, is a present for you. i have been a fool long enough; forgive me for the past, and i will never touch liquor again.' she threw her arms around his neck, and the hot tears told her heartfelt joy as she sobbed out: 'charley, i thank you a thousand times. i never expected so nice a cloak. this seems like other days. you are so good, and i am so happy.'" the drink bill of our nation for last year was over a billion of dollars, more money than was spent for missions--home and foreign--for all of our churches, for public education, for all the operations of courts of justice and of public officers, and at least for two of the staple products of use in our country, such as furniture and flour. more than for all these was the money that our nation paid for drink last year. when the people of our country get their eyes open to the cost and degradation of the drink evil, something definite will be done by every one against it. the drink evil in its relation to lawlessness and crime, and to political corruption, reveal still more ghastly aspects of it than we have yet mentioned. the saloon strikes at the very heart, not only of law and order, but at personal liberty and justice in securing law and order. it was in a police court in cincinnati on monday morning. before the judge stood two stalwart policeman and a woman. she was charged with disorderly conduct on the street and with disturbing the peace. the policemen were sworn, and one of them told this story, to which the other one agreed. he said: "i arrested the woman in front of a saloon on broadway on saturday night. she had raised a great disturbance, was fighting and brawling with men in the saloon, and the saloonkeeper put her out. she used the foulest language, and with an awful threat struck at the saloonkeeper with all her force. i then arrested her, took her to the detention house, and locked her up." the saloonkeeper was called to the witness stand, and said: "i know dis voman's vas making disturbance by my saloon. she comes and she makes troubles, und she fights mit me, und i put her de door oud. i know her all along. she vas pad vomans." the judge turned to the trembling woman and said: "this is a pretty clear case, madam; have you anything to say in your defense?" "yes, judge," she answered, in a strangely calm, though trembling, voice: "i am not guilty of the charge, and these men standing before you have perjured their souls to prevent me from telling the truth. it was they, not i, who violated the law. i was in the saloon last saturday night, and i will tell you how it happened. my husband did not come home from work that evening, and i feared he had gone to the saloon. i knew he must have drawn his week's wages, and we needed it all so badly. i put the little ones to bed, and then waited all alone through the weary hours until after the city clock struck twelve. then i thought the saloons will be closed, and he will be put out on to the street. probably he will not be able to get home, and the police will arrest him and lock him up. i must go and find him, and bring him home. i wrapped a shawl about me and started out, leaving the little ones asleep in bed. and, judge, i have not seen them since." she did not give way to tears, for the worst grief can not weep. she continued: "i went to the saloon, where i thought most like he would be. it was about twenty minutes after twelve; but the saloon, that man's saloon"--pointing to the saloonkeeper, who now wanted to crouch out of sight--"was still open, and my husband and these two policemen were standing at the bar drinking together. i stepped up to my husband and asked him to go home with me; but the men laughed at him, and the saloonkeeper ordered me out. i said, 'no, i want my husband to go home with me.' then i tried to tell him how badly we were needing the money that he was spending; and then the saloon-keeper cursed me, and told me to leave. then i confess i could stand no more, and said, 'you ought to be prosecuted for violating the midnight closing law.' at this the saloonkeeper and policemen rushed upon me and put me into the street; and one of the policemen, grasping my arm like a vice, hissed in my ear, 'i'll get you a thirty days' sentence in the workhouse, and then we'll see what you think about suing people.' he called a patrol wagon, pushed me in, and drove to jail; and, judge, you know the rest. all day yesterday i was locked up, my children at home alone, with no fire, no food, no mother." the judge dismissed the woman; but the saloonkeeper, the perjured policemen, nor the corrupt judge were ever prosecuted for their unlawfulness. the whole affair was dropped because the saloon power in cincinnati reigns supreme. "this case is a matter of record in the cincinnati courts." it is a disgraceful fact that the liquor-traffic rules in politics to-day. a saloonkeeper in richmond, virginia, overheard some one talking of reform in municipal politics, when he scornfully said: "any bar-room in richmond is a bigger man in politics than all the churches in richmond put together." iv. the practical question for us here and now is, how may we openly oppose this drink evil? the churches need not expect a widespread revival of religion until professing christians do their duty with respect to the saloon. mothers and fathers need not expect their sons to remain sober while the saloon opens to them day and night. wives need not expect their husbands to remain devoted and loyal until the saloon is abolished. what is our duty? how shall we oppose the evil? how do the american people deal with evils when they deal with them at all? when great britain went a little too far in "taxation without representation," what course did the american colonies adopt in remedying the evil? their chief men said, "these colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent states." the popular voice of the people decided it. when the british government unduly impressed american seamen, how was the difficulty settled? the representatives of the people, their lawmakers, declared war against the opposing nation, and forced her to cease her oppression. the popular vote decided it. when negro slavery darkened the entire sky of our country, and caused our leading men to realize that we could not long exist half-slave and half-free, how was the dark cloud dispelled? the representatives of our people, the lawmakers of the land, in letters of blood wrote the immortal thirteenth amendment to the american constitution: "neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime, whereof the person shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the united states, or any place subject to their jurisdiction." when we wanted to increase our territory in , and in , and in , how did we go about it? the representatives of the people, the lawmakers of the land, voted to make the purchases, and they were made. when a territory is organized, or a state comes into the union, what is done? the representatives of the people, the lawmakers of the land, vote upon it, and it is done. when treaties are to be made with foreign countries; when immigration of foreigners is to be regulated; when money is to be borrowed or coined; when post-offices and post-roads are to be established; when counterfeiting is to be punished, and public abuses are to be reformed, whose business is it? the constitution of the united states says the representatives of the people, the lawmakers of the land, have this power. when will the drink evil cease in our country? when our representatives in congress, or lawmakers, stand for the abolition of the american saloon, and vote it out of existence; then, and not until then, will drunkenness cease. when will we have representatives in congress, lawmakers who will stand for the abolition of the saloon, and who will vote it out of existence? not until you and i have select them, and place them there with our vote. to expect christian temperance in our country from any other source is absolute folly. the abolition of drunkenness by local option is selfish, unpractical, and unscriptural. you vote the liquor-traffic out of your town; we vote it in ours. remember every saloon exists only by vote of the people. your young people come over to our town for drink. we have the curse of god upon us. "woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink." (hab. ii, .) it is unpractical, for so long as intoxicants are made they will be sold. it is selfish, for to vote against the saloon in your town election, and to vote for it in your state or national election, is to drive the mad-dog on past your door to the door of your neighbor, when you might have killed him. the abolition of drunkenness by regulating the traffic through license is the most gigantic delusion that satan ever worked upon an intelligent people. it is a well-known truth that "limitation is the secret of power." the best way to provoke an early marriage between devoted lovers is bitterly to oppose them. the stream whose water spreads over its low banks is without depth and current and power. but confine the waters between high, narrow banks, the bed of the stream is deepened, and its mighty current supports animal life and turns the wheels of mill and factory. the regulation of the liquor-traffic by license makes it a financial and political power second to none in america to-day. to vote for any party or man who advocates liquor license, is to give a loyal support to the american saloon. to expect the abolition of drunkenness solely through processes of education is to preach one thing and to practice another. it is to perpetuate an evil that costs two hundred and fifty thousand precious lives every year. it is to leave to the next generation a work that god expects us to do here and now. dr. banks relates an incident witnessed by major hilton on the coast of scotland. "just at the break of day the people of a little hamlet on the coast were awakened by the boom of a cannon over the stormy waves. they knew what it meant, for frequently they had heard before the same signal of distress. some poor souls were out beyond the breakers perishing on a wrecked vessel, and in their last extremity calling wildly for help. the people hastened from their houses to the shore. out there in the distance was a dismantled vessel pounding itself to pieces. perishing fellow-beings were clinging to the rigging, and every now and then some one was swept off into the sea by the furious waves. the life-saving crew was soon gathered. 'man the life-boat!' cried the man. "where is hardy?" but the foreman of the crew was not there, and the danger was imminent. aid must be immediate, or all would be lost. the next in command sprang into the frail boat, followed by the rest, all taking their lives in their hands in the hope of saving others. o, how those on the shore watched their brave loved ones as they dashed on, now over, now almost under the waves! they reached the wreck. like angels of deliverance they filled their craft with almost dying men--men lost but for them. back again they toiled, pulling for the shore, bearing their precious freight. the first man to help them land was hardy, whose words rang above the roar of the breakers: "are you all here? did you save them all?" with saddened faces the reply came: "all but one. he couldn't help himself at all. we had all we could carry. we couldn't save the last one." "man the life-boat again!" shouted hardy. "i will go. what! leave one there to die alone? a fellow-creature there, and we on shore? man the life-boat now! we'll save him yet." but who is this aged woman with worn garments and disheveled hair, with agonized entreaty falling upon her knees beside this brave, strong man? it is his mother! "o, my son! your father was drowned in a storm like this. your brother will left me eight years ago, and i have never seen his face since the day he sailed. no doubt he, too, has found a watery grave. and now you will be lost, and i am old and poor. o, stay with me!" "mother," cried the man, "where one is in peril, there is my place. if i am lost, god surely will care for you." the plea of earnest faith prevailed. with a "god bless you, my boy!" she released him, and speeded him on his way. once more they watched and prayed and waited--those on the shore--while every muscle was strained toward the fast-sinking ship by those in the life-saving boat. at last it reached the vessel. the clinging figure was lifted and helped to its place. back came the boat. how eagerly they looked and called in encouragement, and cheered as it came nearer! "did you get him?" was the cry from the shore. lifting his hands to his mouth to trumpet the words on in advance of their landing, hardy called back above the roar of the storm, "tell mother it is brother will!" my friend, simply talking and praying will not save our loved ones from drunkards' graves. we must man the life-boat of municipal, state, and national reform, and vote for principle and christian temperance until we save the last man. he may be "brother will." iii. gambling, card-playing gambling has become a moral plague of modern society. in one form or another it has entered the rank and file of every department of life--in private parlor over cards; in hotel drawing-room over election reports; in college athletic grounds over brains and brawn; in the counting-room over the price of stocks; in the racing tournament over jockeying and speed; in the board of trade hall over future prices of the necessaries of life; in the den of iniquity at dice; in the drinking saloon at the slot-machine; in the people's fair at the wheel of fortune; in the gambling den itself at every conceivable form of swindling trick and game. gambling has come to be almost an omnipresent evil. in treating this subject, it is our purpose to point out something of the nature of its evil, not only that we may be kept from it but that we may save others whom it threatens to destroy. gambling grows out of a misuse of the natural tendency to take risks. a social vice is some social right misused. men have the social right to congregate to talk over measures of social and economic welfare. but if they discuss measures which oppose the principles of free government, their meeting together becomes a crime against the state. a personal vice is some personal right misused. as some one has put it, "vice is virtue gone mad." it is a personal right and a personal virtue to be charitable, even beneficent. but since justice comes before mercy, if one uses for charity that which should be used in payment of debt, his virtue of beneficence becomes a vice of theft. so it is with gambling. it is giving the natural tendency to chance, to risk an illegitimate play. the person who is afraid to risk anything accomplishes but little in any way, is seldom a speculator, and never a gambler. usually the gambler is the man who is naturally full of hazard, who loves to run risks, to take chances. nor will one find a more practical and useful tendency in one's make-up than this. see the discoverer of america and his brave crew for days and days sailing across an unknown sea toward an unknown land. but that was the price of a new world. note the hazard and risk of our pilgrim fathers. but they gave to the world a new colonization. see the second greatest american on his knees before almighty god, promising him that he would free four million of slaves, providing general lee should be driven back out of maryland. general lee was driven back, and that immortal though most hazardous of all documents, from man's point of view, was read to his cabinet and signed by abraham lincoln. all great men have taken great risks. not a section of the united states has been settled without some risk. no business enterprise is launched without some risk. to secure an education, to learn a trade, to marry a wife, all involve some risk, much risk. the tendency to risk, to hazard, to chance it is a practical and useful tendency. only let this tendency be governed always by wisdom and justice. no person ever became a gambler until consciously or unconsciously he forfeited wisdom and justice in his chances and risks. gambling takes a variety of forms. first of all is the professional gambler. he has no other business. his investment is a "pack of cards" and a box of "dice. see him with his long, slender fingers; with his shaggy, unkempt hair; with keen eyes, and a sordid countenance. he is prepared to "rake in" a thousand dollars a night, and would not hesitate to strip any man of his fortune. the professional is found at county fairs, on railway trains, in gilded dens, and at public resorts. being a professional outlaw, and subject at any time to arrest and imprisonment, usually he has an accomplice. sometimes a gang work together, so that it is with perfect ease they may relieve any unwary novice of his money. they know human nature on its low, mercenary side, and soon can find their man in a crowd. but few persons have started out in life having it for their aim to get something for nothing who, sooner or later, have not been "taken in" by this gang of swindlers. they know their kind. the end of the professional gambler is final loss and ruin. he will make $ , he will make $ , he will make $ , , he will make $ , ; then he will lose all. then he will borrow some money and start anew. and again he will make $ , he will make $ , he will make $ , , and he will lose all. like the winebibber and the professional murderer, the professional gambler has his den. not a large city in the world is without these haunts of vice. who is it that feeds and supports them? the novice at cards and dice, husbands and sons of respectable families, just as the occasional dram-taker supports the saloon. as one has asked: "could fools to keep their own contrive, on whom, on what could gamesters thrive?" --gay. the penny novice seeks the penny gambling den. the aristocratic speculator seeks the gilded gambling den. the expert trickster of large luck and large fortune makes his way to monte carlo, the gambling mecca of the world. monte carlo is a famous resort situated in the northwest part of italy. it is notorious for its gambling saloon. this city of nearly four thousand inhabitants is located in monaco, the smallest independent country in the world. monaco is about eight miles square, and lies on a "barren, rocky ridge between the sea and lofty, almost inaccessible rocks." the soil is barren, except in small tracts which are used for fruit-gardens. for centuries the inhabitants, the monagasques, lived by marauding expeditions, both by sea and land, and by slight commerce with genoa, marseilles, and nice. but in the last century the people have converted their country and city into a world-wide resort. in , m. blanc, a famous gambler and saloon proprietor of two german cities, went to monaco, and for an immense sum of money received sole privilege to convert their province into a gambler's paradise. soon immense marble buildings arose in the midst of such beauty as to make it a modern rival of the gardens of ancient babylon. costly statues, gorgeous vases, graceful fountains, elegant basins, and beautiful terraces, all of which are made alluring by blooming plants, by light illuminations, and by free concerts of music day and night,--these are the attractions in this gambler's paradise. here fortunes are won and lost in a night. for, as has been sung, "dice will run the contrary way, as well is known to all who play, and cards will conspire as in treason." --hood. then we have the speculator in commerce. he is the denizen of the board of trade hall. he speculates on the prices of next week's, of next month's meat and breadstuffs. and still this sort of gambler may be a book-keeper in a bank, a farm hand, or a clerk in a grocery store. it ha become so simple and so common a practice for persons to speculate on the markets that any person with ten dollars, or twenty-five dollars, or a hundred dollars may take his chances. tens of thousands of dollars to-day are being swept into this silent whirlpool, the gambler's commerce. also we have the pool gambler. he is actuated by love of excitement. he is found at the race course, at the baseball diamond, and at all sorts of contests, where he may find opportunity to be on the outcome. it is a common thing for young men to steal their employers' money, for young girls to take their hard-earned wages to stake on games and races. recently $ , were paid for the exclusive gambling right for one year at the washington park races in chicago. last of all, we have the society gambler. he is growing numerous to-day. he is the same person, whether clad in full dress in the drawing-room of the worldling, or in common dress around the fireside of the unchristian church member. like the professional gambler his instrument is "cards," and he can shake the "dice." his games are whist, progressive euchre, and sometimes poker. the stakes now are not money, but the gratification of excitement and the indulgence of passion. one, two, four hours go by almost unnoticed. prizes are offered for the best player. as a catholic priest told me after he had won a small sum with cards. said he: "we just put up a few dollars, you know, to lend devotions to the game." so prizes are offered in the social gambling "to lend devotions to the game." it is under such circumstances as these that young men and young women receive their first lessons in card-playing. a passion for card-playing is called forth, developed, and must be satisfied, even though it takes one in low places among vile associates. "a christian gentleman came from england to this country. he brought with him $ , in money. he proposed to invest the money. part of it was his own; part of it was his mother's. he went into a christian church; was coldly received, and said to himself: 'well, if that is the kind of christian people they have in america, i don't want to associate with them much.' so he joined a card-playing party. he went with them from time to time. he went a little further on, and after a while he was in games of chance, and lost all of the $ , . worse than that, he lost all of his good morals; and on the night that he blew his brains out he wrote to the lady to whom he was affianced an apology for the crime he was about to commit, and saying in so many words, 'my first step to ruin was the joining of that card party.'" in all of its forms gambling is loaded down with evil. in the first place it destroys the incentive to honest work. let the average young man win a hundred dollars at the races, it will so turn his head against slow and honorable ways of getting money that he will watch for every opportunity to get it easily and abundantly. the young girl who risks fifty cents and gets back fifty dollars will no longer be of service as a quiet, contented worker. the spirit of speculation, the passion to get something for nothing, is calculated to destroy the incentive to honest toil and to honorable methods of gain. as one values his character, as he values his peace of mind, so should he zealously guard himself against overfascinating games of chance. once we had a family in our church who played cards, and who taught their children to play cards. of course these families had no time for prayer-meeting, nor for christian work. card-playing for amusement or for money will create a passion that must be satisfied, although one must give up home and business and pleasure. in a town where we once lived a young man and his wife attended our church. in every way the husband was kind, and attentive to business. but he had fallen a victim to playing cards for money. when that passion would seize him he would leave his business, his hired help, his home and wife and little one, and would lose himself for days at a time seeking to satisfy that passion. an enviable husband, father, citizen, and neighbor but for that evil; but how wretchedly that ruined all! dr. holland, of springfield, massachusetts, says: "i have all my days had a card-playing community open to my observation, and yet i am unable to believe that that which is the universal resort of starved soul and intellect, which has never in any way linked to itself tender, elevating, or beautiful associations, but, the tendency of which is to unduly absorb the attention from more weighty matters, can recommend itself to the favor of christ's disciples. i have this moment," says he, "ringing in my ears the dying injunction of my father's early friend: 'keep your son from cards. over them i have murdered time and lost heaven.'" gambling is dishonest. it seeks something for nothing. man possesses no money, that he might risk giving it to some rogue to waste in sin. all the property one possesses, he possesses it by stewardship to be used wisely and honestly for good. every age has needed a revival of the golden rule in business. much of the business of to-day is attended to on the dishonest principle that characterizes gambling, "get as much as possible for as little as possible." this spirit is first cousin to the spirit of gambling. the only difference is, one is called wrong and is wrong; the other is wrong and is called right. tell the gambler he is a thief; he will acknowledge it, and will beat you, if he can, while he is talking to you. tell the other man he is a thief, and he will sue you at court and win his case, although it is just as wrong to steal $ from an unbalanced mind, as it is to steal $ from an unlocked safe or off of an untrained football team. it will be an easy matter to produce professional gamblers so long as society upholds dishonest dealers by another name. what men need in this matter is moral and spiritual vision, spiritual discernment. some persons live by taking advantage of those who are down. in all of its forms gambling leads to a long train of crimes. in addition to his crime of theft the professional gambler, through passion or drink, becomes a murderer. i knew a professional gambler who killed a man, with whom he had been playing cards for money, for fifty cents. after it was all over the man was sorry he had done it, for he had committed the crime in a passion while he was intoxicated. the one who speculates on the markets is not counted dishonest by the world, but how often and how quickly it leads one into crime! in our neighboring town in illinois a man of a good family and of good standing in the community began to speculate on the chicago board of trade. he was as honest a person, perhaps, as you or i. he thought he was. for years he had been a trusted, christian worker, and treasurer of the sunday-school. but he made just one venture too many. he had lost all; could not even replace the sunday-school fund that he had simply used, no doubt expecting to replace it with usury; but the loss and disgrace were too much for him to face, so he deserted home and friends and honor and all, and secretly ran away. the speculating gambler became a deserting embezzler. the person who has acquired a passion for betting on races and games is on a fair way to professional gambling and to speculating on the markets. and rarely does one ever escape these, if once he gets a start in them. the evil of society gambling is most dangerous of all, because it is most subtle of all. ah first no one would suspect an innocent game of cards, played just for fun. you may be the fourth one to make up a game; you may not know how to play, but you are told you can quickly learn. you brave it, and go in for a game. the next time a similar circumstance arises, you can not easily decline, for you must confess you have played, and so you go in as an old player. this may be as far as the matter ever goes with you. but here is one who is more impulsive than you; his surroundings are entirely different. he learns to play, and comes to revel in it. a passion is created for the game. he is shrewd; soon learns the tricks, and one evening--purely by chance, as it seems to him--he wins his first five dollars. strange possibilities with cards lay hold upon him. he is consumed by that passion. he plays for business, for keeps; he has become a professional gambler. ah! this is no finespun tale; it is being worked out every year in our country, all over the world. among many things for which i have to thank my father and mother not the least is, that they would allow no gamblers, nor gambling, nor the instruments of gambling about our home. better keep a pet rattlesnake for your child than a deck of cards; for if he gets poisoned by the snake he may be cured; but if the passion for card-playing should happen to seize him, there is little chance of a cure. the inmates of our penitentiaries to-day, almost to a man, testify that "card-playing threw them into bad company, led them into sin, and was one of the causes of their downfall." dr. talmage was asked if there could be any harm in a pack of cards. he said: "instead of directly answering your question, i will give you as my opinion that there are thousands of men with as strong a brain as you have, who have gone through card-playing into games of chance, and have dropped down into the gambler's life and into the gambler's hell." a prisoner in a jail in michigan wrote a letter to a temperance paper, in which he gives this advice for young men: "let cards and liquor alone, and you will never be behind the gates." friends, not every one who touches liquor is a drunkard, but every drunkard touches liquor; so not every one who plays cards is a professional gambler, but every professional gambler plays cards. is there nothing significant about these facts. "a word to the wise is sufficient." "in a railway train sat four men playing cards. one was a judge, and two of the others were lawyers. near them sat a poor mother, a widow in black. the sight of the men at their game made her nervous. she kept quiet as long as she could; but finally rising came to them, and addressing the judge, asked: 'do you know me?' 'no, madam, i do not,' said he. 'well, said the mother, 'you sentenced my son to state's prison for life.' turning to one of the lawyers, she said: 'and you, sir, pleaded against him. he was all i had. he worked hard on the farm, was a good boy, and took care of me until he began to play cards, when he took to gambling and was lost.'" dr. guthrie writes: "in regard to the lawfulness of certain pursuits, pleasures, and amusements, it is impossible to lay down any fixed and general rule; but we may confidently say that whatever is found to unfit you for religious duties, or to interfere with the performance of them; whatever dissipates your mind or cools the fervor of your devotions; whatever indisposes you to read your bibles or to engage in prayer, wherever the thought of a bleeding savior, or of a holy god, or of the day of judgment falls like a cold shadow on your enjoyment, the pleasures you can not thank god for, on which you can not ask his blessing, whose recollections will haunt a dying bed and plant sharp thorns in its uneasy pillow,--these are not for you..never go where you can not ask god to go with you; never be found where you would not like death to find you. never indulge in any pleasure that will not bear the morning's reflection. keep yourselves unspotted from the world, not from its spots only, but even from its suspicions." iv. dancing. dancing is the expression of inward feelings by means of rhythmical movements of the body. usually these movements are in measured step, and are accompanied by music. in some form or another dancing is as old as the world, and has been practiced by rude as well as by civilized peoples. the passion for amateur dancing always has been strongest among savage nations, who have made equal use of it in religious rites and in war. with the savages the dancers work themselves into a perfect frenzy, into a kind of mental intoxication. but as civilization has advanced dancing has modified its form, becoming more orderly and rhythmical. the early greeks made the art of dancing into a system, expressive of all the different passions. for example, the dance of the furies, so represented, would create complete terror among those who witnessed them. the greek philosopher, aristotle, ranked dancing with poetry, and said that certain dancers, with rhythm applied to gesture, could express manners, passions, and actions. the most eminent greek sculptors studied the attitude of the dancers for their art of imitating the passions. in a classical greek song, apollo, one of the twelve greater gods, the son of zeus the chief god, and the god of medicine, music, and poetry, was called the dancer. in a greek line zeus himself is represented as dancing. in sparta, a province of ancient greece, the law compelled parents to exercise their children in dancing from the age of five years. they were led by grown men, and sang hymns and songs as they danced. in very early times a greek chorus, consisting of the whole population of the city, would meet in the market-place to offer up thanksgivings to the god of the country. their jubilees were always attended with hymn-singing and dancing. the jewish records make frequent mention of dancing, but always "as a religious ceremony, or as an expression of gratitude and praise." as a means of entertainment in private society, dancing was practiced in ancient times, but by professional dancers, and not by the company themselves. it is true that the bible has sanctioned dancing, but let us remember, first, that it was always a religious rite; second, that it was practiced only on joyful occasions, at national feasts, and after great victories; third, that usually it was "performed by maidens in the daytime, in open air, in highways, fields, or groves;" fourth, that "there are no instances of dancing sanctioned in the bible, in which both sexes united in the exercise, either as an act of worship or as an amusement;" fifth, that any who perverted the dance from a sacred use to purposes of amusement were called infamous. the only records in scripture of dancing as a social amusement were those of the ungodly families described by job xxi, - , who spent their time in luxury and gayety, and who came to a sudden destruction; and the dancing of herodias, matt. xiv, , which led to the rash vow of king herod and to the murder of john the baptist. so much for the history of dancing. the modern dance in which both sexes freely mingle, irrespective of character, purely for amusement, at late hours, at which intoxicants, in some form, are generally used, is, essentially, an institution of vice. the modern dance is as different from the dancing of ancient times, and from the dancing sanctioned in the bible, as daylight is from dark, as good is from bad. the modern dance imperils health, it poisons the social nature; it destroys intellectual growth; and it robs men and women of their virtue. let us understand one another. to attend one dance may not accomplish all of this in any person. one may attend many dances, and he himself not see these results marked in his character, but some one else will see them. for in the nature of the institution the modern dance affects in all these particulars those whom it reaches. the tendencies in a single dance are in these directions. in a way peculiar to itself the modern dance imperils health. though detestable and out of date, as are the modern kissing games, yet no one ever heard of one of those performances continuing until three and five o'clock in the morning. young people do not stay up all night, ride five, ten, and twenty miles to play authors, or to snap caroms, or to play charades, as interesting in a social way as these innocent amusements may be. the fact that one will go to this extreme in keeping late hours to attend the dance, and will not keep such late hours for any other form of amusement, proves that the dance, as an institution, is at fault in producing such irregularities. and then who ever heard of one having to dress in a certain way to attend a purely social gathering. but let a young lady attend a fashionable ball or a regular round dance of any note, whatever, and if she wears the civil gown she will be thought tame and snubbed. she must dress for this occasion, and thus, from a health point of view, so expose her body that after the excitement and heat of a prolonged round she takes her place in a slight draught of air, and a severe cold is contracted. and this exposure is further increased by the sudden change from a close, hot room to the damp, chilly air of the early morning, on her journey home. it is possible to guard against all of this, but are those persons who attend such exercises likely to be cautious in such practical matters. at least, this risk of exposure for men and women is peculiar to the dance, and it is certain that many are physically injured in this way. the modern dance poisons the social nature. the chief exercise at the modern dance is dancing. those who have attended dances, as a social recreation, have complained that they never have an opportunity to get acquainted with one another. such a luxury as a complete conversation on any theme is out of the question. it is a form of amusement that stultifies the communicative faculties, and fosters social seclusion. some one might say this may be a good thing, since every grade in moral and social standing are represented. yes, but this only acknowledges the lack of opportunity for social fellowship. it is not true that the dance, as an institution, is not patronized by the most capable in conversation and companionship? certainly this is true in the so-called higher society, among those whose sole ambition is to excel in formal manners and in personal appearance at the gay function, and at the social ball. to be communicative one must have something to communicate, and this means a cultivation of the mind and heart. true social fellowship is one of the sweetest pleasures of life and always has its source in the culture of the soul. whatever may be said for or against the modern dance, it is true that because of the mixed characters of its attendants, and for want of opportunity to communicate, the social nature becomes neglected and abused, and may be fatally poisoned. the modern dance destroys intellectual growth. the person who has the dance-craze cares no more for mental improvement and growth than a starving man cares for splendid recipes for fine cooking. the thought of a problem to be solved, of a book to be read, of an organ exercise to be practiced, of all things, are most tame to the one who is filled with dreams of the last dance, and with visions of the one that is to come. to grow, the mind must be free from excitement. the fault with the dance in this respect is that it has in it a fascination that does not exist in the ordinary social amusement. some persons complain that they can not get an evening to go off well without dancing. but this is only an open confession to mental vacuity, to intellectual poverty. for one need know but little to flourish at the dance. and always, where little is required, intellectually, little is given. it is the rule that those who are in the greatest need of mental cultivation and growth are those who make up the dancing crowd. and the fact that the dance, as an institution, in no way stimulates intellectual thought, destines those who dance to remain on the lower intellectual plane. last, and worst of all, the dance robs men and women of their virtue, and this often at the first unconsciously. if it is not for health and physical vigor that one follows up dancing; if it is not the peculiar social tie that binds dancers together; if it is not the incentive to intellectual growth and equipment, what is it? a secret lies hid away somewhere in the institution of the modern dance, that makes it the chiefest attraction of worldly-minded and often of base-hearted people. what is that secret? ah, my friend, it is the appeal to the most sacred instincts and passions of a man and of a woman! this appeal is peculiar to the modern dance by the accident of physical contact that men and women assume in dancing, and also by the circumstances that attend it, namely, mixed society, late hours, and the customary use of strong drink. no honest, normally passionate person, who has made it a practice of attending dances, will deny the truth of this charge. one may never have thought of it in this way, but when he stops to think he knows that it is true. it is through ignorance of these circumstances, and of their bad effects, that many a well-meaning person, presumably to have a good time, or to acquire heel-grace, goes into the dance, secures a passion for dancing, and through its seductive influences are led into sin and shame. the following is an incident out of his own experience related by professor t. a. faulkner, an ex-dancing master. professor faulkner is the author of the little book entitled "from the ball room to hell." a book which every person who sees no harm in dancing should read. "here is a girl. the one remaining child of wealthy parents, their idol and joy. a dancing-school having opened near their home, the daughter, for accomplishment, was sent to it. she came from her home, modest, and her innate spirit of purity rebelled against the liberties taken by the dancing-master, and the men he introduced to her. she became indignant at the indecent attitudes she was called upon to assume, but noticing a score of young women, many of them from the best homes in the town, all yielding to the vulgar embrace, she cast aside that spirit of modesty which had been the development of years of home-training, and setting her face against nature's protective warnings, gave herself, as did the others, to this prolonged embrace set to music. having learned to dance, its fascinations led her an enthusiastic captive. modesty was crucified, decency outraged, virtue lost its power over her soul, and she spent her days dreaming of the delights of the sensual whirl of the evening. hardly conscious of the change she had now become as bold as any of the women, and loved the embrace of the charmer. the graduation of the class was, of course, the occasion of a waltzing reception. to that reception she went, attended by her father, who looked with a proud heart on the fulsome greeting his dear one received. after a little the father retired, leaving his daughter to the care of the many handsome gallants who danced attendance upon her. the reception did not close until the small hours of the morning. each waltz became more voluptuous; intoxicated by sensuality, the dancers became more bold, and lust was aroused in every breast. how many sins that reception occasioned, i do not know; this, at least, is sure, that this girl who entered that dancing-hall three months before, as pure as an angel, was that night.robbed of her honor and returned to her home deprived forever of that most precious jewel of womanhood--virtue. her first impulse the next morning was self-destruction; then she deluded herself with the thought of marriage with her dancing companion, but he still further insulted her by declaring that he wanted a pure woman for his wife. what was her end? shunned by the very society which egged her on to ruin, her self-respect was gone with her lost purity, she went to her own kind, and in shame is closing her days." "of two hundred brothel inmates to whom professor faulkner talked, and who were frank enough to answer his question as to the direct cause of their shame, seven said poverty and abuse; ten, willful choice; twenty, drink given them by their parents; and one hundred and sixty-three, dancing and the ball-room." "a former chief of police of new york city says that three-fourths of the abandoned girls of this city were ruined by dancing." of the dance, one says: "it lays its lecherous hand upon the fair character of innocence, and converts it into a putrid corrupting thing. it enters the domain of virtue, and with silent, steady blows takes the foundation from underneath the pedestal on which it sits enthroned. it lists the gate and lets in a flood of vice and impurity that sweeps away modesty, chastity, and all sense of shame. it keeps company with the low, the degraded, and the vile. it feeds upon the passion it inflames, and fattens on the holiest sentiments, turned by its touch to filth and rottenness. it loves the haunts of vice, and is at home in the company of harlots and debauchees." george t. lemon says: "no church in christendom commends or even excuses the dance. all unite to condemn it." the late episcopal bishop of vermont, writes: "dancing is chargeable with waste of time, interruption of useful study, the indulgence of personal vanity and display, and the premature incitement of the passions. at the age of maturity it adds to these no small danger to health by late hours, flimsy dress, heated rooms, and exposed persons." episcopal bishop meade, of virginia, declares: "social dancing is not among the neutral things which, within certain limits, we may do at pleasure, and it is not among the things lawful, but not expedient, but it is in itself wrong, improper, and of bad effect." episcopal bishop mcilvaine, of ohio, putting the dance and the theater together, writes: "the only line that i would draw in regard to these is that of entire exclusion..the question is not what we can imagine them to be, but what they always have been, will be, and must be, in such a world as this, to render them pleasurable to those who patronize them. strip them bare until they stand in the simple innocence to which their defenders' arguments would reduce them and the world would not have them." a roman catholic priest testifies that "the confessional revealed the fact that nineteen out of every twenty women who fall can trace the beginning of their state to the modern dance." v. theater-going. with drunkenness, gambling, and dancing, theater-going dates from the beginning of history, and with these it is not only questionable in morals, but it is positively bad. every one who knows any thing about the institution of the theater, as such, knows that it always has been corrupting in its influence. not only those who attend the theater pronounce it bad, as a whole, but it is frowned upon by play-writers, and by actors and actresses themselves. five hundred years before christ, jew, pagan, and christian spoke against the theater. it is stated on good authority that the dissipations of the theater were the chief cause of the decadence of ancient greece. at one time, augustus, the emperor of rome, was asked as a means of public safety, to suppress the theater. the early christians held the theater in such bad repute as to rank it with the heathen temple. and to these two places they would not go, even to preach the good news of jesus christ. nor has the moral tone and character of the theater improved, even in our day. dr. theodore cuyler, for many years an experienced pastor in brooklyn, says: "the american theater is a concrete institution, to be judged as a totality. it is responsible for what it tolerates and shelters. we, therefore, hold it responsible for whatever of sensual impurity and whatever of irreligion, as well as for whatever of occasional and sporadic benefit there may be bound up in its organic life. instead of helping christ's kingdom, it hinders; instead of saving souls, it corrupts and destroys." dr. buckley gives this testimony: "being aware of the fact that the drama, like every thing else which caters to the taste, has its fashions--rising and falling and undergoing various changes--now improving, and then degenerating, i have thought it desirable to institute a careful inquiry into the plays which have been performed in the principal theaters of new york during the past three years. accordingly, i procured the copies used by the performers in preparing for their parts, and took pains to ascertain wherein, in actual use, the actors diverged from the printed copies. they number over sixty, and, with the exception of a few unprinted plays, include all that have been produced in the prominent theaters of new york during the three years now about closing..it is a singular fact, that, with three or four exceptions, those dramatic compositions, among the sixty or more under discussion, which are morally objectionable, are of a comparatively low order of literary execution. but if language and sentiments, which would not be tolerated among respectable people, and would excite indignation if addressed to the most uncultivated and coarse servant girl, not openly vicious, by an ordinary young man, and profaneness which would brand him who uttered it as irreligious, are improper amusements for the young and for christians of every age, then at least fifty of these plays are to be condemned." in the first place the theater leads one into bad company. as a class, the performers are licentious. how can one be in their company, be moved to laughter and to tears and not be contaminated by them? one who has studied the theater tells us that the "fruits of the spirit and the fruits of the stage exhibit as pointed a contrast as the human imagination can conceive." the famous macready, as he retired from the stage, wrote: "none of my children, with my consent under any pretense, shall ever enter the theater, nor shall they have any visiting connection with play actors or actresses." dr. johnson asks the question: "how can they mingle together as they do, men and women, and make public exhibitions of themselves as they do, in such circumstances, with such surroundings, with such speech as much often be on their lips to play the plays that are written, in such positions as they must sometimes take, affecting such sentiment and passions--how can they do this without moral contamination?" and we would ask, how can persons live enrapt with this sort of thing for hours and hours each week, the year around, and not become equally contaminated, for to the onlooker all this comes as a reality, while to those who are performing, it is hired shamming? therefore, as the pupil becomes the teacher, so the attendant at the theater becomes like the one who performs. so that to go to the theater is to "sit in the seat of the scornful or to stand in the way of sinners." "there you find the man," says one, "who has lost all love for his home, the careless, the profane, the spendthrift, the drunkard, and the lowest prostitute of the street. they are found in all parts of the house; they crowd the gallery, and together should aloud the applause, greeting that which caricatures religion, sneers at virtue, or hints at indecency." not only the actors and the onlookers of the average theater are vile, but all of the immediate associations of the playhouse must correspond with it. if not in the same building with the theater, in adjoining ones, at least, are found the wine-parlor and the brothel. it is generally conceded that no theater can be prosperous if it is wholly separated from these adjuncts of evil. the theater, therefore, kills spiritually and degrades the moral life of the one who attends it. the theater deals with the spectacular. this appeals to the eye, to the ear, and to all of the outer senses. spirituality depends upon a cultivation of the spiritual senses that grace has opened up within the soul. hence, the spectacular is directly opposed to the spiritual. the deep, contemplative, spiritual soul could find little or no food in the false, clap-trap representations of the modern stage. and to find an increased interest here is evidence that one lacks spiritual life, at least deep-seated spiritual life. this is why so many professing christians are so eager to go to the card-party, to the dancing-party, and to the theater. the inner-sense life of the soul is dead, and one must have something upon which to feed, hence he feeds upon the husks of "imprudent and un-christian amusements." and let one who has a measure of spiritual life, instead of increasing it, seek to satisfy his soul-longing by means of the spectacular, of false representations in any form, soon he will lose the spiritual life that he has. and this loss will be marked by an increased demand for the spectacular. the surest proof to-day that the spiritual life of the church is waning in certain sections, is not so much that her membership-roll is not on the increase, but that professing christian people are running wild after cards and dancing and the theater. evangelist sayles declares: "the people of our so-called best society, and christian people, many that have been looked upon as active workers, sit now and gaze upon scenes in our theaters, without a blush, that twenty-five years ago would not have been countenanced..the moral and spiritual life of many a christian has been weakened by the eyes gazing upon the scenes of the theater." says he, "the christian, through attendance upon the playhouse, creates a relish for worldly things, and so spiritual things become distasteful." then, to go to one theater, sanctions all. to have heard and to have seen joe jefferson in "rip van winkle," richard mansfield in "the merchant of venice," or edwin booth or sir henry irving, or maude adams, or julia marlowe in their best plays, is to have received a deeper insight into human nature, and a stronger purpose to become sympathetic and true, but who can afford to sanction all that is base and villainous is the institution of the modern theater for the sake of learning sympathy and truth and human nature from a few worthy actors, when he may find all of this as truthfully, if not as artistically, set forth by the orator, by the musician, by the painter, and by the author? it is not cant, it is not pharisaism, it is not a weak claim of christianity, but it is common honesty, mighty truth, a cardinal and beautiful teaching of jesus christ to deny one's self for the welfare of the weaker brother. let one go to hear mansfield in shakespeare, and his neighbor boy will take his friend and go to the vaudeville, and his only excuse to his parents and to his half-taught mind and heart will be, "well, mr. so-and-so goes to the theater, he is a member of the church and superintendent of the sunday-school; surely there is no harm for me to go." to the immature mind what seems right for one person seems lawful for another. this is because such a person has not learned to discriminate between what is bad and what is good. therefore, if the theater as an institution has more in it that is bad than it has in it that is good, rather if the general tendency of the theater, as an institution, is bad, the safe thing for one's self and for those who read one's life as an example, is to discard it entirely. in view of these facts, no person can attend the theater at all without hurting his influence. the ideal life is that one which gives offense of stumbling to no one. a successful preacher who had an aversion toward speaking on the subject of questionable amusements, when asked what he believed concerning a certain form of amusement, replied: "see what i do, and know what i believe." it is a glorious life whose actions are an open epistle of righteousness and peace, read and believed and honored by all men. "some time ago a gentleman teaching a large class of young men in a chicago sunday-school, desired to attend a theater for the purpose of seeing a celebrated actor. he was not a theater-goer, and thought that no harm could come from it. he had no sooner taken his seat, however, than he saw in the opposite gallery some of the members of his class. they also saw him and began commenting on the fact that their teacher was at the theater. they thought it inconsistent in him, lost their interest in the class, and he lost his influence over the young men. that teacher tied his hands by this one act, so that he could not speak out against the gross sins of the theater." those who defend theater-going say that if christian people would patronize the theater that it would be made more respectable. but over a thousand years of history proves that this principle fails here as it does elsewhere. a christian woman marries an unchristian man with the hope that he will become a christian; a steady, sensible woman in all other matters marries a man who drinks, with the thought of reforming him; one associates with worldly and sensual companions, expecting to make them better; but, alas, what blasted hopes, what wretched failures in all of these instances, at least in the most of them! you can not reform vice; you may whitewash a sin, but it will be sin, still. to purify a character or an institution one must not become a part of it by sympathy, nor by association. this is what the psalmist meant when he said, "blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsels of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful." and so it is, that every effort at reforming the theater, thus far has failed. the rev. c.w. winchester says concerning the reforming of the theater: "the facts are, ( ) that the theater in this city and country never had the support and encouragement of moral and religious people it has now; ( ) that the theater here was never so bad. clearly, if christian patronage is going to reform the theater, the reform ought to begin. but the grade is downward. the theater is growing worse and worse." dr. wilkinson makes this statement on the question of reforming the theater: "now the protestant christians of new york number, by recent computation, less than seventy-five thousand souls, in a population of a million. supposing a general agreement among them all that a regular attendance at the theater was at this juncture the most pressing and most promising method of evangelical effort, they would not then constitute even one-tenth of the numerical patronage which the management would study to please." dr. herrick johnson says: "the ideal stage is out of the question. it is out of the question just as pure, chaste, human nudity is out of the question..the nature of theatrical performances, the essential demands of the stage, the character of the plays, and the constitution of human nature, make it impossible that the theater should exist, save under a law of degeneracy. its trend is downward; its centuries of history tell just this one story. the actual stage of to-day..is a moral abomination. in chicago, at least, it is trampling on the sabbath with defiant scoff. it is defiling our youth. it is making crowds familiar with the play of criminal passions. it is exhibiting women with such approaches to nakedness as can have no other design than to breed lust behind the onlooking eyes. it is furnishing candidates for the brothel. it is getting us used to scenes that rival the voluptuousness and licentious ages of the past." as never before to-day, has the theater asked for the support of church members. and the ideal stage, with virtuous performers, and with pure dramas, are held up as a sample of what christian people are invited to attend. dr. cuyler says: "every person of common sense knows that the actual average theater is no more an ideal playhouse than the average pope is like st. peter, or the average politician is like abraham lincoln. a puritanic theater would become bankrupt in a twelvemonth. the great mass of those who frequent the playhouse go there for strong, passionate excitements..i do not affirm," says dr. cuyler, "that every popular play is immoral, and every attendant is on a scent for sensualities. but the theater is a concrete institution, it must be judged in the gross and to a tremendous extent it is only a gilded nastiness. it unsexes womanhood by putting her publicly in male attire--too often in no attire at all." "so competent an authority as the famous actress, olga nethersole, recently declared that the only kind of play which may hope for success with english-speaking audiences at the present day is the play which is sufficiently indicated by calling it immoral. there is no doubt about it that the theater, as at present conducted, is pulling the stones from the foundations of public morality, and weakening, and in many quarters endangering, the whole structure of society. the atmosphere of the modern theater is lustful and irreverent. it is a good place for christians to keep away from. it is a good opportunity for the strong man to deny himself for the sake of his younger or weaker brother." part ii. worthy substitutes. "get the spindle and thy distaff ready, and god will send thee flax." vi. books and reading. many books, much reading. to-day every one reads. go where you may, you will find the paper, the magazine, the journal; printed letters, official reports, exhaustive cyclopedias, universal histories; the ingenuous advertisement, the voluminous calendar, the decorated symphony; printed ideals, elaborate gaming rules, flaming bulletins; and latest of all, we have begun to publish our communications on the waves of the air. in this hurly-burly of many books and much reading, it is no mean problem to know why one should read; and what, and how, and when. especially does this problem of general reading confront the student, the lover of books, and those of the professions. essays are to be read, the historical, the philosophical, and the scientific; novels, the historical and the religious; books of devotion, books of biography, of travel, of criticism, and of art. what principles are to guide one in his choice of reading, that he may select only the wisest, purest, and helpfulest from all these classes of books? why read. read to acquire knowledge. knowledge is the perception of truth. one arrives at knowledge by the assimilation of facts and principles, or by the assimilation of truth itself. three sources of knowledge are experience, conversation, and reading. experience leads one slowly to knowledge, is limited entirely to the path over which one has passed, and is a "dear teacher." to acquire knowledge by conversation is to put one at the mercy of his associates, making him dependent upon their good favor, truthfulness, and learning. but reading places one in direct communication with the wisest and best persons of all time. to acquire knowledge by reading is to defy time and space, persons and circumstances, at least, in our day of many and inexpensive books. through books facts live, principles operate, justice acts, the light of philosophy gleams, wit flashes, god speaks. every book-lover agrees with channing: "no matter how poor i am..if the sacred writers will enter and take up their abode under my roof, if milton will cross my threshold to sing to me of paradise, and shakespeare to open to me the words of imagination and the workings of the human heart, and franklin to enrich me with his practical wisdom, i shall not pine for want of intellectual companionship, and i may become a cultivated man, though excluded from what is called the best society in the place where i live." kingsley says: "except a living man, there is nothing more wonderful than a book!--a message to us from the dead,--from human souls whom we never saw, who lived, perhaps, thousands of miles away; and yet these, in those little sheets of paper, speak to us, amuse us, terrify us, teach us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers..if they are good and true, whether they are about religion or politics, farming, trade, or medicine, they are the message of christ, the maker of all things, the teacher of all truth." the wide range of truth secured through reading acts in two ways upon the reader. it spiritualizes his character, and it makes him mighty in action. knowledge on almost any subject has a marked tendency to sharpen one's wits, to refine his tastes, to ennoble his spirit, to improve his judgement, to strengthen his will, to subdue his baser passions, and to fill his soul with the breath of life. it is only upon truth that the soul feeds, and by means of knowledge that the character grows. "it cannot be that people should grow in grace," writes john wesley, "unless they give themselves to reading. a reading people will always be a knowing people." reading makes one mighty in action when it gives one knowledge, since "knowledge is power," and since power has but one way of showing itself, and that is, in action. knowledge takes no note of hardships, ignores fatigue, laughs at disappointment, and frowns upon despair. it delves into the earth, rides upon the air, defies the cold of the north, the heat of the south; it stands upon the brink of the spitting volcano, circumnavigates the globe, examines the heavens, and tries to understand god. with but few exceptions, master-minds and men of affairs have been incessant readers. cicero, chief of roman orators, whether at home or abroad, in town or in the country, by day or by night, in youth or in old age, in sorrow or in joy, was not without his books. "petrarch, when his friend the bishop, thinking that he was overworked, took away the key of his library, was restless and miserable the first day, had a bad headache the second, and was so ill by the third day that the bishop, in alarm, returned the key and let his friend read as much as he liked." writes frederick the great, "my latest passion will be for literature." the poet, milton, while a child, read and studied until midnight. john ruskin read at four years of age, was a book-worm at five, and wrote numerous poems and dramas before he was ten. lord macaulay read at three and began a compendium of universal history at seven. although not a lover of books, george washington early read matthew hale and became a master in thought. benjamin franklin would sit up all night at his books. thomas jefferson read fifteen hour a day. patrick henry read for employment, and kept store for pastime. daniel webster was a devouring reader, and retained all that he read. at the age of fourteen he could repeat from memory all of watt's hymns and pope's "essay on man." when but a youth, henry clay read books of history and science and practiced giving their contents before the trees, birds, and horses. says a biographer of lincoln, "a book was almost always his inseparable companion." then, read for enjoyment. fortunately, a habit so valuable as reading may grow to become a pleasure. so that as one is gathering useful information and increasing in knowledge, he may have the keenest enjoyment. such an one sings as he works. he has learned to convert drudgery into joy; duty has become delight. but even for such an one a portion of his reading should be purely for rest and recreation. if one has taught school all day, or set type, or managed a home, or read history, or labored in the field, or been shopping, heavy, solid reading may be out of the question, while under such circumstances one would really enjoy a striking allegory or a well-written novel. or, if one is limited in knowledge, or deficient in literary taste so that he may find no interest in history, science, philosophy, or religion, still he may enjoy thrilling books of travel, of biography, or of entertaining story. in this way all may enjoy reading. "of all the amusements which can possibly be imagined for a hard-working man, after his daily toil, or in its intervals, there is nothing," says herschel, "like reading an interesting book. it calls for no bodily exercise, of which he has had enough or too much. it relieves his home of its dullness and sameness, which, in nine cases out of ten, is what drives him out to the alehouse, to his own ruin and his family's. it accompanies him to his next day's work, and, if the book he has been reading be any thing above the very idlest and lightest, gives him something to think of besides the mere mechanical drudgery of his every-day occupation, something he can enjoy while absent, and look forward with pleasure to return to." what to read. first of all read something. "southey tells us that, in his walk one stormy day, he met an old woman, to whom, by way of greeting, he made the rather obvious remark that it was dreadful weather. she answered, philosophically, that in her opinion, 'any weather was better than none.'" and so we would say, excluding corrupt literature, any reading is better than none! in this day of multiplicity of books who who never reads may not be an ignoramus nor a fool, but certainly he robs the world of much that is useful in character, and deprives himself of much that enriches his own soul. then one should select his books, as he does his associates, and not attempt to read everything that comes in his way. no longer may one know even a little about every thing. it might be a mark of credit rather than an embarrassment for one to answer, "no," to the question, "have you read the latest book?" when the fact is recalled that , novels have been published within the past eighty years, and that five new ones are added to the list daily. read history. one has characterized history as both the background and the key to all knowledge. no other class of reading so much as this helps one to appreciate his own country, his own age, his own surroundings. extensive reading of history is a sure remedy for pessimism, prejudice, and fanaticism. in so far as history is an accurate account of the past, it is a true prophecy of the future for the nation and for the individual. who reads history knows that men always have displayed folly, weakness, and cruelty, and that they always will, even to their own obvious ruin. also he knows that every time and place have had their few good men and women who have honored god, and whom god has honored. nothing so teaches a person his own insignificance and the small part that he plays in the world as does the reading of history. nor is history to be found only in the book called history. if you want to know the life of the ancients, as you know the life of your own community, read josephus. do you want a glimpse of early apostolic times, read "the life and times of jesus," by edersheim. do you want to see the battlefield of waterloo, visit paris in the beginning of the nineteenth century, stop over night with louis philippe, see the english through french spectacles, and the frenchman through his own; do you want a glimpse of the political despotism, court intrigue, and ecclesiastical tyranny in france a hundred years ago; do you want to hear the crash of the bastile, and see notre dame converted into a horse-stable; do you want a picture of the "bread riots" and mob violence that terminated in the french revolution of ; in short do you want a tale of french life and character in its brightest, gloomiest, and intensest period, read "les miserables," by victor hugo. to-day one must read current history. it is not enough to plan, work, and economize, one must make and seize opportunities. and this he can do only as he is alive to passing events. in a few years one may outgrow his usefulness through losing touch with advancing ideas and methods of work. to keep abreast of the times one must read the newspaper and the magazine. the newspaper is the history of the hour, the magazine is the history of the day. the magazine corrects the newspaper, and "sums up in clear and noble phrase those fundamental facts which are only dimly seen in the newspaper." a serious and growing tendency is that the newspaper and magazine shall take the place of the best books. a few minutes a day is enough for any newspaper, and a few hours a month is enough for any magazine. the greatest part of one's reading should be that of books. who gormandizes on current events will pay the price with a morbid mind and with false conclusions in his reasoning. read biography. the life of a great man is a continual inspiration. no other exercise so fires a soul with noble ambition as the study of a great life. real life is not only stranger than fiction, but it is more interesting than fiction. no boy should be without the life of washington, of lincoln, of webster, of franklin. every girl should know by heart brave pocahontas, sympathetic mrs. stowe, queenly frances willard, and kind-hearted victoria. no private library is complete without plutarch's "lives," the "life of alfred the great," of napoleon, grant, and gladstone. read science. the fourteen-year-old child may master the practical principles of natural philosophy, and yet how many intelligent persons remain ignorant of the most commonplace truths in this branch of learning! with a little attention to the natural and mechanical sciences, a new world of beauty and truth opens up before one. he sees objects that once were hid to him; he hears sounds that once were silent; he enjoys odors that once retained their fragrance. his whole being becomes a part of the living musical world about him, when he has his senses opened to appreciate it and to become attuned to it. one should read some science throughout his life, in order to remain at the source of all true knowledge. here he learns to appreciate the language of nature. when expressed by man, this is poetry. therefore, read poetry. ten minutes a day with tennyson, browning, emerson, or lowell, will teach one a new language, by which he may converse with the wind, talk with the birds, chat with the brook, speak with the flowers, and hold discourse with the sun, moon, and stars. the deepest and mightiest thoughts of all ages have been expressed in poetry, the language of nature. "poetry," says coleridge, "is the blossom and fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, passions, emotions, languages." read books of religion. "religion," says lyman abbott, "is the life of god in the soul." every truly religious book treats of this life. the only purely religious book is the bible. it is the source and inspiration of every other religious book. the bible is a "letter from god to man, handed down from heaven and written by inspired men." its message is free salvation for all men through jesus christ; its spirit is divine love. no wise person is without this letter, and every thoughtful and devout person reads it daily. one may never find time to follow a course of study, nor to pursue a plan of daily reading; he may never know the wealth of dante, the grandeur of milton, nor the genius of shakespeare, but every one may make the bible his daily companion and guide. how to read. enter into what you read. no book can thrill and move one unless he gives himself up to it. lack of fixed attention is the cause of the half-informed mind, the faulty reason, and the ever-failing memory. the cause of this lack of attention may be an historical allusion of which one is ignorant, or a new word that he fails to look up, or an overtaxed mind, or unfavorable surroundings. whatever may be this hindrance it must be removed or overcome before one can enter into what he reads. a thought is of no value until it registers itself and takes a room in the mind. this is why we are told on every hand, that a few books well read are worth more than many books poorly read. the secret of abraham lincoln's power as a public speaker lay in his clear reasoning, simple statement, and apt illustration. this secret was secured by lincoln through his habit of mastering whatever he heard in conversation or reading. "when a mere child," says lincoln, "i used to get irritated when anybody talked to me in a way i could not understand. i don't think i ever got angry at anything else in my life. but that always disturbed my temper, and has ever since. i can remember going to my little bedroom, after hearing the neighbors talk of an evening with my father, and spending no small part of the night walking up and down, trying to make out what was the exact meaning of some of their, to me, dark sayings. i could not sleep, though i often tried to, when i got on such a hunt after an idea, until i had caught it, and when i thought i had got it, i was not satisfied until i had repeated it over and over; until i had put it in language plain enough, as i thought, for any boy i knew to comprehend. this was a kind of passion with me, and it has stuck by me; for i am never easy now when i am handling a thought until i have bounded it north, and bounded it south, and bounded it east, and bounded it west." and so to enter into what one reads, means that he will master the thought. the most that a university can do for one is to teach him to read. who has learned how to read has secured a liberal education, however or wherever he may have learned it. then, one should learn to scan an author. this means to take a rapid observation of his thoughts. much of one's common reading matter should be scanned. all local news, much magazine literature, and many books should be used in this way. it is mental sloth and waste of time to pore over a newspaper or a book of light fiction, as one would a philosophy of history or a work of science. as bacon aptly puts it, "some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others." one's mind is like a horse, it soon learns its master. feed it well, groom it well, treat it gently, you may expect much from it. it is reported of dr. newell dwight hillis that he has read a book a day for over twenty years. he has learned to squeeze the thought out of a book at a grasp, as one of us would squeeze the juice from an orange. take a glimpse into his library. five hundred volumes of sociological literature, four hundred volumes of history, two hundred of cyclopedias, gazetteers, books of reference; four hundred volumes of pure science, one hundred volumes of travels, two hundred and fifty volumes of biography; one hundred volumes of art and art history; a section on psychology, ethics, philosophy, and the relation between science and religion, and a thousand volumes of literature, pure and simple. when to read. first, read at regular hours. this is for those who follow literary pursuits. no professional person should respect himself in his work who has no special time for reading and study, and who does not conscientiously adhere to it. the pulpit, the law-office, the doctor's office, the teacher, and the editor's desk, each clamors for the man, the woman, who can think. to appreciate god and to sympathize with the human heart; to know law and the intricate special case; to understand disease and relief for the suffering patient; to have something to teach and to know how to teach it even to the dullest pupil; to know human character and to be able to enlighten the public mind and the public conscience; all this requires in the one who serves a deep and growing knowledge and experience which may be realized only in the grasp of truth contained in the up-to-date and best authorized books. the use of books with this class of persons is not optional. they must buy and master them, or a few years at longest will relegate them with their old books and ideas to the dusty garret where they belong. then, many must read on economized time. the farmer, the mechanic, the merchant, the shopkeeper, each may find a little time for daily reading. ten minutes saved in the morning, ten minutes in the afternoon, and ten minutes in the evening, this is half hour a day. in a week this gives one three hours and a half, in a month fourteen hours of solid reading, and in a year one will have read seven days of twenty-four hours each. think of what may be accomplished in an average lifetime in common reading by the busiest person, who really wants to read. "schliemann," the noted german scholar and author, "as a boy, standing in line at the post-office waiting his turn for the mail, utilized the time by studying greek from a little pocket grammar." "mary somerfield, the astronomer, while busy with her children in the nursery, wrote her 'mechanism of the heavens,' without neglecting her duties as a mother." "julius caesar, while a military officer and politician found time to write his commentaries known throughout the world." william cobbett says: "i learned grammar when i was a private soldier on a six-pence a day. the edge of my guard-bed was my seat to study in, my knapsack was my bookcase, and a board lying on my lap was my desk. i had no moment at that time that i could call my own; and i had to read and write among the talking, singing, whistling, and bawling of at least half a score of the most thoughtless of men." among those whom we all know who have risen out of obscurity to eminence through a wise economy of time which they have used in reading and study, are, patrick henry, benjamin west, eli whitney, james watt, richard baxter, roger sherman, sir isaac newton, and benjamin franklin. vii. social recreation. defined. the normal young person who does not dissipate is bursting with life. the natural child is activity embodied. the healthful old person craves exercise. life, activity, exercise, each must have some method of spending itself. some normal method, some right method, some attractive method must be chosen. by normal method we mean that which calls into use the varied faculties and powers of the entire being, body, mind, and heart. by right method we mean that which does not crush out a part of one's being, while another part is being developed. by attractive method in the use of life, activity, exercise, we mean that which appeals to one's peculiar desires, tastes, and circumstances, so long as these are normal and right. some chosen profession, trade, or work is the rightful heritage of every person. each man, woman, and child should know when he gets up of a morning, what his work is for that day. consciously, or unconsciously, he should have some outline of work, some end in view, some goal toward which he is stretching himself. dr. j. m. buckley asks: "have you a purpose and a plan?" and answers, "life is worth nothing till then." the child is in the hands of his parent, his teacher, his guardian. these must answer to destiny for his beginning and growth. "satan finds something for idle hands to do." hence the necessity of vigilance on the part of those who hold the young. but "all work and no play, makes jack a dull boy." this rule is good whether "jack" be a puny girl, a feeble grandfather, a hustling, responsible father, a busy mother, or even a mischievous lad. every person who rises each morning, dresses himself and goes about his work as if he knew what he were about; who has some useful work to do, and does it, sooner or later, needs rest. true, night comes and one may rest. and sweet is the rest of sleep; a third of one's life is passed in this way. sancho panza has it right when he says: "now blessing light on him that first invented sleep! it covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot." but one craves a recreation, a rest which work nor sleep can give. man has a social nature, a longing to mingle with his acquaintances and friends. let one be shut in with work, or sickness, or weather, for whole days at a time, and see how hungry he gets to see some one. a recreation at a social gathering literally makes a new being out of him. he is recreated. it is this form of recreation that we consider here, social recreation. a necessity. social recreation is a necessity in a well-ordered life. as with many other common blessings we forget its benefits. nor are these benefits so evident until we see the blighting result in the life of the one who, for any reason whatsoever, has become a social recluse. we have known a few persons who have once been in society, but who have allowed themselves to remain away from all sorts of gatherings, for a number of years. in every case, the result has been openly noticeable. they have become boorish in manners, unsympathetic in nature, and suspicious in spirit. thus they have grown out of harmony with the ideas and ways of those about them, have come to take distorted and erroneous views of affairs and of men. man is a composite being. many factors enter into his make-up. he lives not only in the physical and intellectual, in the religious and social, in a local and limited sense, but his life expands until it touches and molds many other characters and communities besides his own. in all of these spheres of his influence and work on needs to be sobered down, corrected, stimulated. in no other way is this better accomplished than through one's very contact with his fellows in the religious gathering, among his workmen, in the political meeting, at the assembly, in the social gathering whenever and wherever persons may see one another and talk over common interests. a specific sense. in a specific sense, by social recreation, we mean those pastimes and pleasures which all persons, except the social recluse, enjoy as they meet to spend an afternoon or an evening together. now, how may we get the largest amount of pleasure, of rest, of recreation from such gatherings? how may we best benefit ourselves, inspire one another, and in it all, honor god? it is no small task to accomplish these three ends in all things, in one's life. we have agreed that some social practices are positively bad. and we have tried to show why the "tobacco club," the "social glass," the "card-party," the "dancing-party," and the play-house reveries should be avoided. we have left these forms of so-called "questionable amusements" out of our practice and let our of our lives. to what may we turn? where may we go? we turn to the social gathering. but it must be planned. no social gathering can successfully run itself. see what forethought and expenditure are given to make successful the "smoking-club," the "wine-social," the "card and dancing parties," and the "theater." not one of these institutions thrive without thought and cost in their management. put the same thought and expense into the gathering for social recreation, and you will find all of the merits of the questionable institution and none of its demerits. no company has larger capabilities than the mixed company at the social gathering. nor may any purpose be more perfectly served than the purpose of true social recreation. here we find those skilled in music, versed in literature, adept at conversation; we find the practical joker, the proficient at games, and last, but not least, those "born to serve" tables. this variety of genius, of wit, of skill, of willingness to serve, is laid at the altar of pleasure for the worthy purpose of making new again the weary body, the languishing spirit, the lonely heart. let the right management and stimulus be given to this resourceful company, and the hours will pass as moments, the surest sign of a good time. some essentials. dining, social hour, games. no social recreation is complete without dining. and yet the least important part of this meal should be the taking of food. it is a serious fault with the modern social that too much attention is given to the variety and quantity of food, and not enough to merriment in taking it. to be successful, the social company should gather as early as possible; the first hour-and-a-half should be given to greetings and to social levity of the brightest and wittiest sort. if one has an ache or a pain, a care or a loss, let it be forgotten now. it is weakness and folly continually to be under any burden. here every one should take a genuine release from seriousness and earnestness in weighty and responsible affairs. let all, except the serving committee for this evening, take part in this strictly social hour-and-a-half. when the late-comers have arrived and have been introduced, and the people have moved about and met one another, almost before the company are aware of it they are invited by the serving committee to dine. usually all may not be served at once. now that the company has been thinned out, the older persons having gone to the tables, short, spirited games should be introduced in which every person not at luncheon, should be given a place and a part. at this juncture it is not best to introduce sitting-games, such as checkers, authors, caroms, or flinch, for the contestants might be called to take refreshments at a critical moment in the contest. with a little attention to it, appropriate games may be introduced here that need not interfere with luncheon. fully half an hour should be spent at each set of tables, where at the close of the meal, some humorous subject or subjects should be introduced and responded to be those best fitted for such a task. almost any person can say something bright as well as sensible, if he will give a little attention to it beforehand. while the second and third tables are being served, let those retiring contest at games of skill, converse, or take up other appropriate entertainment directed by the everywhere present entertainment committee. by this time half-past ten or eleven o'clock, some who are old, or who have pressing duties on the next day may want to retire. if the serving committee have been skillful in adjusting the time spent at each table to the number of tables, etc., by eleven o'clock the serving shall have been completed. now, the young in spirit, whether old or young, expect, and should have an hour at the newest, liveliest, and most recreative games. no part of the evening entertainment should be allowed to drag. to insure this a frequent change of social games is needed. avoid late hours. as late hours tend to produce irregularity in sleep, in meals, and in work; and since the object of the social is recreation, the company should retire about midnight. oftentimes people stay and stay at such a gathering, until the hostess, the entertaining committee, and the people themselves are worn out. and yet, who is at fault? this is a critical point in the modern popular social. how shall the company disband in due season? in his "autocrat of the breakfast table," oliver wendell holmes gives a suggestion on this point for the private visitor, who does not know how to go. says holmes: "do n't you know how hard it is for some people to get out of a room when their visit is really over? they want to be off, and you want to have them off, but they do n't know how to manage it. one would think they had been built in your parlor or study and were waiting to be launched. i have contrived a sort of ceremonial inclined plane for such visitors, which being lubricated with certain smooth phrases, i back them down, metaphorically speaking, stern-foremost, into their 'native element,' the great ocean of outdoors." there are social companies as hard to get rid of as this. they want to go, and every one wants them to go, but just how to make the start, no one seems to know. dr. holmes and his "inclined plane" may have been successful with the private caller, but who will be the "contriver of a ceremonial," one sufficient to land the social company into its "native element, the great ocean of outdoors?" no, this most delicate of the problems involved in a successful modern social must be left to a tactful hint from the entertainment committee, and to the wise choice of a few recognized leaders in the company. new committees. special committees should have charge of the serving and of the entertainment. as far as possible these should vary with each successive social. it is an erroneous notion, prevalent in nearly every community, that only "certain ones" can do this or that; the consequence is that these "certain ones" do all the work, are deprived of the true rest and relief which the social is meant to give, while others who should take their turn, grow unappreciative, and weak in their serving and entertaining ability. the average social a failure. as it is conducted to-day, the average social is a failure. late at arriving, want of introductions, lack of arranged entertainment, late hours,--all go to weaken and to dull the average young person in place of to cultivate his wits, his special genius at music, reading, and conversation, and to recreate him in body, mind, and spirit. to make a success of the social gathering some one must keep in mind the personal convenience and happiness of every person present. when this is done and the social gathering becomes notable for the real pleasure that it gives, then we shall be able to drive out the "questionable amusements," because we have taken nothing from the person, and have given him new life and interest. viii. friendship. bonds of attachment. each person is connected with every other person by some bond of attachment. it may be by the steel bond of brotherhood, by the silvern chain of religious fellowship, by the golden band of conjugal affection, by the flaxen cord of parental or filial love, or by the silken tie of friendship. one or more of these bonds of attachment may encircle each person, and each bond has its varying strength, and is capable of endless lengthening and contracting. brotherhood is a general term, and as it is used here, comprises the fellow-feeling that one human being has for another, this is universal brotherhood. brotherhood comprises the fellow-feeling that attracts persons of the same race, nation, or community, this is racial, national, or community brotherhood; also, it comprises the fellow-feeling that exists between persons of the same avocation, calling, or work, this is the brotherhood of profession; it comprises the fellow-feeling that joins persons of the same order or party, this is the brotherhood of order; it comprises the fellow-feeling that joins brothers and sisters of the same home, this is the brotherhood of family. religious fellowship includes that spiritual intercourse which is held between persons of the same religious faith and practice. conjugal affection comprises that feeling of mind and heart which unites husband and wife. filial and parental love exists between parent and child. while friendship comprises that soul union which exists between persons because of similar desires, tastes, and sentiments. each of these bonds of attachment has its characteristic mark, its essential feature. the essential feature of universal brotherhood is common origin, present struggle, and future hope; the essential feature of racial, national, or community brotherhood is patriotism; the essential feature of brotherhood of the order is mutual helpfulness; the essential feature in brotherhood of the profession is common pursuit; in brotherhood of the family, common parentage; in conjugal affection, attraction for opposite sex; in parental and filial love, love of offspring and love of parent; while in friendship the essential feature is harmony of natures. what is friendship? no human relationship can be more beautiful, nor more abiding than true friendship. it is a spiritual thing, a communion of souls, virtuously exercised. how one is impressed and pleased to see another horse just like his own, to see another dog exactly resembling his own, to meet a person who speaks, looks, and acts like some one he has known. it is a surprise, mingled with mystery and delight. but with what increased surprise and delight does one meet with a "person after his own heart." all men have recognized the strength and beauty of right self-love. the second great law of christ's kingdom is declared in terms of true self-love. "love thy neighbor as thyself." every one loves himself, because one's self is the truest and best of other lives filtered through his own soul. when one finds in another that which perfectly answers to his own soul-likings and longings, he has found another self, he has found a friend. friendship is the communion of such souls, although they may be absent from one another. the highest friendship may grow more perfectly when friends are separated, then it is unmixed with the alloy of imperfect thought and action. then it is nourished by the past, for only the past buries all faults; it is encouraged by the future, for only the future veils the awkwardness and shortcomings of the present. the character of friendship is determined by the character of friends. negative personalities wanting in taste, conviction, and virtue produce only a negative friendship. intense personalities produce intense friendships; noble personalities, noble friendships, and spiritual personalities, spiritual friendship. in the true, spiritual sense, before one can become a friend, he must become an individual. he must stand for something in thought and purpose. if this is not true, friendship becomes a flimsy affair. for souls to commune with one another there must be harmony; unity, agreement of desires, sentiments, and tastes. not the harmony of indifference, nor a forced agreement, but a beautiful and natural response of soul to soul. such equipment for friendship finds its basis only in individual character. character is conduct become habitual. if one spurns reason, and follows his impulse and passion, he becomes unreliable, and does not know the issues of his own heart and life. who knows what such an one will do next? to make it soar well or sail well, friendship must have ballast. this ballast is worthy, individual character. it would be more exact to say there can be no true friendship without individual character. although many elements constitute the character of the true friend, yet two elements are essential--sincerity and tenderness. sincerity is the soul of every virtue, while true words, simple manners, and right actions make up the body. if the soul of virtue is present one does not always demand the presence of the body, but if the body of virtue is absent, one had better take a search after the soul. if sincerity is unquestioned, words, manners, actions have great liberty; but if words, manners and actions are lacking in straight-forwardness, it is time to question sincerity. this is true in all human affairs involving motive and conduct. especially is it true in friendship. sincerity knows its own. by a glance it penetrates the very heart of its true friend, and leaves translucent and transparent its own. sincerity gives steadfastness and constancy to friendship. insincerity mars and breaks friendship. who has not seen a soul spring into life through the love of a radiant friendship; and then following a series of hollow pretenses, insincerities, that friendship fails, and the beautiful creature stifles and dies. as one tells us, "such a death is frightful, it is the asphyxia of the soul!" then, tenderness is an essential element in the character of a friend. says emerson: "notwithstanding all the selfishness that chills like east winds the world, the whole human family is bathed with an element of love, like a fine ether." with emerson, we believe that every person carries about with him a certain circle of sympathy within which he, and at least one friend, may temper and sweeten life. much of the kindness of the world is simply breathed, and yet what an aroma of good cheer it sheds in grateful lives. tenderness possesses a sensitiveness of sympathy to an extreme degree. it shrinks from the sight of suffering. it treats others with "gentleness, delicacy, thought-fulness, and care. it enters into feelings, anticipates wants, supplies the smallest pleasure, and studies every comfort." says one: "it belongs to natures, refined as well as loving, and possesses that consideration of which finer dispositions only are capable." tenderness is a heart quality. it is the luxury of a pure and intense friendship. it tempers one's entire nature, making his whole being sympathetic with grace and favor. it is manifest in the relaxing feature, in the penetrating glance, in the mellowing voice, in the engracing manners, and in the complete obliteration of time and distance, while with one's friend. we recall the friendly visits spend with our friend, lawrence w. rowell, during his medical course in rush college, chicago, while we were in attendance at the northwestern university, in evanston, illinois. rowell was intellectual, spirited, gifted in conversation, highly sympathetic, informed, critical, yet charitable, a close student of human nature, a love of philosophy, of musical temperament, of noble heart, of exalted purpose. our visits were kept up bimonthly throughout one year. we would spent saturday evening and sunday together. those visits revealed to me the magnetism, intensity, and tenderness of a friend. truly, with us time and distance were almost completely obliterated from our consciousness. i say distance, for we would walk together. tenderness suits the amiable and gentle in disposition, but it comes with a peculiar charm from the austere nature. it is one of the stalwart virtues, and is often concealed behind a crusty exterior. severity and tenderness adorn the greatest lives. the test of friendship. what is the uncertain mark of a friend? have i a friend? how many friends have i? i can invoice my stock, my goods, my land, my money, can i invoice my friends? one may not always know the actual worth of a friend, but he knows who are his friends, quite as well as he knows who are his nephews and cousins. "a friend is one whom you need and who needs you." has one a bit of good news, he flies to his friend, he wants to share it. has one a sorrow, he seeks his friend who will gladly share that. does one meet with a defeat or victory, instantly he thinks of his friend and of how it will effect him. friends need one another, as truly as the child needs its mother, or the mother her child. is one tempted to commit a wrong in thought or action, his friend, though absent, appears at his side and begs him not to do it. if one is in doubt or uncertainty, he summons his friend, who become a patient reasoner, and an impartial judge. who does not find himself, daily, looking through other people's glasses, weighing on other people's scales, sounding other people's voices? it is a habit that friends have with one another. you can not deprive friends of one another, any more than you can lovers. ah, true friends are lovers of the heaven-born sort; for their agreement is grounded in nature. they are not chosen, they are discovered. or, as emerson says, they are "self-elected." "friendship's an abstract of love's noble flame, 'tis love refined, and purged from all its dross, 'tis next to angel's love, if not the same, as strong as passion in, though not so gross." thus writes catherine phillips. fruits of friendship. true friendship gives ease to the heart, light to the mind, and aid to the carrying out of one's life-purposes. first, ease to the heart. the presence of a friend is a beam of genial sunshine which lights up the house by his very appearance. he warms the atmosphere and dispels the gloom. the presence of a true friend for a day, a night, a week, lifts one out of himself, links him with new purposes, and immerses him in new joys. friends breathe free with one another. they inspire sighs of relief. embarrassment disappears; liberty reigns supreme. hearts are like steam boilers, occasionally, they must give vent to what is in them, or they will burst. this is the true mission of friends, to become to one another reserve reservoirs of "griefs, joys, fears, hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatever lieth upon the heart to oppress it," or elate it. you recall those familiar lines of bacon: "this communicating of a man's self to his friends works two contrary effects; for it redoubles joys and cutteth griefs in halves; for there is no man that imparteth his joys to his friend, but he joyeth the more; and no man that imparteth his griefs to his friends, but he grieveth the less." the following selected lines, slightly changed, set forth this first fruit of friendship. "a true friend is an atmosphere warm with all inspirations dear, wherein we breathe the large free breath of life that hath no taint of death. a true friend's an unconscious part of every true beat of our heart; a strength, a growth, whence we derive soul-rest, that keeps the world alive." then, friendship sheds light in the mind. "he who has made the acquisition of a judicious and sympathetic friend," says robert hall, "may be said to have doubled his mental resources." no man is wise enough to be his own counselor, for he inclineth too much to leniency toward himself. "it is a well-known rule that flattery is food for the fool." therefore no man should be his own counselor since no one is so apt to flatter another as he is himself. a wise man never flatters himself, neither does a friend flatter. as a wise man sees his own faults and seeks to correct them, so a true friend sees the faults of his friend and labors faithfully to banish them. the one who flatters you despises you, and degrades both you and himself. an enemy will tell you the whole truth about yourself, especially your faults, and at times that both weaken and hurt you. a friend will tell you the whole truth about yourself, especially your neglected virtues, but at a time to both strengthen and help you. the highest service a friend can render is that of giving counsel. the highest honor one can bestow upon his friend is to make him his counselor. it is no mark of weakness to rely upon counsel. god, himself, needed a counselor, so he chose his son. "his name shall be called wonderful, counselor, the mighty god, the everlasting father, the prince of peace." isa. ix, . counsel, says solomon, is the key to stability. "every purpose is established by counsel." prov. xx, . who despiseth counsel shall reap the reward of folly. a friend is safe in counsel, according to his wisdom, for he never seeks his own good, but the good of his friend. it is a saying, "if some one asks you for advice, if you would be followed, first find out what kind of advice is wanted, then give that." but this is not the way of a friend. he has in mind the welfare of the friend and the cause his friend serves. honor does not require that one shall follow the advise of his friend, rather liberty in this is a mark of freedom and trust between friends. a friend aids one in the carrying out of his life purposes. who is it that helps one to places of honor and usefulness? it is his friend. who is it that recognizes one's true worth, extols his virtues, and gives tone and quality to the diligent services of months and years? it is his friend. who is it, when one ends his life in the midst of an unfinished book, or with loose ends of continued research in philosophy or science all about him; who is it that gathers up these loose ends and puts in order the unfinished work? it is his friend. who is it that stands by the open tomb of that fallen saint or hero and relates to the world his deeds of sacrifice and courage which spurn others on to nobler living and thereby perpetuates his goodness and valor? who does this, if it is done? it is his friend. a friend thus becomes not only a completion of one's soul as he is by virtue of being a friend, but also he becomes a completion of one's life. then, one's relation to his fellowmen is a limited relationship. he may speak, but upon certain subjects, on certain occasions, and to certain persons. as francis bacon says, "a man can not speak to his son but as a father; to his wife but as a husband; to his enemy but upon terms; whereas a friend may speak as the case requires, and not as it sorteth with the person....i have given the rule," says he, "where a man can not fitly play his own part, if he have not a friend, he may quit the stage." how to get and keep a friend. a real friend is discovered, or made. first, discovered. two persons notice an attraction for one another. they see that their desires are similar, they have the same sentiments, they agree in tastes. a feeling of attachment becomes conscious with each of them, slight association fosters this feeling, it increases. new associations but reveal a broader agreement, a closer union, a perfecter harmony. the signs of friendship appear. heart and mind of each respond to the other, they are friends. this is the noblest friendship. it has its origin in nature. it is, as h. clay trumbull says: "love without compact or condition; it never pivots on an equivalent return of service or of affection. its whole sweep is away from self and toward the loved one. its desire is for the friend's welfare; its joy is in the friend's prosperity; its sorrows and trials are in the friend's misfortunes and griefs; its pride is in the friend's attainments and successes; its constant purpose is in doing and enduring for the friend." then, friends are made. two persons do not especially attract one another. but, through growth of character, modification of nature, or change in desires, sentiments, and tastes, they become attracted to each other. or in spite of natural disagreements or differences, through the force of circumstances they become welded together in friendship. montaigne describes such an attachment, in which the souls mix and work themselves into one piece with so perfect a mixture that there is no more sign of a seam by which they were first conjoined. says euripedes: "a friend wedded into our life is more to us than twice five thousand kinsman one in blood." such was the friendship of ruth and naomi. orpha loved naomi, kissed her, and returned satisfied to her early home; but ruth cleaved unto her, saying: "entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, i will go; where thou lodgest, i will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy god my god: where thou diest, will i die, and there will i be buried: the lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me." the keeping of a friend like the keeping of a fortune, lies in the getting, although in friendship much depends upon circumstances of association. however subtle may be the circumstances which bring friends together, or whatever natural agreement may exist between their natures, still there is always a conscious choosing of friends. in this choosing lies the secret of abiding friendship. young says: "first on thy friend deliberate with thyself; pause, ponder, sift: not eager in the choice, nor jealous of the chosen; fixing fix; judge before friendship, then confide till death." steadfastness and constancy such as this seldom loses a friend. last of all, abiding friendship is grounded in virtue. says a famed writer on friendship: "there is a pernicious error in those who think that a free indulgence in all lusts and sins is extended in friendship. friendship was given us by nature as the handmaid of virtues and not as the companion of our vices. it is virtue, virtue i say... that both wins friendship and preserves it." and closing his remarks on this immortal subject, cicero causes laelius to say: "i exhort you to lay the foundations of virtue, without which friendship can not exist, in such a manner, that with this one exception, you may consider that nothing in the world is more excellent than friendship." ix. travel. a personal experience. we have set in order some facts, incidents, and lessons gathered from a hasty trip to the old country during the summer of . the journey was made in company with rev. c.f. juvinall, for four years my room-mate and fellow-student, and my estimable friend. on wednesday, june st, we sailed from boston harbor; reached liverpool, england, saturday morning the st of july; visited this second town in the british kingdom; stopped over at the old town of chester; took a run out to hawarden estate, the home of gladstone; changed cars at stratford-on-avon and visited the tomb of shakespeare; staid a half day and a night in the old university town of oxford, and reached london on the evening of july th. having spent a week in london, we crossed the english channel to paris; remained there two days, then made brief visits to the battlefield of waterloo, to brussels, amsterdam, hull, sheffield, dublin, and back to liverpool. we sailed to boston and returned to chicago by way of montreal and detroit, having spent forty-nine days--the intensest and delightfullest of our lives. at first, we hesitated to treat this subject from a point of view of personal experience, but since it is our purpose to incite in others the love for and the right us of all helpful resources of happiness and power, it seemed to us that we could no better accomplish our purpose with respect to this subject than to recount our own observations from this one limited, imperfect journey. an eye-open and ear-open experience. one is always at a disadvantage in relating the faults of others, for he seems to himself and to his friends to be telling his own experience. we were about to speak of the superficial way in which americans travel. one who has traveled much says that "the average company of american tourists goes through the art galleries of europe like a drove of cattle through the lanes of a stock-market." nor is it the art gallery and museum alone that is done superficially. how many persons before entering grand old notre dame, or the british houses of parliament, pause to admire the elaborate and expansive beauty of the great archways and outer walls? it is possible to live in this world, to travel around it, to touch at every great port and city, and yet fail to see what is of value or of interest. a man on our boat going to liverpool, said that he had traveled over the world, had been in london many a time, but had not taken the pains to go into st. paul's, nor to visit the tower of london. a wise man, a seer, is one who sees. it is possible to live in this world, and not to leave one's own dooryard, and yet to possess the knowledge of the world, and to tell others how to see. louis agassiz, the scientist, was invited by a friend to spend the summer with him abroad. mr. agassiz declined the gracious offer on the ground that he had just planned a summer's tour through his own back yard. what did agassiz find on that tour? instruction for the children of many generations, a treatise on animal life, and later a text-book of zoology. kant, the philosopher, the greatest mind since socrates, was never forty miles from his birthplace. on the other hand, grant allen, author, scholar, and traveler, says: "one year in the great university we call europe, will teach one more than three at yale or columbia. and what it teaches one will be real, vivid, practical, abiding... ingrained in the very fiber of one's brain and thought.... he will read deeper meaning thenceforward in every picture, every building, every book, every newspaper.... if you want to know the origin of the art of building, the art of painting, the art of sculpture, as you find them to-day in contemporary america, you must look them up in the churches, and the galleries of early europe. if you want to know the origin of american institutions, american law, american thought, and american language, you must go to england; you must go farther still to france, italy, hellas, and the orient. our whole life is bound up with greece and rome, with egypt and assyria." but whatever advantage travel may afford for broad and intense study, whatever be its superior processes of refinement and learning, yet it is well to remember this, that at any place and at any time one may open his eyes and his ears, his heart and his reason, and find more than he is able to understand and a heart to feel! you can not limit god to the land nor to the sea, to one country nor to one hemisphere. thus the kind of travel of which we speak is the eye-open and ear-open sort. let us note first, then, that travel is a study of history at the spot where the event took place. the history of a nation is a record of its great men. you tell a faithful story of columbus, john cabot, and henry hudson; of winthrop, john smith, and melendez; of general wolfe, general washington, patrick henry, and franklin; of jefferson, adams, jackson, and webster; of abraham lincoln, wendell phillips, john brown, and general grant; of john sherman, grover cleveland, and william mckinley, and you an up-to-date history of the young american republic, acknowledged by every country to have the greatest future of all nations. so, if one reads with understanding the inscriptions on the monuments of gough, o'connell, and parnell, he will get the story of the struggles of the irish. enter london tower, "the most historical spot in england," and recount the bloody tragedies of the english people since the time of william the conqueror, a.d. here we have a "series of equestrian figures in full equipment, as well as many figures on foot, affording a faithful picture, in approximate chronological order, of english war-array from the time of edward i, , down to that of james ii, ." in glass cases, and in forms of trophies on the walls, we find arms and armor of the old romans, of the early greeks, and britons, and of the anglo-saxons. maces and axes, long and cross bows and leaden missile weapons and shields, highly adorned with metal figures, all tend to make more vivid the word-pictures of the historian. of the small burial-ground in this tower, macaulay writes: "in truth there is no sadder spot on earth than this little cemetery. death is there associated, not, as in westminster abbey and st. paul's, with genius and virtue, with public veneration, and with imperishable renown; not, as in our humblest churches and church-yards, with every thing that is most endearing in social and domestic charities; but with whatever is darkest in human nature and in human destiny, with the savage triumph of implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted fame." we note a few names chiseled here: sir thomas more, beheaded ; anne boleyn, beheaded in this tower, ; thomas cromwell, beheaded, ; margaret pole, beheaded here, ; queen catharine howard, beheaded, ; lady jane grey and her husband, beheaded here, ; sir thomas overbudy, poisoned in this tower, . since travel is a study of history at the spot where the event took place, let us cross the rough and famed english channel to visit one of the many noted spots of france. we select the site of the hotel de ville or the town-hall of paris. "the construction of the old hall was begun in , and was over seventy years in its completion. additions were made, and the building was reconstructed in . this has been the usual rallying site of the democratic party for centuries. here occurred the tragedy of st. bartholomew in ; here mob-posts, gallows, and guillotines did the work of a despotic misrule until . (as we left for brussels on the evening of the th of july, all paris was gayly decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, ready to celebrate the event of july , , the fall of the bastile.) on this date, years ago, the captors of the bastile marched into this noted hall. three days later louis xvi came here in procession from versailles, followed by a dense mob." here robespierre attempted suicide to avoid arrest, when five battalions under barras forced entrance to assault the commune party, of which robespierre was head. here, in , louis blanc proclaimed the institution of the republic of france. this was a central spot during the revolution of . the leaders of the commune party place in this building barrels of gunpowder, and heaps of combustibles steeped in petroleum, and on may th they succeeded in destroying with it human lives. a new hotel de ville, one of the most magnificent buildings in europe, has replaced the old hall. this is open to visitors at all hours. to study history at the spot where the event took place means work as well as pleasure, so we took our luncheon and sleep in our car while the train carried us to brussels, and out to braine-l'alleud, where, on the beautiful rolling plain of belgium, june , , napoleon bonaparte met his waterloo, and wellington became england's idol. a railway baggageman was on our train returning to his home in cleveland, ohio. in conversation, he said: "i have been with this company for twenty-two years; have drawn two dollars a day, days in the year for that time, and i haven't a dollar in the world, but one, and i gave it yesterday for a dog. but," said he, "i have a good woman and the greatest little girl in the world, so i am happy." this is one of a large class of persons who receive fair wages all their lives, and yet die paupers, because they plan to spend all they make as they go along. in conversation with a gruff, old dutch conductor between albany and new york city, i ventured to ask him if he had ever crossed the ocean. "no," he said, "nopody eber crosses de ocean, bud emigrants, and beoble vat hab more muney dan prains." travel is a study of religious institutions. among the most interesting in europe, that we visited, are wesley's chapel, westminster abbey, st. paul's cathedral, and notre dame. the church of notre dame, situated in the heart of paris on the bank of the seine, was founded on the site of a church of the fourth century. the building has been altered a number of times. in it was converted into a temple of reason. the statue of the virgin mary was replaced by one of liberty. busts of robespierre, voltaire, and rosseau were erected. this church was closed to worship , but was reopened by napoleon . it was desecrated by the communards , when the building was used as a military depot. the large nave, feet long, feet wide, and feet high, is the most interesting portion of this massive structure. the vaulting of this great nave is supported by seventy-five huge pillars. the pulpit is a masterpiece of modern wood-carving. the choir and sanctuary are set off by costly railings, and are beautifully adorned by reliefs in wood and stone. the organ, with , pipes, is one of the finest in europe. "the choir has a reputation for plain song." on a small elevation, in the center of london, stand the cathedral of st. paul's, the most prominent building in the city. from remains found here it is believed that a christian church occupied this spot in the times of the romans, and that it was rebuilt by king ethelbert, a.d. three hundred years later this building was burned, but soon it was rebuilt. again it was destroyed by fire, , and a new edifice begun which was years in completion. this church, old st. paul's, was feet long, and had a leaden-covered, timber spire, feet high. in this spire was injured by lightning, and in the building was again burned. says mr. baedeker, whose guidebook is indispensable in the hands of a traveler, "near the cathedral stood the celebrated cross of st. paul, where sermons were preached, papal bulls promulgated, heretics made to recant, and witches to confess, and where the pope's condemnation of luther was proclaimed in the presence of woolsey." here is the burial place of a long list of noted persons. here occurred wyckiff's citation for heresy, ; and here tyndale's new testament was burned, . it was opened for divine services, , and was completed after thirteen years of steady work, at a cost of three and a half millions of dollars. this sum was raised by a tax on coal. the church is in the form of a latin cross, feet long, with the transept feet in length. "the inner dome is feet high, the outer, from the pavement to the top of the cross, is feet. the dome is feet in diameter, thirty-seven feet less than st. peter's. st. paul's is the third largest church in christendom, being surpassed only by st. peter's at rome." three services are held here daily. the religion of notre dame is roman catholic, but that of st. paul's and westminster is of the church of england. what shall we say of westminster abbey, the most impressive place of all our travel! as my friend and i entered here and took our seats for divine worship, preparatory to visiting her halls, and chapels, and tombs, i think i was never more deeply impressed. i said to myself, "what does god mean to allow me to worship here?" and i seemed to realize how little my past life had been. i felt that circumstances and not i myself had thrust this new privilege, and thereby new responsibility, upon me. westminster abbey! a church for the living, a burial-place for the honored dead; a monument to genius, labor, and virtue; england's "temple of fame;" the most solemn spot in europe, if not in the world! here lie authors, benefactors, and poets; statesmen, heroes, and rulers, the best of english blood since edward the confessor, a.d. we must now leave this sacred spot to visit, if possible for us, a more sacred one, the birthplace of methodism, or more accurately speaking, in the words of bishop warren, the "cradle of methodism." on city road, london, near liverpool street station, is located the house, chapel, burial-grounds, and tomb of john wesley. across the street, in an old nonconformist cemetery, are the graves of james watt, daniel defoe, and john bunyan. across the narrow street to the north is the tabernacle of whitefield. we learned that friday, july th, was reopening day for wesley's chapel. what a distinguished body of persons we found at this meeting! dr. joseph parker was the speaker of the day. the rev. hugh price hughes, president of the conference, presided at the memorial services. rev. westerdale, present pastor, successfully managed the program of the day, especially the collections, for he met the expense of the rebuilding and past indebtedness with the sum of over fifteen thousand dollars. he told those discouraged ministers with big audiences to go and take courage from what the mother-church, with her small number of poor parishioners, had done. in the evening, bishop warren, on his return to america, called in and gave an interesting talk. he was followed by fletcher moulton, member of parliament. you may not realize the feeling of gratitude with which we took part in this eventful service of praise, prayer, and rededication! on the next day we returned to see the books, furniture, and apartments of wesley, himself. we sat at his writing desk, stood in his death-chamber, and lingered in the little room where he used to retire at four in the morning for secret prayer. from here he would go directly to his preaching service at five. wesley put god first in his life, this is why men honor him so much now that he is gone. we took a farewell view of the audience-room from the very pulpit into which wesley ascended to preach his good news of christ. from the several inscriptions on wesley's tomb, we copied the following one: "after having languished a few days, he at length finished his course and life together. gloriously triumphing over death, march the nd, anno domine, , in the eighty-eight year of his age." in liverpool, on the day of our arrival, july st, an old, gray-haired man was shining my shoes. he observed that i was from across the water, and that an englishman can readily tell a yankee. he began to praise america. he said that uncle sam was only a child yet, that america was destined to be the greatest country in the world; that her trouble with spain was only a bickering; that the present engagement was only his maiden warfare, and that he "walked along like a streak of lightning." saturday evening, july th, witnessed the greatest military parade in london for thirty years. the prince of wales reviewed twenty-seven thousand london volunteers. early in the morning citizens from all over england began to gather in front of the english barracks, and at the east end of hyde park. by two o'clock in the afternoon hundreds of thousands had packed the streets and dotted the parks and lawns, until, in every direction one could witness a sea of faces. after the royal and military procession began, the patient johnnies, with their sisters, sweethearts, wives, mothers, grandmothers, and great-grand-mothers, stood for five hours to see it go by. the englishman does not tire when he is honoring his country. at the close of this parade we dropped into a barbershop for a shave. the gentleman seemed to understand that i was a long ways from home. "you fellows," i said, "can tell us as far as you can see us." "yes," said he, "by your shoes, your hat, your coat, your tongue, and even by your face. we can tell you by the way you spit. a spittoon here, pointing about ten feet away, give a yankee two trials, he will hit it every time." travel is a study of the genius of man as shown in architecture, in sculpture, and in painting. ninety-seven plans were submitted for the houses of parliament, including westminster hall. that of sir charles barry was selected, and the present imposing structure was built, covering eight acres, at a cost of $ , , . the style is perpendicular (gothic), with carvings, intricate in detail and highly picturesque. the building faces the river with a feet front, but her three magnificent square-shaped towers rise over her street front. the clock tower at the northwest corner is feet high, the middle tower is feet, and the southwest, or victorian tower, is feet high. the large clock with its four dials, each twenty-three feet in diameter, requires five hours for winding the striking parts. the striking bell of the clock tower is one of the largest known; it weighs thirteen tons, and can be heard, in favorable weather, over the greater portion of london. one never tires in looking at this noble building. it is appropriately adorned inside and out with elaborate carvings, statuary, and paintings. here are located the chamber of peers, the house of commons, and numerous royal apartments, lavishly fitted up to be in keeping with the office and dignity of the building. crystal palace, situated about eight miles southeast of st. paul's, consists entirely of glass and iron. its main hall, or nave, is , feet long, with great cross sections, two aisles, and numerous lateral sections. the two water towers at the ends are each feet high. if you were at the world's fair in chicago, and visited the transportation building, you may imagine something of the magnitude and beauty of crystal palace, with her orchestra, concert hall, and opera-house; with her fountains, library, and school of art; with her museums, gardens, and arenas; with her parks, panoramas, and her numerous exhibits of nature and art. near the center of the palace "is the great handel orchestra, which can accommodate , persons, and has a diameter twice as great as the dome of st. paul's. in the middle is the powerful organ with , pipes, built at a cost of $ , , and worked by hydraulic machinery. an excellent orchestra plays here daily." the concert-hall on the south side of the stage can accommodate an audience of , . an excellent orchestra plays here daily. "on each side of the great nave are rows of courts, containing in chronological order, copies of the architecture and sculpture of the most highly civilized nations, from the earliest period to the present day." the gardens of crystal palace cover two hundred acres, and are beautifully laid out "with flowerbeds, shrubberies, fountains, cascades, and statuary." "two of the fountain basins have been converted into sport arenas, each about eight and one-half acres in extent." nine other fountains, with electric light illuminations, play on fireworks nights and on other special occasions. it is common for , visitors to attend these thursday night firework exhibits. colored electric light jets deck the fountains, flower-beds, and halls. crystal palace was designed by sir joseph paxton, and cost seven and a half million of dollars. well may it be called london's paradise. shall we say that the greatest piece of constructive architecture of any country is that of eiffel tower! situated on the left bank of the seine river, it overlooks paris and the country for fifty miles around. in its construction, iron caissons were sunk to a depth of forty-six feet on the river side, and twenty-nine and one-half on the other side. when the water was forced out of these caissons by means of compressed air, "concrete was poured in to form a bed for four massive foundation piers of masonry, eighty-five feet thick, arranged in a square of yards. upon this base which covers about two and a half acres rises the extraordinary, yet graceful structure of interlaced ironwork" to a height of feet. eight hundred persons may be accommodated on the top platform at once. it was completed within two years' time, and is the highest monument in the world. washington monument ranks second, being feet high. from the summit of eiffel tower one may secure a good view of paris, her public buildings, chief hills, parks, and boulevards, monuments, and embankments. an imitation of trajan's column in rome, is feet in height, and thirteen feet in diameter. it is constructed of masonry, encrusted with plates of bronze, forming a spiral band nearly yards in length, on which are represented the "battle scenes of napoleon during his campaign of , and down to the battle of austerlitz. the figures are three feet in height and many of them are portraits. the metal was obtained by melting down , russian and austrian cannons. at the top is a statue of napoleon in his imperial robes. this column reflects the political history of france." the design sculptor is bergeret. for their antiquity the mummies and statues in the egyptian galleries of the british museum are very interesting. they embrace the period from years before christ to a.d. "the tomb of napoleon by visconte," and "the twelve colossal victories surrounding the sarcophagus by pradier," are among the finest works of parisian sculpture. the sarcophagus, thirteen feet long, six and one-half feet high, consists of a single huge block of reddish-brown granite, weighing upwards of sixty-seven tons, brought as a gift from finland at a cost of $ , . the louvre, paris, contains one of the finest art galleries in europe, and with the tuilleries, covers about eight acres, "forming one of the most magnificent places in the world." in our limited experience at travel we have yet to find a single object of beauty or utility that is not the product of skill, of genius, of great labor. every monument bears testimony of struggle, of bloodshed, of hard-earned victory; beneath every tomb that honor has erected rests the body of incarnate intelligence, fidelity, and courage. in the shadow of every great cathedral lies collected the moth and rust from the coppers of myriad-handed toilers of five and ten centuries. the towers and domes of london, and paris, and amsterdam, and dublin are monuments to the genius of the architect and to the faithfulness of the common toiler. the parks and gardens tell of centuries of wise and faithful application of the laws of growth, of symmetry, of design in form and color. the historic chapels of worship and learning breathe the very incense of devotion and reverence for truth; while the conservatories of sculpture and painting preserve what is divinest in human experience. age alone can produce a great man or a great nation. decades for the man and centuries for the nation; these are the measuring periods for real achievement. but all this is on the human side. correggio and titian in painting; bacon and bailey in sculpture; raphael and michael angelo in sculpture and painting; and sir christopher wren in architecture,--the works of art of such as these elevate and purify one's thought and feeling. but the profoundest impressions that come to one from travel, come alone from the works of nature. the crystal palace in london can not compare in glory with the crystal ripples of a mid-ocean scene. the botannical gardens of the tuilleries in paris do not stir the soul as does the splendor of the welsh mountains. the rockery plants of phoenix park, dublin, are insignificant compared with growths of ferns and moss on the rock ledges of bray's head, south of dublin. no panorama that man has painted can equal the scene of waterloo battle-field, observed from the earthen mound near the fatal ravine. so, we shall always find it true, that as the heavens are higher than the earth, so the thoughts of god are higher than the thoughts of man, and his ways than man's ways. x. home and the home-maker. what is home? "recently a london magazine sent out , inquiries on the question, 'what is home?' in selecting the classes to respond to the question it was particular to see that every one was represented. the poorest and the richest were given an equal opportunity to express their sentiment. out of eight hundred replies received, seven gems were selected as follows: "home--a world of strife shut out, a world of love shut in. "home--the place where the small are great and the great are small. "home--the father's kingdom, the mother's world, and the child's paradise. "home--the place where we grumble the most and are treated the best. "home--the center of our affection, round which our heart's best wishes twine. "home--the place where our stomachs get three square meals daily and our hearts a thousand. "home--the only place on earth where the faults and failings of humanity are hidden under the sweet mantle of charity." dr. talmage defines home, as "a church within a church, a republic within a republic, a world within a world." dr. banks writes, "it is not granite walls, or gaudy furniture, or splendid books, or soft carpets, or delicious viands that can make a home. all of these may be present, and yet it be only a dungeon, if the great simplicities are not there." sings one: "home's not merely roof and room, needs it something to endear it. home is where the heart can bloom, where there's some kind heart to cheer it. home's not merely four square walls, though with pictures hung and gilded, home is where affection calls, filled with charms the heart hath builded. home! go watch the faithful dove sailing 'neath the heavens above us, home is where there's one to love, home is where there's one to love us." we believe the five sweetest words in the english language to the largest number of persons--words which carry with them intrinsic meaning and blessing are these: "jesus," "mother," "music," "heaven," "home." "twenty thousand people gathered in the old castle garden, new york, to hear jennie lind sing. after singing some of the old masters, she began to pour forth 'home, sweet home.' the audience could not stand it. an uproar of applause stopped the music. tears gushed from thousands like rain. the word 'home' touched the fiber of every soul in that immense throng." in an early spring day, when the warm sun began to invite one to bask in his rays, my wife, delicate in health, lay drowsing on some boards near the house. the large garden spot spread out to the rear of her; a beautiful grassy lawn carpeted round a deserted house, granary, and shop-building in front of her. she was living over her girlhood days. she thought she was in the old home orchard, where she used to doze, dream, and play. the songs of the birds seemed the same; the same gentle breezes played with her hair; the same passers-by jogged along the roadside; the same family horse nibbled the tender grass in the barnyard. how sad, and yet how sweet are the memories of early days! the tender associations of home never leave one, however roughly the coarse hand of time would tear them away. it is because home means love that its associations and lessons remain. essentials to a happy home. although home means love, yet love alone may not insure happiness. in addition to love, without which a true home can not exist, we select four essential requisites to make home life useful and happy. these are intelligence, unselfishness, attractiveness, and religion. first, intelligence. much of the misery of the world in individual and family life is due to gross ignorance. once the father of a family said to me, "we did not get our mail to-day, i miss my reading." knowing the man we were surprised at such a remark, and ventured to ask him what papers he took. a list of ten or a dozen papers was named. all of them were newspapers. one was a general daily, two were local dailies, and the rest were local weekly papers. no intelligent person would have carried over three of those papers from the post-office. this man spent hours upon a class of reading that should be finished with a few minutes each day. in this same family the mother told me that she had never rode on a railway train, and that she had never been outside of her own county. this is an exceptional case, but it illustrates how that ignorance makes thrift and happiness impossible in a home, neither of which belong to this family. here every law of health is violated, foresight in providing for the physical comforts of the home is wanting; little attention is given to the education of the children; no sacrifices to-day enrich to-morrow; life is a humdrum, a routine, a dread, with no exuberance, joy, or hope. in time, such a life leads to failure and gloom, to secret, then to open vice, and to a final shipwreck of the home and of the individual. in a similar yet in a less marked way, the career of many a home is ended. no one may be directly to blame, but want of common knowledge and common wit have set a limit beyond which such a family may not go. the intelligent family has some sort of a history which it is their privilege and duty to perpetuate. members of the intelligent family are moral sponsors for one another, the mother for the daughters, the father for the sons, the brothers and sisters for one another. they find their own best interests in the interests of one another. the intelligent family is not superstitious. they act upon the wisdom of the ancient poet, "every one is the architect of his own fortune." they look to cause and condition for results. they spell "luck" with a "p" before it. the intelligent farmer plants his crop in the ground, rather than in the moon, and looks for his harvest to the seed and the toil. the intelligent merchant locates his business on the street of largest travel and makes the buying of his goods his best salesman. the intelligent man of letters thrives at first by making friends of poverty and want, until one day his genius places his name in the temple of honor. so it is with the artist, the musician, the inventor, the architect. to be happy and useful in one's lot, one must know something of the sphere in which he lives and works, of its practical wisdom, and must be prepared to live, or glad to die for the cause he serves. no indolent, superstitious, or ignorant family need look for abiding happiness nor expect to be permanently useful. then unselfishness is essential to happy home life. it is a serious matter for two persons, even when they are naturally mated, to undertake to live together in peace and harmony. it is a more serious matter when they are not naturally mated. it is more serious still when children enter the home, for they bring with them conflicting tendencies, dispositions, and wills. often have we wondered how it is that families get on as well together as they do when we have considered, what natural differences exist between them, and what little teaching and discipline have been used to harmonize these differences. an harmonious home is truly begun in the parental homes of the husband and wife. two persons may be perfectly suited to one another, and yet they may be selfish in wanting their own way. as one grows up, if he is allowed to have his own way regardless of the rights and privileges of others, he becomes a selfish person, and his parents are to blame. a selfish person in the home plans for his own comfort, decides and acts as he wishes, and seeks to satisfy his own desires. he does not take into consideration the plans, wishes, and desires of other members of the family. it is understood that his authority is supreme. not one member of the family dreams of expressing dissent to his dominion. a so-called peace of this sort is not uncommon among families. this supreme authority may be vested in husband, or wife, or in one or all of the children. a forced peace of this kind is worse than rebellion and is as bad as open war. how can any persons be so presumptuous as to think that any person, or a number of persons, exist solely for his comfort and advantage! let two such selfish persons get together, a permanent riot is assured. unselfishness in the home means thoughtfulness, discipline, self-control. each child is taught the rights and privileges of others as well as his own. when two unselfish persons join their lives there begins a holy and beautiful rivalry in seeking the rights and privileges of one another. the very atmosphere of such a home is deference, respect, and love. as the stranger, the neighbor, the friend, comes and goes, he catches the spirit of it and carries it with him into his own and other homes. children born into such a home early imbibe its spirit, and, o, the inspiration one receives from going into that family circle! no home-life can be an inspiration and a blessing where selfishness is allowed to reign. nor can it be useful and happy. ella wheeler wilcox describes a selfish, though a kind and loving husband: their holiday. the wife: our house is like a garden-- the children are the flowers, the gardener should come, methinks, and walk among his bowers. so lock the door of worry, and shut your cares away, not time of year, but love and cheer, will make a holiday. the husband: impossible! you women do not know, the toil it takes to make a business grow: i can not join you until very late, so hurry home, nor let the dinner wait. the wife: the feast will be like hamlet, without the hamlet part; the home is but a house, dear, till you supply the heart. the christmas gift i long for you need not toil to buy; o, give me back one thing i lack: the love-light in your eye. the husband: of course i love you, and the children, too. be sensible, my dear. it is for you i work so had to make my business pay; there, now, run home, enjoy your holiday. the wife, turning away: he does not mean to wound me, i know his heart is kind, alas, that men can love us, and be so blind--so blind! a little time for pleasure, a little time for play, a word to prove the life of love and frighten care away-- though poor my lot, in some small cot, that were a holiday. to preserve the family circle, the home must be made attractive. no amount of practical wisdom, of puritanic piety, nor mere kindly treatment will hold a family of children together until they are strong enough to resist the temptations of the world. the home must be made more attractive than the street or places of amusement. the average boy or girl who loses interest in home and uses it chiefly as an eating and sleeping place, does so with good reasons. home has lost its charm. no provision is made for his pastime and pleasure. not finding this at home he will go elsewhere in search of it. "an unattractive home," says one, "is like the frame of a harp that stands without strings. in form and outline, it suggests music, but no melody arises from the empty spaces; and thus it is an unattractive home, is dreary and dull." how may home be made attractive? we have presupposed a certain amount of education and culture in the home by maintaining for it intelligence and unselfishness. any home that is intelligent and unselfish is capable of being made attractive. in the first place, in as far as it is practicable, each member of the family should have a room of his own and be taught how to make it attractive. here, one will hang his first pictures, start his own library, provide a writing desk, and learn to spend his spare moments. recently we visited a home in chicago. the rooms are few in number and hired. the family consists of father, mother, and three children, now grown. during our short stay in the home i was invited into the boys' room. the walls are literally covered with original pencil designs, queer calendars, odd pictures; the dresser and stand are lined with books and magazines, with worn-out musical instruments, art gifts from other members of the family, and ball-team pictures, while two lines of gorgeous decorations stretch from wall to wall. this is still these young men's little world, their interests have centered here. no less than five kinds of musical instruments were visible in this home. the walls of the living room and parlor are made beautiful with simple tasteful pictures made by the daughter, whose natural gift in art was early cultivated. the table, shelves, and mantelpiece are decorated with china bowls, plates, and vases, simply, yet elegantly adorned. this work was done by the daughter and mother. not a large but a choice collection of flowering plants relieved the bay window of its emptiness. this is an attractive home. the children never have cared to spend their evenings on the street nor at places of amusement. games of skill, innocent, instructive, and entertaining, may be used to make home life more attractive. only let the amusements of the home be under the direction of father and mother, and be practiced by them. here is a chance to teach shrewdness, honor, interest, and by all means, moderation. to overdo at games and amusements is more harmful than to overwork. religion is essential to happy home life. a family may get on for a time very smoothly without prayer, bible study, faith in god, and love for jesus christ; but no family life is completed without a storm, many storms of some sort. years may pass as on a quiet sea, but one day at high noon, or, perhaps, in the silent, early hour, a small cloud is seen in the distance; it comes nearer; the wind begins to blow, the thunders peal, the lightnings flash, the old home, for so long an ark of safety, is being tossed on the billowy waves. a testing time is at hand. mother is gone, or father has ventured too far and lost all; or son has disgraced the family name; or daughter is in shame; or the darling of the home is no more! it makes a vast difference who is at the helm when the storms of home life rage. it is a mark of highest wisdom to place the family ship under the world's best captain, jesus christ. he never lost a life. he alone can arrest the lightning, quiet the waves, inspire confidence, and restore peace and good will in any storm. but religion is not only useful in trouble, it is an ornament in peace and prosperity, in the making and building of the home. tempers must be controlled, dispositions cultivated, conduct improved, hearts softened, and minds purified and disciplined. to accomplish all of this, no substitute can be made for the spirit and faith of jesus christ. "'dear moss,' said the thatch on an old ruin, 'i am so worn, so patched, so ragged, really i am quite unsightly. i wish you would come and cheer me up a little. you will hide all my infirmities and defects; and, through your loving sympathy no finger of contempt or dislike will be pointed at me.' 'i come,' said the moss; and it crept up and around, and in and out, till every flaw was hidden, and all was smooth and fair. presently the sun shone out, and the old thatch looked bright and fair, a picture of rare beauty, in the golden rays. 'how beautiful the thatch looks!' cried one who saw it. 'how beautiful the thatch looks!' said another. 'ah!' said the old thatch, 'rather let them say, 'how beautiful is the loving moss!'" so it is with the religion of christ, it adorns and beautifies the life who really wears it; so that the plainness of that life is covered, its ruggedness softened, and its "pain transformed into profit and its loss into gain." charles m. sheldon gives as an essential for a permanent republic, "a true home life where father, mother, and children spend much time together; where family worship is preserved; where honesty, purity, and mutual affection are developed." j.r. miller beautifully sums up the secret of happy home-making in one word--"'christ.' christ at the marriage altar; christ on the bridal journey; christ when the new home is set up; christ when the baby is born; christ when the baby dies; christ in the pinching times; christ in the days of plenty; christ in the nursery, in the kitchen, in the parlor; christ in the toil and in the rest; christ all along the years; christ when the wedded pair walk toward the sunset gates; christ in the sad hour when the farewells are spoken, and one goes on before and the other stays, bearing the unshared grief. christ is the secret of happy home life." the home-maker. just as a surly husband, a dissipated father, or a reckless son may blight a home and destroy its happiness, so may a thoughtful, virtuous, and kind man in the home change its very atmosphere and help to make it a heaven. as a home-maker man has the ruggeder part. it is his to provide. the man who falls short of this in the home does not do his part. no woman can respect a man much less love him, who places her, her work, her life, her home, her world under constant embarrassment by a scant and niggardly provision. she loses her ambition, ceases to make her self and her home attractive; disorder, filth, unwholesome food, lack of spirit on her part is the result. she can not be to him, most of all, what he expects her to be, a companion, a counselor, a comfort--a home-maker. also, it is the part of the man in the home to shield the woman from the heavier burdens and responsibilities. let him count the cost of his enterprises, secure himself against hazardous speculations, and give his wife and children to realize that his shoulders, and not theirs, are to bear the load of financial obligation and material support. this leaves the woman with her finer instincts and sensibilities to make the home the dearest spot on earth to husband, children, and to all who cross her threshold. the house is her dominion. there she is queen. what a tender and beautiful one she may become! some practical hints. the true home-maker does not spend all of her time with her ducks, chickens, pigs, and cows, nor yet with her neighbors, her club, nor her church. she finds some time to cultivate her intellectual nature and the finer feelings of her children. she does not degenerate into a mere household drudge. she is not the slave of her husband, but his companion. if she has musical ability, she keeps up the practice of her music; if she is inclined to literature, she reads some every day. whether literary or not, every woman should spend some time each day in reading that she might keep abreast with the world, at least with her companion, in the movements and thoughts of every-day life. the true home-maker plans to have a few minutes each day which she calls her own, in which she may do as she pleases regardless of call or duty, that she might relax herself, remove the strain of intense effort, rest, give her nature its free bent and inclination. it will pay her in every way. she will accomplish more and better work in the busy hours. a spirit and a force will characterize every effort. the women of to-day are overworked. they can not do themselves, their families, not their homes the true spiritual service that it is their part to do. plan for a few minutes rest with the daily routine of care. but how is one to do this with so many demands made upon her? for she is expected to be seamstress, laundress, maid, cook, hostess, a companion to her husband, a trainer of her children, a social being, and a helper in the church. if it is impossible or impracticable for one to have a servant, she will find these few minutes for daily recreation and study only in a wise choice of more important duties, and will allow the less important ones to go undone. many housewives could well afford to keep a helper. it becomes a question which is of greater importance, the life and health of the wife and mother, or the paltry wages of a servant? we knew a family in illinois who were quite able to keep help in the home, but did not do so. the mother made a slave of herself, in a few years broke in health, and left a large family of small children to struggle alone in the world. the stepmother, who soon came into the home, could afford one servant girl and part of the time two. this is a common experience in ill-managed homes. or this question arises, which is of greater importance, to make more money or to improve the moral tone of the home; to seek to gratify the outer senses, or to seek to elevate the spiritual life of the children and the parents? in pleading for rest and study for the mother in the home we plead for the highest interests of the entire family. for how can a wife be a companion to a husband when she is made irritable and nervous from overwork and worry. how can she be a true mother to her children and neglect their mental and spiritual growth? napoleon once said: "what france wants is good mothers, and you may be sure then that france will have good sons." thomas mccrie, an eminent scotch preacher, used to tell, with great feeling, of how his mother, when he was starting out for school in the city, accompanied him along the road a little way, and then leading him into the field where she could be alone, prayed with him, that he might be kept from sin in the city, and become a very useful man. that moment was the turning point in his life. a few minutes a day spent with the eager, susceptible child mind, will bring everlasting blessing upon the father and mother. obligation is one of religion, because the significance of the oath is that it adds the duty of respect owed to god to the duty of fidelity owed to the promise. men swear in order to make their promises more trustworthy through the sacredness of the oath. the violation of a promissory oath is, therefore, always a sin against religion. there are other sins added in some species of oath, namely, a second sin against religion in case of a sworn vow, a sin against justice and fidelity in case of a sworn contract, a second sin against religion and a sin against justice and fidelity in case of a sworn vow and contract (see a). (b) the obligation, other things being equal, is less than that produced by a vow, because the vow binds in virtue of fidelity to god, but the oath only in virtue of respect. the obligation of fidelity seems to be stronger, because unfaithfulness always contains disrespect, but not vice versa. moreover, in the case of a vow not only the fulfillment of the promise, but the thing promised itself is sacred, which is not true in the case of an oath. an assertory oath, however, seems to be more binding than a vow, because it is a greater injury to god to make him the witness for falsehood than to break a promise made to him. . degree of the obligation of a valid promissory oath.--(a) the obligation is grave, from the nature of an oath, because the virtue of religion is preeminent among the moral virtues (see ). there is no doubt that mortal sin is committed when one gives a sworn promise and has no intention to fulfill it, for this is perjury (see b); and also when one unjustly refuses to live up to an important engagement made under oath, for this is irreligion and injustice in a serious matter. the remarks on grave matter in vows ( ) apply here, but, since the vow obliges more strictly, a somewhat greater amount is needed for serious matter in violation of an oath. (b) the obligation may be light on account of the smallness of the matter involved. even a vow, which is more binding than an oath, may be of venial obligation in this way (see ). a person who makes a promise under oath, fully intending to keep the promise, but who later changes his mind without sufficient reason, does not show disrespect to god, since when the oath was made he intended to abide by it, and does not seriously injure his neighbor, since, as we suppose, the matter of the oath is small. the sin, therefore, is one of inconstancy or levity, and, if there is disrespect, it is slight. thus, if a person who had sworn to drink no more wine took a drop now and then, these transgressions would be only venial. some authors, however, believe that every unfaithfulness to a promissory oath, no matter how small the subject-matter, is a grave sin, because perjury is committed by the breach of promise. this is commonly denied, because the meaning of a promissory oath is that god is called on to witness the truth of a present intention and the obligation (great or small) of a future performance. . cessation of obligation of promissory oath.--the obligation of a promissory oath, like that of a vow (see ), ceases intrinsically or extrinsically. (a) intrinsically, an oath ceases when there is a substantial change in the matter (e.g., it is or has become impossible or unlawful, as in herod's oath to salome), when the principal reason for the oath has ceased (e.g., titus swore to give an alms to sempronius because the latter was poor, but before the alms was given sempronius became rich), or when the time or condition by which the oath was limited terminates the obligation. (b) extrinsically, an oath ceases by condonation (e.g., when the state or a private person to whom a sworn promise has been made yields the right and remits the obligation), by annulment (e.g., when a father nullifies the oath of his minor child), by dispensation (e.g., when the church absolves from an oath taken under grave compulsion), by commutation (e.g., when the church changes the matter of a sworn vow into something more suitable). those who can annul, dispense or commute vows have the same power over oaths; but if the dispensation of an oath is detrimental to others who are unwilling to forego the promise, only the apostolic see can dispense, and then on account of a necessary reason (see canon ). . adjuration.--adjuration is the invocation of the name of god used in a request or command to another person in order to move that person to do or omit something. (a) it is an invocation, and in this respect it is like an oath, for both an oath and an adjuration call upon the name of god. (b) it calls upon the name of god either explicitly (e.g., "i command you in the name of god") or implicitly (e.g., "i beseech you for the sake of the passion of christ"). if command or request is made in the name of a creature and without reference to god's attributes reflected in them, there is not, properly speaking, an adjuration, as when one implores a favor from another person in the name of a patron saint, or of one's country, parents, friendship, etc. (c) it is used in a command or a request, and thus it differs from prayer, which cannot be made in the form of a command. but adjuration may be used in prayers to god himself or to the saints, as is done in obsecrations. (d) its purpose is to move another to an act or omission, and thus it is different from an oath. the end of an oath is to confirm one's words by the testimony of god; the end of an adjuration is to influence another to a certain course through an appeal to his respect, fear or love of god. . the species of adjuration.--(a) adjuration is solemn or simple (private). the solemn adjuration is made in the name of the church by her ministers and in the ritual form prescribed by her, as in the exorcisms of baptism. the simple adjuration is made by private persons and without ritual ceremony. (b) adjuration is imperative or deprecative. the imperative is given in the form of a command to inferiors or demons, as when st. paul writes to the thessalonians: "i charge you by the lord that this epistle be read" (i thess., v. ). the deprecative is given in the form of a request made to god or to any creature not damned, as when st. paul writes to the romans: "i beseech you, brethren, by the love of god that you present your bodies a living sacrifice" (rom., xii. ). . qualities of lawful adjuration.--adjuration is lawful and an act of the virtue of religion, since it professes reverence for the divine attributes in using them as the most efficacious motives of appeal. but, like an oath, adjuration must be accompanied by qualities that make it lawful. (a) thus, there must be judgment, and hence those persons are guilty of sin who employ adjuration without necessity (e.g., those who constantly urge the love of god and other religious motives when asking for any favor), or without devotion (e.g., those who in anger are wont to command "for god's sake," etc.). the sin committed does not seem grave, since there is no great disrespect and the malice consists in taking god's name in vain, not in insult. (b) there must be truth, and hence an adjuration is sinful when used for a lying cause, as when a well-to-do person pretends to be indigent and begs that alms be given him for the love of god. the sin committed does not seem grave, since the act to which the other person is invited is good, and the act of adjuration itself does not ask god to testify to the lie, but only uses his name without reason. if the deception is mortally sinful, however, some authorities think that the adjuration added to it is a grave sin against religion. (c) there must be justice, and therefore an adjuration is sinful when used to obtain something unlawful, as when one demands in the name of god that another person tell a lie or commit murder. the adjuration is gravely irreverent to god if the thing sought (e.g., murder) is a mortal sin; it is lightly irreverent, according to the common opinion, if the thing sought (e.g., a harmless lie) is only a venial sin. . persons who may be adjured.--god may be adjured, but only in a deprecative manner, as is done in the obsecrations, "through jesus christ," "through thy passion and death," etc. the purpose of adjurations addressed to god is not to change the divine decrees, but to obtain through his goodness what he intended from eternity that we should obtain by prayer. but the same form of adjuration cannot be used for all creatures. (a) thus, deprecative adjuration may be used in reference to those who are in some way one's superiors. hence, we may pray the angels and saints to grant a prayer for the love of god, and a beggar may ask in our lord's name that a wealthy man give him an alms. (b) imperative adjuration may be used in addressing subjects or inferiors. adjuration of demons must not be made in friendly words, nor with a view to obtaining services or knowledge from them, but in words of reproach and only as a means to end their nefarious activities. (e) no kind of adjuration may be used in regard to irrational creatures, since they are without knowledge sufficient for receiving a command or a request. the adjurations of animals, the elements, inanimate objects, etc., that are contained in the ritual, must be understood as deprecative adjurations addressed to god, or imperative adjurations addressed to evil spirits, that the creatures prayed over may be to our benefit and not to our hurt. examples are the exorcisms of water, salt, mice, locusts, houses, or storms. . the use of exorcisms.--(a) as to their effect, exorcisms are of two kinds, exorcisms in the strict sense (i.e., the expulsion of demons from possessed persons) and exorcisms in the wide sense (i.e., the diminution of demonic influence). examples of the former are found in the gospels, where our lord drives out many evil spirits from afflicted persons; examples of the latter are found in the exorcisms administered in baptism and in the exorcisms of salt, water and other inanimate or irrational creatures. (b) as to their manner, exorcisms are also of two kinds, the solemn and the private. the former are made in the name of the church in the manner prescribed by the ritual, and their administration is reserved to clerics who have a special and express permission from the ordinary (canon , § ). the latter kind may be made even by members of the laity, and we read that certain saints, like st. anthony and st. catherine of siena, had great power over evil spirits. it is recommended that priests frequently use private exorcisms, at least secretly, for persons who are vexed by temptations or scruples, and for which they may use the form: "in the name of jesus christ, unholy spirit, i command you to depart from this creature of god." . the effects of adjurations.--(a) adjurations addressed to one's fellow-men upon earth impose no obligation of religion upon the persons addressed. hence, if a rich man turns a deaf ear to an appeal for charity made in the name of god, he violates charity but not religion; if a child disregards a command urged upon him for the love of god, he violates obedience but not religion. (b) adjurations addressed to demons are not of infallible efficacy, at least as to the entire effect intended, for power over the spirits of darkness is given only in such measure as is needed for the propagation of the gospel. but we believe that an exorcism pronounced lawfully by one who has the order of exorcist acts _ex opere operato_, at least to restrain the wickedness of the demons: "in my name they shall cast out demons" (mark, xvi. ). . praise of god.--having discussed oaths and adjurations, in which honor is shown the name of god, and the immediate end of which is or may be some human advantage, we come now to the honor shown the name of god by praise in which the immediate end is some spiritual advantage. praise is defined as "the declaration of another's greatness with approval." the divine praises include the prayers of wonder, of honor, of thanksgiving; but they differ from prayer properly so called or petition (see ). . internal and external praise of god.--(a) internal praise is expressed by the thoughts and affections of the soul. this is the most important part of praise, and without it external praise loses much of its value. our lord reproved the pharisees for honoring god with their lips, while their hearts were far from him (matt., xv. ), and st. paul admonishes the ephesians to sing and make melody to the lord in their hearts (ephes, v, ). (b) external praise is expressed in words ("i will bless the lord at all times, his praise is always in my mouth," psalm xxxiii. ), or in song ("admonishing one another in psalms, hymns and spiritual canticles, singing in grace in your hearts to god," col., iii. ), or by music ("praise him with sound of trumpet, with psaltery and harp, with timbrel and choir, with strings and organs, with high-sounding cymbals," psalm cl). . excellence of praise of god.--(a) praise is due to god.--his essence and attributes are ineffable and above all praise (ecclus., xliii. ), and they must be honored by the superior acts of worship and reverence. but the effects of his goodness shown to us should be declared and glorified: "i will remember the tender mercies of the lord, the praise of the lord for all the things the lord hath bestowed upon us" (is., lxiii. ). (b) praise of god is advantageous to man.--internal praise lifts the soul on high and prepares it to receive benefits from god, while external praise helps the mind to keep its attention fixed on god, excludes those things that are contrary to him, and offers edification to others. st. augustine narrates in his _confessions_ how profoundly he was moved in spirit, even to tears, on hearing the hymns and canticles of the church. . qualities that should be present in the divine praises.--(a) internally, there should be devotion. it is useful that those who perform or assist at the praises of god understand what is said, but it suffices for devotion that they know his greatness and goodness is being proclaimed. the intention should be to honor god, and hence there is no act of personal religion if in reciting or hearing god's praises one intends only ostentation or pleasure; attention should also be given to what is said, and hence st. augustine says that it is a sin to think rather of the music than of the praise of god proclaimed by the music (see sqq.). (b) externally, the divine praises should be respectful to god and helpful to recollection and devotion. hence, the law of the church excludes from her services all that is of a disturbing, profane or sinful character, such as theatrical displays, musical instruments that distract the mind from religious thoughts, lascivious airs or those suggestive of the dance. the code prescribes that impure music of every kind must be eliminated from churches (canon ), and pius x in his motu proprio of lays down the rule that there must be nothing in the services of the church that is calculated to diminish piety, give reasonable scandal or disgust, or offend the decorum of sacred functions or the sacredness of the place (see also instruction on sacred art [holy office, june, ], aas - ). the sin committed by misbehavior or levity during divine services depends on the seriousness of the disrespect shown to god or the scandal given the beholders. . the sins against religion.--inasmuch as religion is a moral virtue and therefore consists in the observance of a golden mean, the sins opposed to it are the extremes of excess or defect. (a) the sins of excess offend, not because they offer too much worship to god (a thing that is impossible), but because they exceed by giving worship where it is not due or in a manner that is not due (superstition). (b) the sins of defect offend by denying due religious reverence to god himself (temptation of god, perjury) or to sacred things (sacrilege, simony). . superstition.--superstition is false religion, or a vice that offers improper worship to the true god or divine worship to a false god. improper worship of the true god is either false or superfluous. (a) false worship is opposed to the truth of religion (e.g., old testament rites which signify that christ is still to come), or of rites (e.g., mass by a layman, mass according to a form disapproved by the church), or of facts (e.g., fictitious revelations, ecstasies, mysticism, miracles, relies), or of morals (e.g., human sacrifice, praises of god to the accompaniment of lascivious words or music, etc.). (b) superfluous worship is offered when an external observance in no way serves the purposes of religion (viz., the glory of god, the elevation of the soul to him, the repression of the passions), or is opposed to law or common custom. the purposes of religion are not served by actions foolish in themselves (e.g., the repeated mumbling of meaningless sounds) or in their intent (e.g., undue emphasis given to minor details of a religious act, such as color of the candles on the altar, the stature of the celebrant, the hour or condition of the weather, etc., as if weighty consequences depended on them). the chain prayer is another example of a superstition that places all the virtue of an act of worship in some small external circumstance. the law and custom are not followed in such superstitions as additional crosses, alleluias, credos, etc., made in violation of mass rubrics, or a devotion consisting of fasts on sundays, or new forms of piety that lack ecclesiastical approval. there is no superstition, however, in modes of worship approved by the church (such as novenas, tridua, gregorian masses, and the like), for the church recognizes no devotion or ceremony unless it is true and useful as an expression of religion. . the sinfulness of improper worship of god.--(a) false worship is from its nature a grave sin; it is seriously insulting to god because it offers him dishonor as honor, and it is also seriously harmful to man because it casts discredit by its falsity on the name of religion. (b) superfluous worship is from its nature a venial sin, since it contains no notable irreverence towards god and, being outlawed, does not reflect on religion. accidentally, however, it may be a mortal sin, as when it is performed in such a way as to cause great scandal. . worship of false deity.--worship of a false deity is performed by offering a creature an act of homage due to god alone. hence, there are three species of this superstition: (a) a creature is recognized as god, when it is offered a service (such as sacrifice) that testifies to supreme and infinite excellence (idolatry); (b) a creature is given the credit of divine knowledge, when instruction about hidden matters which only god could bestow is asked from it (divination), (c) a creature is treated as the supreme ruler, when assistance which only god can grant is sought from it (vain observance). . definition of idolatry.--idolatry is the supreme worship of _latria_ offered to a creature. (a) it is supreme worship, and hence the inferior reverence of _hyperdulia, dulia_, or civil honor, offered respectively to the blessed mother, angels, saints, superiors, etc., is not idolatry. the external signs of worship that belong to god alone (such as sacrifice, temples, priesthood, altars, etc.), may never be used in the veneration of creatures; nor the signs that are common to god and creatures (such as genuflexions, prostrations, prayers, etc.), if the intention is to adore. (b) idolatry is offered, that is, by it an act of worship is intended or is at least performed in a serious manner. hence, it would not be idolatry so to enact a pagan ceremony that the onlookers could understand that no religious rite was being performed (e.g., if it were done on the stage, or in a joking manner). (c) idolatry is offered to a creature, and hence the relative honor that is shown the images of the trinity or of christ on account of the persons represented by them is not idolatry. the creature to whom idolatry is shown is either a person (e.g., an angel, the soul of a departed person, a living human being), or an irrational creature (e.g., the bull apis, a sacred plant), or an inanimate substance (e.g., statues or pictures, the elements, the heavenly bodies), or a fictitious being (e.g., jupiter and the other gods of mythology). . the kinds of idolatry.--(a) idolatry is either internal or external. internal idolatry has the intention to adore a creature, as when a satanist offers sacrifice to demons. external idolatry performs an outward rite that signifies adoration of a creature, although there is no will to give adoration, as when a christian out of fear of death reluctantly burns incense before an idol. (b) internal idolatry is either perfect or imperfect. perfect idolatry includes belief in a false god, as when an ignorant pagan prays to the sun and moon. imperfect idolatry is committed when, without belief in a false god, there is the will to offer it divine worship on account of hatred of god, wish to obtain favors from demons, or the like. . the sinfulness of idolatry.--(a) idolatry is a most grievous crime. it entails rebellion against the majesty of god, attack on the virtue of religion, unbelief or denial of faith, and scandal; and hence it is forbidden in the first commandment: "thou shalt not have strange gods before me. thou shalt not adore them, nor serve them" (exod., xx. sqq.). (b) idolatry in itself and in its highest degree is the most grievous of sins, for it includes both hatred of god (since it would deprive him of his unique excellence by giving his honors to creatures) and blasphemous unbelief (since the idolater publicly professes that god is not above all). now, it was said above that unbelief, hatred of god and blasphemy are the most enormous of sins (see , , , ), and so it follows that the worst form of idolatry is graver than other sins. (c) idolatry, by reason of the dispositions of the person who commits it, may be less grievous than other sins. thus, it is worse to hate or deny god internally than to worship an idol externally only; it is worse to blaspheme with great hatred and contempt than to practise idolatry with less malice. imperfection of the act, as in cases of ignorance or want of consent, makes the sin venial, or no formal sin at all. . comparison of different sins of idolatry.--(a) internal idolatry is worse than external idolatry, because the former, though not the latter, includes approval of the superstition committed. (b) imperfect idolatry is worse than perfect idolatry, if both be considered precisely as idolatry, since the former proceeds from malice, and the latter from greater or less ignorance. (c) external idolatry is aggravated when its motive is more sinful or makes the act more voluntary (e.g., it is worse to pretend sacrifice to an idol if the motive is to ingratiate oneself with the idolaters or to spite the christians, than if the motive is to escape death at the hands of the pagans). . idolatry possible in christian worship.--the guilt of idolatry may be incurred even by christians offering worship to god. (a) thus, in the adoration of the eucharist there would be idolatry, at least material, if an unconsecrated host were exposed for veneration or given in communion. (b) in the veneration of the saints there would be idolatry, if they were honored or invoked as if they possessed divine attributes. . definition of divination.--divination (soothsaying, fortune-telling) is a form of superstition in which the evil spirits are invoked explicitly or implicitly with a view to the discovery of what is future or occult. (a) it is a form of superstition, because it seeks to obtain through natural means knowledge that cannot be had except from god, or substitutes other teachers for god. (b) it contains the invocation of evil spirits, for the information sought surpasses the powers of nature and, being illicit, cannot be expected from supernatural powers that are good (such as god, the angels, the saints). (c) the invocation is explicit or implicit. there is explicit calling on the evil spirits when one prays to the demon or makes an agreement with him; there is implicit invocation when one does not address an evil spirit, but does employ means for the discovery of knowledge which are not adequate, either from their nature or from the will of god, for the desired effect. (d) the knowledge desired is of future or occult things, that is, of such things as cannot be foreseen in their causes or discovered by natural means (such as the future acts of free beings, the secret thoughts of the heart). . distinction between the fact and sin of divination.--(a) the fact of divination--that is, the actual manifestation by evil spirits of things humanly unknowable--is not impossible, since the demons are far superior to man in intelligence and knowledge, and it is the teaching of revelation that they use their powers to mislead and seduce mankind. their knowledge, however, does not extend to future contingencies, nor to the secrets of hearts, and their word cannot be relied on. a case of real communication by an evil spirit is that of the girl of philippi possessed by a pythonical spirit (acts, xiv. - ), and some think that the same can be said of the witch of endor (i kings, xxvii. - ); but no doubt there have been many instances of divination in which the intervention of demons was only imaginary. (b) the sin of divination is committed when one has the will to receive occult knowledge from forbidden sources, or uses the means to obtain knowledge from those sources, even though there be no communication or response on the part of the spirits of evil. . forms of explicit invocation.--divination in which there is explicit invocation of the demon is of various kinds according to the medium through which instruction is given or expected. (a) thus, the medium is direct if it is an external sensible appearance representing the demon (_præstigium_) or an internal picture in the imagination or a dream containing his answer (oneiromancy). (b) the medium is indirect and rational when it is a human being, dead or living. divination through the evocation of the departed is known as necromancy, while that which is given through living possessed persons is called pythonism. modern spiritism partakes of the character of both necromancy (since the spirits of the departed are consulted) and pythonism (since persons supposed to be under the control of familiar spirits act as mediums). (c) the medium is indirect and irrational when it is some solid body (such as iron, stone or crystal) in which figures or signs appear; idols from which oracles are received; tables or ouija boards from which answers are given by raps or writing; divining rods supposed to lead the way to any hidden person or thing, etc. (geomancy); or some liquid body (hydromancy), or air (aëromancy), or fire (pyromancy), or the entrails of sacrificial victims or natural prodigies, such as lightning (haruspicy). here also may be mentioned the superstition of ordeal by fire, boiling water, combat, etc., once used to determine the guilt or innocence of an accused person. . forms of implicit invocation.--divination in which there is only implicit invocation of evil spirits is manifold, just as the natural causes from which preternatural knowledge is expected are manifold. among the principal forms are the following: (a) that which is made from the human mind, when clairvoyance or clair-audience is employed. it is supposed that certain persons have the natural gift, at least when in a trance or hypnotic state, of perceiving what is done or said at a distance without any of the normal means of communication, and even of reading minds. this supposed inborn gift is sometimes called second sight or telepathy. some authorities hold that there is sufficient evidence for vision at a distance as a sixth sense in certain individuals, especially among primitive peoples and persons bound by a tie of blood or intimate friendship. moreover, many facts learned through telepathy seem to have been verified sufficiently to render telepathy probable. accordingly, to believe telepathy or to practice it, excluding all superstition and invocation of demons, is not illicit. (b) divination that is made from the human body in physiognomy, phrenology, and chiromancy. the physiognomist pretends that he is able to discover the hidden character, latent abilities or defects, secret thoughts, etc., by a study of the features or expression of the countenance. the phrenologist claims that he can read the mental and moral traits of a person from the bumps or prominences of the skull. the chiromantist, or palmist, promises to foretell the future, read the past, discover the present secret character and aptitudes of an individual from an inspection of the shape, lines and configuration of his hand and of the character of the lines and marks of his palms; (c) divination that is made from non-human and necessary events in astrology. this pseudo-science gives predictions about the fortunes of an individual drawn from a study of his horoscope (i.e., the aspect of the heavenly bodies at the moment of his birth) and of certain rules of interpretation; (d) divination that is made from non-human and contingent events in augury and auspice, which divine from the voices or manner of flight of birds; in omen or portent, which divine the future from some chance happening (such as meeting with a red-haired woman or a hunchback, a sneeze, etc.), in sortilege, which divines by lots or signs arbitrarily chosen (such as the letters that appear on opening a book at random, the numbers or figures that appear when cards are drawn or dice thrown). superstitions about omens are of two kinds, some happenings being regarded as signs of good luck (e.g., to find a pin), others as signs of bad luck (e.g., to meet a black cat, to spill the salt, to break a mirror, to raise an umbrella in the house). . the malice of the sin of divination.--(a) the theological species.--if there is explicit invocation of evil spirits, divination is of its nature a mortal sin that admits of no lightness of matter, for it gives divine worship to a creature, acts on friendly terms with the enemy of god, and prepares one for apostasy and eternal damnation. if there is no explicit invocation of the spirits of evil, the sin is of its nature mortal on account of the implicit commerce with the devil; but generally the sin will be light on account of the dispositions of the offender (e.g., because he is ignorant, or consults divination as a joke or from curiosity, or has no faith in it). hence, the faithful should be warned not to go to fortune-tellers or put faith in dreams, but, apart from such cases as serious scandal, habitual direction of one's life by superstition, coöperation in serious sin of a diviner, etc., the sin will usually be venial, at least in young people. persons who occasionally act or omit to act in some indifferent matter on account of dreams they have had are often excused from all sin on account of the fear or hope which the dreams excited. (b) the moral species.--all forms of divination, it is commonly held, belong to the same species of worship of a false god (deut., xviii. - ). yet, the confessor should be told about an explicit pact with evil spirits, if there was one, since thus he will be able to decide the gravity of the sin and to make inquiries about other sins that usually accompany such a pact (e.g., blasphemy, promise to serve the devil, sacrileges, etc.). . when knowledge is obtained from god.--there is no sin of divination when knowledge is obtained from god. (a) thus, god can communicate directly in a vision or dream, and there are examples of this in scripture, but generally one should not be guided by dreams as if they were means for supernatural knowledge, since nearly all dreams are produced by natural causes. it is not sinful to believe that a dream of an extraordinary kind (e.g., one in which the future is wonderfully foretold or a warning given, or which produces great spiritual good) was sent by god. (b) god can communicate through other human beings, and hence it is not superstitious to put faith in the private visions or revelations that have been recognized by the church, or that have the marks of genuineness required by the church. (c) god has sometimes communicated through the instrumentality of irrational beings or by means of portents. thus, gedeon took the words of enemy soldiers as a premonition of victory (judges, vii. ); eliezer chose a sign by which to recognize the woman who should be the wife of isaac (gen, xxiv. ); the ordeal of bitter waters was prescribed in numbers, v. sqq.; josue discovered the guilt of achan by lots (josue, vii. ), and st. matthias was elected to the apostolate by lots (acts, i. - ). but these were exceptional cases in which men were inspired to consult god as they did, and it would be superstitious to seek knowledge in these ways against the will of god. those who desire light and guidance should have recourse to the teachers god has provided on earth and should pray to god, leaving to him the ways and means of his answer. hence, the church has declared it unlawful, even in private, to call upon the good spirits to give answers through automatic writing (_collect. de prop. fide_, ), or to interrogate the dead at spiritistic seances (aas, , ix, ). it is not superstitious, however, in a grave matter when there is no ordinary means of instruction at hand, to offer a prayer to god and then have recourse to lots to decide what course shall be followed (prov., xvi. ). . when knowledge is obtained through natural causes.--there is no sin of divination when knowledge of the future or of hidden things is obtained through proportionate natural causes or indications. (a) thus, knowledge of future happenings is naturally deducible from their necessary causes, when these causes are known. the effect may be predicted with certainty if the cause is so determined to one course that its result is invariable (e.g., the revolution of the earth around the sun always brings on the four seasons of the year); it may be predicted with the greatest probability if the cause is so constituted that almost always it has a certain consequence (e.g., a seed properly planted usually grows into a tree). hence, there is no superstition in astronomical predictions, weather forecasts by meteorologists, tables of life expectancy drawn up by insurance experts, etc., since these are inferences from known scientific laws. (b) knowledge of hidden things is naturally deducible with more or less certainty from the presence of their known causes, or effects, or indications. hence, a physician is not accused of superstition if he reasons out the character or phase of an internal disease from the symptoms that exhibit themselves. moralists today generally agree that the use of the magic wand (divining rod, dipping rod, dowser) for the discovery of subterranean springs, mineral deposits, oil wells, etc., is not superstitious, although there is some difference of opinion and uncertainty about the cause of the phenomenon. it is true that many means of detection or discovery, supposedly scientific, are due to misunderstanding of scientific principles or of logic; but their authors, since they rely on natural causes, are guilty of ignorance or quackery rather than superstition. . use of lots.--is it lawful to use lots in settlement of some business, when there is no intention to seek preternatural oracle? (a) it is lawful to do this, if there is some reason of necessity or utility or amusement to justify the lots, and no injustice or prohibition of law. hence, if there is no other convenient method of decision, one may use the drawing of straws or cards to decide how lands or goods shall be divided between claimants, or which of several competitors shall receive a reward or office. (b) it is not lawful to do this, if there is a prohibition of law (e.g., ecclesiastical elections may not be made by lot), or if there is no necessity for the lots (e.g., it is at least foolish to use the gospels for deciding by lot matters that could be decided by reflection), or if injury is done another person (e.g., to decide by lot when the merits of two contestants are unequal, to practise unfairness in the drawing). . vain observance.--vain observance is a superstition that ascribes to certain things effects for which they have no natural or communicated power. (a) it ascribes the effects to natural things, but it supposes that in some way supernatural forces, not of religion, are at work in or through these things. thus, just as in divination, there is in vain observance either an express or an implied invocation of the spirits of evil. the alchemists, who thought there was a philosopher's stone able to transmute base metals into gold or an elixir that could greatly prolong life, looked to natural causes, and hence to that extent seem to be guilty of false science, rather than of superstition. scientific materialism, though, is a crasser form of ignorance than any superstition that trusts in super-material powers. (b) the things which vain observance makes use of are persons, acts, objects, circumstances, happenings, etc. even sacred things may be employed as the material for vain observance, as happens when some accidental and unnecessary circumstance of a sacred rite (e.g., the size or color of candles) is given the credit of the sacred results. here again vain observance and divination are alike, since the same means are employed by both. (c) the effects looked for in vain observance, or the purpose had in view, is some fact or event. it is this characteristic that distinguishes vain observance from divination: the latter aims at occult knowledge, the former at supranatural results. the expected fact or event is something that surpasses the natural powers of physical or human agencies (e.g., sensation without sense excitants, mind-reading without external indications, scientific knowledge without study, bodily feats without corresponding bodily powers, detection of secret and hidden things without human means for detection), or even of the invisible world of spirits (e.g., creation, generation of new substances, evocation of the dead, internal motion of man's will). (d) there is no natural power in the things used for producing the substance or mode of the desired effects, that is, no inherent and sufficient force or activity. hence, vain observance is not to be confused with scientific marvels or natural wonders whose explanation is unknown to the general public, or which cannot be fully explained by scientists themselves. thus, the baffling tricks of white magic are due to legerdemain, ventriloquism, ocular delusions, and the like; the physiological changes (e.g., convulsions, hysteria, somnambulism, bodily cures) produced in mesmerism, hypnotism, thought healing, etc., are explained by suggestion and the motor power of images excited to produce bodily motions, passions, or changes; the mental phenomena (e.g., hyperæsthesia, wondrous visions, increased vigor of mind) of certain drugs such as hashish, mescal and opium, are caused by properties of these drugs. (e) there is no communicated power in the things employed, that is, no instrumental virtue bestowed by a higher cause. hence, since sacraments, sacramentals, and miracle-working relics have from god in a greater or less degree an efficacy for results above nature, there is no superstition in their proper use, but, as was noted just above, sacred things themselves may be used superstitiously, as happens when they are regarded as principal agents, or when, contrary to fact, they are deemed to act infallibly or independently of any human coöperation or disposition. . forms of vain observance.--among the forms of vain observance are the following: (a) those by which one puts into use vain ceremonies or objects in the expectation that they will secure certain desired effects, or puts an exaggerated confidence in lawful rites or sacred objects; (b) those by which one directs one's life through fortuitous and impertinent happenings in the belief that they have the power to influence one's fortunes favorably or adversely. this form of superstition is like divination by omens; the difference is that in using omens one chiefly seeks for knowledge of the future, while in observing chance events one chiefly intends the direction of one's conduct. examples are found in persons who fear to make a journey on friday or to begin any important affair during the dark of the moon. . vain observances from which desired effects are expected.--(a) useful results are sometimes expected, such as knowledge for the mind (notorious art) or health for the body (healing observances). the notorious art consisted in the repeating of certain formulas or the gazing upon certain figures, prayers and fasts at times being added, and it was supposed that these practices would obtain infused knowledge without the necessity of labor or study. healing observances are remedies used for man or beast that manifestly have no natural curative properties (e.g., a buckeye or rabbit's foot carried in the pocket to ward off rheumatism). (b) wondrous results are sometimes expected, such as the power to bring on storms, telekinesis, materialization, and levitation, through the use of incantations, theurgic sacraments, spiritistic rites, etc. this is known as the black art or black magic. (c) evil effects are sometimes expected, such as the power to blight another by a glance (evil eye or fascination), the power to cast a spell over another person by certain spoken words, to bring disease or misfortune on a person by piercing or striking his effigy, to excite impure love for a determinate person by the administration of love philtres or charms, etc. (sorcery, witchcraft). . distinction between the fact and the sin of vain observance.--(a) the fact.--the demons have naturally powers over our world that surpass those of human or physical agents, and it is not impossible for them to produce prodigies or seeming miracles. the magicians of egypt by enchantments and certain secrets changed rods into serpents, etc. (exod., vii. , viii. ); the new testament narrates that simon the magician bewitched the samaritans by his magic (acts, viii. ), and it clearly foretells the lying wonders of satan and antichrist (matt., xxiv. ; ii thess., ii. ). but there are limits to the power of the fallen spirits; for example, they cannot infuse knowledge, and occultism has contributed nothing to the advancement of science or civilization. moreover, many effects that have been attributed to demonic intervention were due to natural causes or to fraud (e.g., a large proportion of spiritistic phenomena), or they were supposed to exist only because the popular mind was carried away by excitement or was bent on persecution (e.g., most of the witchcraft accusations of a few centuries ago). (b) the sin.--vain observance in which there is no express invocation of evil spirits is common enough; even religious, educated and practical persons are found to act on superstitious hopes or fears or to put confidence in charms or amulets. but vain observance that includes an express invocation of demons is a comparatively rare sin. it is not impossible, however, that a person should come to such a pass of despair or malice as to wish to have dealings with satan, or should be so carried away by curiosity, desire of wealth, power, fame, or honor as to be willing to barter his soul in exchange for them. that there were professional wizards from ancient times is a matter of history, and scripture contains severe prohibitions against dealings with them (levit., xix. , xx. ; deut., xviii. ). . superstition in religious observances.--superstition is sometimes found even in religious observances. (a) thus, there is superstition in the observance itself when vain additions are made to an approved usage (e.g., the addition to a prayer against sickness of gestures, breathings, gibberish, etc., that have no significance of reverence for god). (b) there is superstition in the manner of the observance when one attributes the virtue of a sacred rite or object to some unimportant circumstance (e.g., the shape of the reliquary in which a relic is carried, the "propitious" day on which a sacramental was received), or expects from a sacred thing an effect which it has no power to produce (e.g., infallible certainty of salvation from the performance of a certain devotion or the presence of a holy picture or blessed object). it is not superstition, however, to attach significance to circumstances that have a sacred meaning (e.g., holydays, figures that have a religious symbolism), or to put a confidence in sacred things that is based on their character or approved usage (e.g., the hope and trust that blessings will be impetrated and salvation itself through fidelity to an authorized devotion). . sinfulness of vain observance.--the malice of vain observance is essentially the same as that of divination, for in both superstitions the same virtue of religion is offended by the sinful cult that is performed. (a) thus, there is mortal sin from the nature of the act, when vain observance is exercised with invocation of evil spirits or with false religious rites (for a serious injury is done to the honor due to god), or when a vain observance is meant to bring a curse or grave misfortune on a neighbor (for a serious injustice is willed). (b) there is regularly only a venial sin, when a vain observance is of a non-religious kind, consisting in foolish heed given to chance happenings (such as a rabbit running across the road, the mention of death, the presence of a person regarded as a jonah), or the use of improportionate means (e.g., to change one's place at a card table in order to change the luck). for usually there is no irreverence in such practices, and at the worst they are foolish and idle acts. often there is no sin at all, the vain observance being due to ignorance or the wish to joke. (c) there is no sin at all, but rather subjective virtue, in religious practices to which on account of simplicity or invincible ignorance too much power is attributed, as when one who is faithful to the essential duties of religion has greater confidence in some personal devotion of his own than in them. but superstition of this kind, though in itself it is the least reprehensible form of superstition, may be very harmful and disedifying. . coöperation in divination or other form of superstition.--(a) formal coöperation is of course never lawful (e.g., to act as the medium or one of the deceivers at a spiritistic meeting). (b) material coöperation is lawful only when there is a proportionately grave reason, no danger of sin, and no scandal. thus, it seems that no sin is committed by a scientist who assists at a spiritistic seance in order to discover the frauds that are resorted to, or who makes experiments with table turning or planchette movements in order to examine into the theory that the phenomena are due to the action of the persons present. . doubtful cases of vain observance.--cases in which it is a matter of doubt or dispute whether divination or vain observance is present. (a) there is sometimes uncertainty whether an extraordinary fact is due to natural or supranatural causes, thus, authorities commonly take the position, it seems, that certain phenomena of spiritism (e.g., the apparently automatic movement of tables on which a group of persons rest their finger tips, the answers to questions that are rapped out by such tables), and of mental healing (e.g., the cure of bodily ailment by sympathy or moral influence), are accomplished through natural powers of matter or mind. but other authorities incline to a supranaturalistic explanation. (b) there is also at times uncertainty whether a fact or practice has a religious or an irreligious character. as to facts, they sometimes appear to be so marvellous as to pass the natural, and yet it is difficult to determine whether their source is good or evil (e.g., when an ignorant person not noted for piety seems to have a remarkable ability for treating and curing all kinds of diseases). as to practices, they are sometimes susceptible of a religious or a superstitious interpretation. thus, one who says, "god bless us," at a sneeze may intend a prayer against sickness; one who knocks on wood after boasting may intend a prayer to him who died on the wood of the cross, lest he be punished for boasting. . licitness of using doubtfully superstitious means.--it is lawful to use means that are only doubtfully superstitious if the following conditions are present: (a) internally or subjectively, there must be a good conscience about the use of the means. the rule can be followed that what is not certainly of a supranatural character may be regarded as natural, but that what seems to be supranatural is not to be ascribed to god unless it has the marks and fruits of a divine work. when lawfully using means of a dubious character, it is advisable to make an inner protestation that one acts from reasonable necessity, and has no wish to take part in superstition; (b) externally or objectively, there must be nothing in the object or circumstances or results to make the use of the means illicit. thus, even though a practice be not superstitious, it may be unlawful because of the immorality of its object or tendency (e.g., frauds used by psychical researchers, obscene messages given by laboratory telepathists), or of its purpose (e.g., table-rapping used as the instrument of pretended religious revelations), or because of the evil consequences for body or soul (e.g., devotees of the ouija board give scandal to others and often end in insanity or suicide). . irreligiousness.--we now proceed to the four sins that offend religion by defect, namely, temptation of god and perjury, which show disrespect to god himself, and sacrilege and simony, which show disrespect to holy things (see ). perjury has been treated above (see ), and hence we shall consider now only the other three forms of irreligiousness. . temptation of god.--temptation of god is a word or deed that puts god to the test to discover whether he possesses or will exercise some perfection. (a) it is a word or deed, such as a prayer whose purpose is to discover whether god is possessed of knowledge, power or goodness, or an act of defiance performed in order to prove that there is no god. (b) it puts god to the test, that is, the temptation is not seductive (since it is impossible to influence god to sin), but experimental. he who tempts god desires that god give some proof of his attributes. (c) it is concerned with god, hence there is no temptation of god if one legitimately tests out the character of a human being. god himself tempted by trial holy men like abraham, job, and tobias in order that their virtue might be manifested and an example given to others. and of spirits st. john says: "believe not every spirit, but try the spirits if they be of god, because many false prophets are gone out into the world" (i john, iv. ). (d) the purpose is to discover, without regard to the ordinary means of instruction and guidance appointed by god, whether god possesses or will exercise an attribute; that is, temptation of god is due to unbelief or to presumption. . cases wherein there is no temptation of god.--(a) to seek a proof of divine perfections is not temptation of god, if the purpose is only to find new reasons for what one already accepts, or to experience in an affective way what one already admits speculatively. hence, a theologian may study the attributes of god with a view to further illumination; hence also, one may prove the sweetness of god or the goodness of his will from the spiritual taste or relish for divine things (psalm xxxiii. ; rom., xii. ). (b) to seek a sign of god's will or a manifestation of his perfections is not temptation of god, if this is done, not from curiosity, ostentation or other vain motive, but from some reason of necessity or great utility, as when gedeon prayed for a sign that the lord had spoken to him or was with him (judges, vi. , ), or when elias called on jehovah to show his power before the worshippers of baal (iii kings, xviii. ). hence, he does not tempt god who, when ordinary means of direction fail him in some critical affair, asks humbly for a sign of god's will; or who in a matter of great moment asks for miraculous help if it be pleasing to god to grant it; or who exposes himself to serious danger for some priceless good that cannot otherwise be had, in the trust that god will be with him. . kinds of temptation of god.--(a) in relation to its source, temptation of god arises either from unbelief or from presumption. the former, which is temptation of god in the strict sense, exists when one disbelieves or doubts some attribute of god and seeks to put it to the proof, as when the israelites in the desert called into question the providence and power of jehovah (exod., xvii. , psalm lxxvii. , ), or when a person doubting the real presence asks for a miraculous sight of christ in the eucharist. the latter sin, which is temptation of god in the wide sense, is committed when a believing person asks without a just cause for a miraculous manifestation of god's will, or powers, or of some other thing, as when a lazy man asks that his work be done in some miraculous way, or a rash man neglects the ordinary care of his health, asking that god supply for his carelessness. but temptation of god is not to be identified with the theological sin of presumption (see ). (b) in relation to its manner, temptation of god is either express or interpretative. it is express when one intends by one's word or act to put god to the proof in respect to knowledge, power, reliability, or other perfection (as when the jews demanded that christ come down from the cross, if he were the son of god) or to satisfy a vain curiosity or boldness (as when herod asked christ to work some miracles for his amusement). temptation of god is interpretative when one does not intend to discover god's perfections or make presumptuous requests, but nevertheless so acts or omits to act that one's conduct is useful for nothing except temptation of god, as when a believer rashly promises a miracle to convince an unbeliever, a sick man refuses to use any medical care (ecclus., xxxviii. ), a lecturer goes entirely unprepared to his lecture, etc. prayer made without the proper dispositions is a quasi-temptation of god (ecclus., xviii. ), because it is disrespectful and presumptuous; but it is not real temptation of god, nor of its nature mortally sinful, the direct end of the act being laziness or some other state of soul unsuitable to prayer. . causes that exclude the interpretative temptation of god.--there is no interpretative temptation of god strictly speaking if one acts rashly or encounters danger, but does not at all expect miraculous or special intervention from god. this happens as follows: (a) when one is unconcerned whether evil results or not, or desires that it may result (e.g., when a person who is tired of life seeks a dangerous occupation for the diversion and excitement it affords, or when a person practises abstinence from certain remedies as an act of moderate mortification); (b) when one does not wish the evil result, but is so stupid or rash as to believe that an imprudent risk can be taken and evil escaped through chance or good luck, as when a student goes up for a difficult examination with slight preparation, trusting that only the things he knows will be asked. . refusal of medicine or hygienic care.--(a) if there is a sufficient reason for this conduct, no sin is committed. there may be sufficient reasons of a natural kind (e.g., that the remedies are harmful or useless or too expensive), or of a supernatural kind (e.g., st. agatha refused all medicines because god himself was her physician, certain saints were divinely inspired to make no effort to remove bodily maladies on account of the spiritual profit derived from them). (b) if there is no sufficient reason for this conduct, it is sinful. thus, one sins against faith, if the reason for the conduct is disbelief in the existence of evil (e.g., christian science or eddyism attributes sickness and pain to imagination, and says that the only cure is "faith"); one sins by temptation of god, if the reason for the conduct is vain expectation of miracles; one is guilty of suicide or homicide, if the purpose is to end life, etc. . the sinfulness of temptation of god.--(a) to doubt the perfections of god, or to call upon the extraordinary providence of god in disregard of the ordinary providence he has established is the essence of temptation of god. it is sinful, because it includes either unjustifiable doubt or vincible ignorance in the intellect or presumption in the will. hence the command given in deuteronomy (vi. ): "thou shalt not tempt the lord thy god." but invincible ignorance excuses from sin, and hence many of those who in times past resorted to ordeals by painful or dangerous tests (e.g., walking on burning coals, risking death in deep waters), in order that god might settle a doubtful matter, were, on account of their good faith, guiltless of temptation of god. the practice was condemned by the church in the ninth century. (b) to doubt about the positive and unknown will of god, or to call upon the extraordinary providence of god (i.e., the direct intervention of the first cause), without disregard of the ordinary providence (i.e., of second causes appointed by god), is not sinful, if it is justified by necessity. thus, being unable to resist the nations leagued against him, josaphat prayed: "as we know not what to do, we can only turn our eyes to thee" (ii paral., xx. ). and our lord promised the disciples that, when they should be unable to prepare their defense on account of the persecutions to which they were subjected, the spirit himself would speak through them (matt., x. ), and that he would enable them to do things as difficult as moving mountains when real necessity called for it (matt., xvii. ). it is not unbelief to doubt about matters pertaining to god that are really doubtful (i.e., not his perfections, but his positive and unknown will), and hence one does not tempt god who asks for divine guarantees of a religion proposed as divinely revealed (see ); it is not presumption to ask god for a sign or proof, if god directs one to do this (e.g., abraham in gen., xv. , was inspired to seek a sign that the promised land would be given his posterity; achaz in isaias, vii. , was bidden for the sake of others to ask for a sign), or if, when a sign from god seems necessary or very useful, one prays for it prudently and on condition that the request is pleasing to god (e.g., the apostles in acts, iv. , prayed for signs and wonders in confirmation of their preaching). . the malice of temptation of god.--(a) it is a sin directly against religion, for one shows contempt to god when one demands that he prove his perfections, or when one takes the liberty to disregard the ordinary means he has established and to call for others. the sin is less, however, than that of superstition, since temptation of god professes doubt, while superstition professes positive error. temptation of god offends also against other virtues, such as faith (e.g., when one doubts the perfections of god), hope (e.g., when one presumes that god will do all without one's coöperation), charity (e.g., when a person exposes his own life to risk or his neighbor to scandal in a vain confidence that the danger will be miraculously averted). (b) it is a mortal sin from its nature, since it offends religion. but it may be venial on account of the imperfection of the act, as when from weakness of faith or without reflection one asks unnecessarily for a sign (luke, i. - ). it may be venial also from the lightness of the matter, if the temptation is interpretative, as when one presumes on the divine aid in a slight sickness, an unimportant talk, or other small affair. . as a rule temptation of god is only a venial sin, and in an individual case it is rarely mortal, except in the following instances: (a) when one intends a grave offense against god, as by doubting his goodness, demanding or attempting a miracle to satisfy curiosity; (b) when one exposes oneself to grave peril, as by leaping from the roof of a high building, refusing all remedies or means of preserving health, neglecting to provide for one's sustenance, etc., in the expectation that god will miraculously provide; (c) when one causes grave harm to others, as when a person rashly asking for signs exposes faith to the derision of unbelievers or scandalizes believers. . sacrilege.--sacrilege in the wide sense is any sin against the virtue of religion. but in the strict sense, in which it is now taken, it is defined as "the violation of a sacred thing." (a) sacrilege is against a thing, that is, against some person, place or object dedicated to divine worship as a possession of god. sacrilege differs from the two previous sins of irreligiosity (namely, temptation of god and perjury); for they are against the reverence due to god himself, while sacrilege is against the reverence due to things on account of their use in the worship of god. (b) it is against a sacred thing, that is, against the sanctity which a thing acquires from its dedication to god (e.g., when a church or a chalice is consecrated to divine worship, when a virgin is dedicated to god by vow), or from the immunity or privilege conferred on it by the church on account of its dedication to god (e.g., the clerical privileges of forum and of canon in church law). but sacrilege is present only when a sacred thing is attacked in that special quality or relation in which it is sacred. hence, he who violates the chastity of a virgin consecrated to god is guilty of sacrilege, since it is her chastity that was vowed to god; he who strikes her is also guilty of sacrilege, since he attacks the sacred immunity which the law confers on her; he who calumniates her or steals from her is not guilty of sacrilege, since her name and goods are not consecrated to divine worship nor protected by its special sacredness in law. (c) sacrilege is a violation, that is, an action or omission physically or morally injurious to the sacred character of a person, place or thing. the difference between the injury done in sacrilege and that done in simony is that the former injustice belongs to the class of wrongs inflicted in involuntary commutations, such as theft or robbery (see , ), whereas the latter injustice pertains to the category of wrongs perpetrated in voluntary commutations, such as buying, selling, or lending. in both cases there is an injury to the property or possession of god, but the difference is that in sacrilege the parties involved are the sacrilegious person acting as aggressor against god, in simony the parties are two men bargaining together to buy and sell the sacred things of god. . what kind of consecration must be violated to constitute sacrilege?--there are various opinions about the kind of assignment to worship necessary for the sacredness which is injured by sacrilege. (a) the opinion that seems to be common today holds that the assignment must be made through some public rite or consecration on the part of the church. hence, according to this view, the violation of a private vow or resolution is not sacrilegious, but rather perfidious or disloyal. the argument for this opinion is that the public acceptance of the church, which has control over divine worship, is a necessary factor in making anything sacred to that worship; and that many absurdities would follow from the principle that each individual has the power to give the sacredness in question to his own person, acts or possessions. (b) according to a stricter opinion, no public assignment is necessary if the consecration is a personal one; and hence the violation of even a private vow of chastity would be sacrilegious. the argument is that even a private vow affecting the person sets it apart as a sacred thing. (c) according to a still stricter view, no public assignment to worship is necessary, whether the consecration be personal or non-personal, and hence even the violation of a vow to fast would be sacrilegious. the argument is that anything set apart for god's honor, either publicly or privately, becomes sacred to him. . is sacrilege a special sin?--(a) as regards its matter or subject sacrilege may be called, though improperly, a general sin, in the sense that many different classes of sins may be sacrilegious (e.g., murder is sacrilegious when a sacred person is killed, lust is sacrilegious when a person vowed to god is violated; theft is sacrilegious when objects consecrated to divine worship are stolen, etc.). (b) as regards its form or essence, and hence properly speaking, sacrilege is a special sin, because there is a peculiar deformity contained in the very nature of sacrilege that is not in other sins, namely, the disrespect shown to god through contempt for things that are sacred to him. moreover, there may be a sin of sacrilege that is separate from other sins, such as murder, lust, and theft, for example, when the right of asylum is violated. . the species of sacrilege.--(a) personal sacrilege is committed when the sacredness of a person is violated. this happens in the first place when bodily or real harm (e.g., gravely sinful striking, citing before a secular tribunal, subjecting to civil duties or burdens, such as military service) is done to a cleric; and in the second place when a grave sin of unchastity is committed by or with a person dedicated to god by a vow (at least by a public vow) of chastity. sacrilege committed through bodily or real harm is treated by canonists under the questions of the privileges of canon (canon ), forum (canon ), immunity (canon ). sacrilegious impurity committed with a person vowed to chastity and sacrilegious impurity committed by a person vowed to chastity are grave sins of lust, even though they be only of thought or desire. (b) local sacrilege is committed when the sacredness of a place is injured. a place is considered sacred or religious when it possesses sanctity as being consecrated or blessed for divine worship or for burial of the faithful, namely, churches, public or semi-public oratories, and consecrated cemeteries. injury is done to the holiness of the place by desecration or profanation. desecration is the performance in a sacred place of a notorious act of irreverence which so spiritually contaminates it that the divine offices may not be lawfully celebrated therein until the rite of reconciliation has been performed. canon enumerates four causes of desecration: the crime of homicide; the injurious and serious shedding of human blood; impious or sordid uses (e.g., if a church were turned into a brothel or gambling den, a dump, or cattle stable), and burial of an infidel or person excommunicated by condemnatory or declaratory sentence. profanation of a sacred place is a disregard for the religious respect or immunity due to it which in some way materially contaminates it (e.g., if a church is not kept nice and clean; if markets and fairs are held in its precincts; if it is used for shows, plays, moving pictures, banquets, court proceedings; if the right of asylum is violated; if the church is broken into, seriously defaced, burned). these matters are treated more fully in commentaries on canons sqq. (c) real sacrilege is committed when the sacredness of an object is violated. an object is sacred when it contains the author of holiness or confers holiness (viz., the eucharist and the other sacraments), when it is naturally related to the sacraments or sacred persons (e.g., the sacred vessels, images and relics of the saints), when it is set aside for the uses of worship (e.g., holy water and other sacramentals, candles for the altar) or the maintenance of the church or its ministers (viz., movables and immovables of a parish, money left for the support of the clergy, seminarians, etc.). injury is done to the holiness of an object by unworthy treatment or by unjust damage or conversion. examples of unworthy treatment are the following: the invalid or sinful administration or reception of a sacrament, parodies of sacred scripture, scandalous manner of enacting sacred rites or saying prayers, use of sacred chalices or other sacred vessels or of blessed articles for profane purposes, use of unblessed holy articles for sordid or ignoble purposes, handling of chalices, etc., by those who have no right to touch sacred vessels (canon ). examples of unjust damage or conversion are: contemptuous breaking or burning of relics, oils, pictures used for worship; theft of moneys or goods belonging to the church. . special cases regarding local sacrilege.--local sacrilege is not committed by every sin, even though grave, that is done in a holy place, for the character of this sacrilege is that it be such an injury to the sacredness of the place as to make what should be hallowed seem horrible, or contemptible, or common. hence, there is no sacrilege in detractions, lies, perjuries, blasphemies, or in most internal sins, when committed in a church or cemetery. but there are two kinds of sins which are sacrilegious profanations of holy places, namely, theft and impurity. (a) theft in a holy place is certainly sacrilegious when the thing taken is sacred (e.g., a chalice, money in the votive stands). it is probably not sacrilegious when the thing taken is not sacred (e.g., the pocketbook of a person kneeling in the church), and if the thing taken was not left in the custody of the place. this matter, however, is disputed. (b) impurity, if external and perfect (_voluntaria effusio seminis_), is sacrilegious, though under the code it does not seem to be a desecration. the same is probably true of external but imperfect sins (such as touches, looks, words, gestures). internal acts of impurity are not sacrilegious, unless they include a desire to sin externally in a holy place. . cases wherein there is no sacrilege.--in the following cases no sacrilege is committed: (a) when the thing violated is not sacred. there is no personal sacrilege in an act of unchastity committed by a person privately vowed to chastity (common opinon). while some authors teach that personal sacrilege is committed by the violation of poverty and obedience (see merkelbach, _summa theologiae moralis_ ii, n. , ), it seems better to hold the opposite opinion and restrict personal sacrilege to violations of chastity by persons with religious vows or admitted to the religious state. there is no local sacrilege in the profane use of a place devoted to works of piety but not specially set apart for them by church authority (such as a private oratory, or a hospital conducted by the laity), nor in the burial of infidels in an unblessed graveyard. there is no real sacrilege in profane use of things which are not set apart exclusively for sacred use (e.g., to use the candelabra and candles of the altar to read by in one's room), or which have not been made sacred (e.g., to steal money promised but not delivered to the church or the personal belongings of a cleric); (b) when the thing injured is sacred, but the action or omission is not opposed to the attribute in which it is holy, or to a law made to ensure respect for it. thus, a person who has the vow of chastity does not commit sacrilege if he becomes intoxicated or uses profane language, for he was not consecrated against those sins; a sacred place is not sacrilegiously violated by an act not opposed to its holiness or the respect demanded for it by the law (e.g., organ recitals or awards for christian doctrine in church, sale of candles in the vestibule, physical violence against a disturber of divine service). sacrilege is not done in reverently destroying an old and tattered vestment, in respectfully handling agnus deis, relics, unused palls, and other objects that may be touched by all. . sacredness as aggravating circumstance of sin.--but a sin that is not sacrilegious is often made worse by reason of the sacredness of some thing with which the sin is connected. (a) thus, the sin is aggravated by such circumstances as person and place. in this way it is worse for a person vowed to god to blaspheme or lie than for one who has no vow; it is worse to carry on frivolous or calumnious conversations in church than on the street. (b) the sin receives the additional malice of sacrilege if the sinner expressly intends the circumstance of time, place, etc., in order to show contempt. thus, it is not sacrilege to get drunk on a sunday or holyday, unless one wishes by the sin to show dishonor to the sacred time; it is not sacrilege to conduct oneself with levity in church, unless one wishes by the levity to show contempt for the place. . the malice of sacrilege.--(a) the moral malice of sacrilege is that of irreligiousness (see ). the three kinds of sacrilege (personal, local and real) are commonly regarded as three distinct species of sin; for, just as injuries done to a man's person, to his immovable property, and to his movable goods are looked upon in law as different kinds of offenses, so are injuries offered to the ministers of god, the house of god, and the objects used in the service of god unequal in the dishonor which they give to god before the public. more probably there are no sub-species of these three classes of sacrilege. hence, in so far as the disrespect to god is concerned, there seems no essential difference between the sin of violating and that of striking a consecrated virgin. (b) the theological malice of sacrilege is mortal from the nature of the sin. just as it is gravely insulting to a man to treat his representatives or his home or chattels with contempt, likewise disrespect for the things of god is disrespect for god himself. the seriousness of sacrilege is seen from the punishments visited on core, dathan and abiron (num., xvi), on the sons of heli (i kings, ii. , iv. ), on king balthasar (dan., v. sqq.), and on the sellers in the temple (john, ii. ). sacrilege may be venial, however, on account of the imperfection of the act (e.g., when one strikes a priest without reflecting that he is a clergyman) or the smallness of the matter (e.g., to quote scripture in a decent joke, to use altar linen that is only slightly soiled or torn, to touch the chalice without permission, to steal a few pennies from a church). . conditions that govern gravity of sacrilege.--to decide in a concrete case whether a sacrilege is gravely or lightly sinful, one should consider the internal state of mind of the offender and the external character of the offense. (a) thus, if the purpose is directly and formally to dishonor god, the sin is grave, but, if there is some other purpose, it may be light. (b) if the thing dishonored is more closely related to god, or if the act of dishonor is in public estimation more insulting, the sin is more serious. unworthy treatment of the eucharist is the worst of sacrileges; ill-usage of a sacred person is worse than disrespect for a sacred place; treading the sacred species under foot is more contemptuous than an unworthy communion, etc. . simony.--simony derives its name from simon magus, the first person in new testament times, as far as we know, who committed this crime. for it is written of simon (acts, viii. sqq.) that he attempted to buy from st. peter the power of imposition of hands. but the sin was not unknown in the old testament, as we see from the examples of baalam (numb., xxii. ), giezi (iv kings, v. sqq.), and jason (ii mach., iv. sqq.). . definition of simony.--simony is defined as "the studied will to buy or sell for a temporal price or consideration something that is spiritual either intrinsically or extrinsically." (a) simony is in the will, for it is an act of injustice pretending to have or to receive the right of dominion over spiritual things that belong to god alone, and injustice is a vice of the will. hence, simony is not an internal sin of the intellect; for, though one who practises simony externally makes to some extent a profession of belief in the heresy that man is the owner of spirituals and gives grounds for the suspicion that he holds that the sale of spirituals is lawful, yet he may know well that the things of god are priceless and still wish to give or receive a price for them. again, simony is not to be identified with the external act of bargaining for spirituals; for, though the law punishes only external or completed simony, the guilt and malice of the sin is present even when one has the desire to traffic in spiritual things, but makes no overtures or compact. (b) simony is a studied will; that is, it is an act of free and deliberate choice selecting some form of internal or external simony as a desirable means. hence, it is not sufficient for the sin of simony that there be an internal wish not fully voluntary on account of inculpable ignorance or imperfect consent; nor, on the other hand, is it necessary for incurring the guilt of simony that there be a mutual pact, but it suffices that one party alone have the will to make the pact or to obligate another party to simony. (c) it is a wish to buy or sell, that is, to give or receive a temporal thing in exchange for a spiritual thing. there is question here, then, not only of the contract of sale, but of any other form of onerous contract, such as hire, rent, loan, exchange, _do ut des_, _facio ut facias_, etc. to be simoniacal, however, a contract need not be fulfilled or explicitly manifested; it suffices that it be unfulfilled or tacitly made, if the sinful intent can be gathered from the circumstances of the case. hence, from the present part of the definition it follows that there is no simony in a gratuitous contract (e.g., when one gives a gift to another hoping and expecting that the later from gratitude will give in return something spiritual which it is lawful to bestow from gratitude; when a poor person offers to make a novena for benefactors who give him an alms). it is simony, however, to make an onerous contract under the guise of a gratuitous contract, for example: "i give you this money as a pure gift on condition that you will not be ungrateful but will give me this spiritual favor as a pure gift." (d) the price or consideration in simony is some thing, action or forbearance which in some way is of advantage to the recipient. simony in the strictest sense is committed when a temporal thing is offered for a spiritual thing (e.g., money paid for a sacrament); simony in the wide sense is committed when, contrary to the law on simony, things like in character are exchanged ( a). thus, if the church forbids mass to be exchanged for mass, or benefice for benefice, or the office of sacristan for that of sexton, transgressors are guilty of the second form of simony. (e) the matter of simony is something intrinsically or extrinsically spiritual. in general, the spiritual is that which proceeds from god or tends to him as the author or end of eternal salvation (viz., the destiny, law, means, works, etc., proposed to us in christian revelation and religion). among these things those are intrinsically spiritual that pertain to the supernatural order on account of some inherent character of their own (e.g., grace, sacraments, mass, miracles) or some intimate union with things spiritual (e.g., benefices attached to spiritual offices, consecration to be given a chalice); those are extrinsically spiritual that are in themselves temporal, but in church law are treated as spiritual for the sake of reverence to the intrinsically spiritual (e.g., chrism in regard to the material itself of the oil and other ingredients). if the matter of a contract is neither intrinsically nor extrinsically spiritual, there is no simony in buying or selling it (e.g., devotional books, household furnishings of a rectory, personal effects of a cleric). . temporal price in simony.--the temporal price in simony is some temporal good or advantage. st. gregory the great distinguishes three kinds of simoniacal prices as follows: (a) the price from the hand (_munus a manu_) is either money or things that have a money value, such as movable or immovable property, corporeal or incorporeal rights. it would be simony to give a benefice in exchange for a sum of money, for a loan, for real estate; (b) the price from the tongue (_munus a lingua_) is any kind of patronage, such as praise, recommendation, protection, defense, opposition to competitors, etc. it would be simony to confer a benefice in exchange for the influence in one's favor which the recipient of the benefice would exercise with some powerful person, for his vote in an election, etc.; (c) the price in service (_munus ab obsequio_) is any kind of temporal labor or assistance given for another's benefit, such as the management of his business or the instruction of his children. it would be simony to grant a benefice in exchange for work done as secretary, treasurer, or advisor. . the spiritual thing in simony.--the thing inherently spiritual in simony is also of three kinds. (a) that which is spiritual from its nature is a thing that is supernatural in itself, such as sanctifying grace, the gifts of the holy ghost, and the power of orders or of jurisdiction. (b) that which is supernatural from its cause is a thing produced by a supernatural agency or power, such as health obtained through miracle. (c) that which is supernatural from its effect is a thing having the virtue of producing supernatural results, _ex opere operato_, or _ex opere operantis_, or as an occasion (e.g., sacraments, prayers, sermons). . temporal thing united with spiritual.--in the two following ways things are made spiritual in reference to simony through intimate union with spirituals: (a) by necessary connection, when a temporal thing is so annexed with a spiritual thing that it cannot exist without it. this includes the things annexed consequently, and perhaps also those annexed concomitantly and intrinsically (see ); (b) by contractual connection, when a spiritual and a temporal are the partial objects of a contract, as when in the sale of a consecrated chalice the price is raised on account of the consecration. . temporal thing annexed to spiritual.--in three ways a temporal thing is annexed to a spiritual thing. (a) the temporal thing is annexed antecedently if it precedes the spiritual thing as its prepared or appointed or presupposed matter or subject. thus, all things that receive a consecration or blessing (e.g., chalices, rosaries) or a property to which a right of patronage is attached are of this kind. relics are properly of this category, but, since they have usually no material value, it is customary to include them amongst spirituals. (b) the temporal thing is annexed concomitantly if it is simultaneous with the spiritual thing as being the action or labor that produces it. if the union is essential and inseparable, the temporal thing is said to be annexed intrinsically (e.g., the work performed in saying mass, preaching, making a sick call); if the union is not essential, the temporal thing is said to be annexed extrinsically (e.g., the special work performed in saying mass, if it has to be sung, or said in a distant church, or at a determined hour). (c) the temporal thing is annexed consequently when it presupposes the spiritual thing as the cause on which it depends. thus, the revenues of a parish are a temporal thing, but they follow on the pastoral office which is a spiritual thing. . the various kinds of simony.--(a) in reference to its matter or the law violated, simony is either against natural and divine law or against positive ecclesiastical law. simony against divine law consists in the exchange for temporalities of things that are spiritual or intimately annexed to the spiritual (see ), such as sacraments, indulgences, or jurisdiction. simony against church law consists in an exchange that has the appearance of simony against divine law, or that easily leads to simony against the divine law, and is consequently forbidden by the church in order to safeguard religious respect for sacred things, as when one violates the law by taking money for holy oils. in the former kind of simony, things of different orders (spirituals and temporals) are exchanged one for the other; in the latter kind of simony, things of the same sort (spirituals for spirituals, temporals for temporals, etc.) are exchanged where the law forbids (canon ). (b) in reference to its manner, or the way in which it is committed, simony is internal or external. internal simony is the will, without the external agreement, to exchange spirituals for temporals; it is purely mental if nothing external is done by reason of the internal will; it is not purely mental if something external is done by reason of the internal will (e.g., if the person who desires to commit simony makes a money present to another in the hope that the latter will feel morally bound to give something spiritual in return, or if one gives something spiritual looking for a substantial gift of money as compensation). external simony is an outward pact freely entered into between two parties to exchange spirituals for temporals. it is called purely conventional, if neither party has as yet performed his part of the agreement; it is semi-real or mixed, if one of the parties has executed his part; it is real if both parties have performed, at least in part, what they agreed to. a simoniacal compact is explicit, if expressed by clear words or signs (e.g., "i will pay $ for your vote"); it is tacit, if circumstances indicate the evil intention (e.g., very unusual presents given before an election). . confidential simony.--simony committed in reference to benefices is called confidential because the contract is illegal, giving no judicial protection, and there is only the confidence or reliance on another's word to give assurance that the agreement will be kept. canonists discuss at length the following contracts in which it is committed: (a) the contract _per accessum_ grants a benefice with the agreement that the grantee will later resign, so that access to it may be had by the grantor or a third party at present incapable; (b) the contract _per ingressum_ resigns a benefice not yet taken possession of with the understanding that the person who now enters into possession will leave the place open for his predecessor if he himself resigns or is promoted; (e) the contract _per regressum_ resigns a benefice already possessed with the understanding that it may be recovered by the person now resigning or by a third party; (d) the contract _per reservationem partis_ obtains a benefice for another with the stipulation that he will pay a certain percentage of its revenues to the person who obtains it for him or to a third party (see canon ). . simony against divine law.--simony against divine law is committed in reference to spiritual things when a temporal price is formally or virtually given or received for them. (a) thus, the temporal thing is formally set up as the price, when it is regarded or treated as the end of the spiritual thing or action itself (_finis operis_), one of the things exchanged being used as the measure of value of the other. this happens when a person wills to buy or sell a spiritual thing, either because he thinks that its value may be expressed in terms of money or other temporal thing, or because he judges that he should treat it as though money were its equivalent, as when one fulfills a spiritual office and excludes every other motive than that of lucre (denzinger, n. ). (b) the temporal thing is virtually set up as the price, when it is intended as the sole proximate end of the agent himself (_finis operantis_), though there is no explicit thought about values or prices or comparisons. this happens when one gives a temporal thing and has no other immediate personal purpose in this act than the acquisition of a spiritual thing, or performs a pretendedly gratuitous service, intending thereby to obligate the beneficiary to the grant of some spiritual benefit, or bestows a "gratuitous" temporal favor as compensation for a spiritual benefit or vice versa (denzinger, n. ). this is simony, for he who explicitly intends only an exchange, implicitly intends a price; and if it were not simony, then simony would be almost entirely an entity of the mind, since it is a very simple matter to will that the temporal thing exchanged shall be not the price, but only the motive of the contract or gratuitous compensation. . the temporal thing is not made the virtual price of the spiritual thing, if there is a lawful proximate motive (i.e., one recognized by the canons or legitimate custom) for giving the temporal thing and the desire of receiving the spiritual thing is only the remote reason or occasion of the act. for in such a case the temporal thing is given for a lawful purpose and is not the price of a spiritual thing. examples: (a) if the recipient of the temporal thing has a right to it, there is no simony. thus, the ministers of the altar have a right to their support (see ), and it is not simoniacal, when asking spiritual things from them (e.g., the application of mass to one's intention, the performance of sacraments and sacred functions), to offer a stipend or fee; (b) if the bestower of the temporal thing gives it freely out of pure friendship, liberality, charity, gratitude or good will, so that it is an absolute gift, there is no simony, even though he hopes or expects that he will receive something spiritual as a mark of appreciation. but "a charitable or friendly gift" may easily be palliated simony; that is, there may be a pretense of liberality to conceal the real purpose of purchasing spirituals with temporals. . rules of alexander iii for determining simony.--alexander iii gave several rules for determining whether a gift is made from liberality or with simoniacal intent. (a) the following are marks of simoniacal intent: the quality of the giver (e.g., that he is poor, or in great need, or not customarily generous), the quantity of the gift (e.g., that it corresponds with the value of a vacant benefice, that it is surprisingly large), the time of the gift (e.g., that it is made when the donee is not in any special need, or when he is about to confer an office, or after hints have been made). if a gift is bestowed in connection with a spiritual thing received, the presumption is for simoniacal intent, unless there was a sincere and reasonable motive for the gift. (b) the following, on the contrary, are marks of a liberal intent: the quality of the giver (e.g., that he is wealthy, noted for kindness and compassion, or liberal to all, or is a relative of the donee); the quantity of the gift (e.g., that it is small or normal in size), the time of the gift (e.g., if it is made when necessity, festal occasion, or the like calls for it). . simony against divine law in reference to things annexed to spirituals.--(a) it is simony against divine law to buy or sell things annexed to spirituals consequently (e.g., the revenues of a benefice) or concomitantly and intrinsically (e.g., the ordinary labor and fatigue connected with preaching, saying mass); for in the former case the temporal grows out of a spiritual and is morally one with it, while in the latter case the temporal has no value except in so far as it is joined with the spiritual. (b) it is not simony against divine law to buy or sell things annexed to spirituals antecedently (e.g., blessed candles, sacred vestments), if the price is not raised on account of the spiritual thing, or things annexed concomitantly and extrinsically (e.g., the extraordinary labor and fatigue caused by saying mass in a distant place or at a late hour); for in both cases the temporal has its own proper value and is not considered as inseparable from the spiritual. there is simony against divine law, however, if the price is raised on account of the spiritual part (e.g., if something is added for the blessing given a candle), and simony against church law if the transaction is forbidden as simoniacal (e.g., deductions and payments made in the act of preferment to a benefice are contrary to canon ). . conditions necessary for simony against ecclesiastical law.--(a) there must be an exchange through some kind of onerous contract, but it suffices that the understanding be tacit and non-executed, as was explained above (see ). (b) there must be a law of the church which, from a motive of respect for sacred things, forbids the exchange. (c) the simoniacal exchange is made, whether a temporal annexed to a spiritual is given for another temporal annexed to a spiritual (e.g., benefice for benefice), or a spiritual for a spiritual, or a temporal for a temporal. canonists enumerate the following as examples of simony of ecclesiastical law: gifts made in connection with a competitive examination for a parochial benefice, with ordination or grant of certain testimonial letters (canon ), with erection of confraternities; sale of blessed oil or chrism, or of the right of patronage (canon ); remuneration for collection of stipends or for expenses of mass (canons , ). . certain and uncertain simony.--(a) cases in which simony is certain are the administration of sacraments or sacramentals to the unworthy for the sake of the fee or favors, the sale of indulgences, taxes or charges made contrary to law (e.g., for a mass of bination). other examples are given in sqq. the church demands that certain ministrations (e.g., confirmation, eucharist, penance, extreme unction, orders) be gratis, but there may be local customs or conditions that justify exceptions. some moralists teach that there is no simony when a stipend is exacted for an obligatory ministry, if the simoniacal motive is absent. (b) cases in which simony is controverted are those in which a tax or stipend in excess of what is just or lawful is exacted (e.g., a mass stipend higher than custom permits). some claim there is simony, because the excess must be for the spiritual thing; others hold that there is no simony, but only an unjust increase in the stipend allowed for support; others say that there is no simony in the internal forum if the intent is not simoniacal, but that there is simony in the external forum on account of the presumption of simoniacal intent. . doubtful cases of simony.--in some gifts and payments the presence or absence of simony depends on the object for which they are given. (a) thus, when they are given for omission of a spiritual act, there is simony if the omission includes the exercise of spiritual power (e.g., to omit absolution is to retain sins or censures); there is no simony if the omission is the mere exercise of free will (e.g., to omit mass, confession). (b) when they are given for omission of opposition or annoyance, so that one may be able to obtain some office or benefice, there is simony if the temporal thing is thereby given for the benefice itself or for the way to it (i.e., if one has no strict right to the spiritual thing, or if the opposition is just), as when the candidate for a benefice pays a competitor to withdraw, or pays an accuser to keep silence; there is no simony if the temporal thing is given for freedom from unjust vexation (i.e., if one has a strict right to the spiritual thing and the opposition is clearly unjust, as when one who has acquired a right to an office pays an enemy to desist from placing impediments). the payment made by jacob to esau for the birthright, to which jacob was entitled by divine disposition, may be regarded as having had for its end, not the paternal blessing and other spiritual rights of the first-born, but immunity from persecution by esau. (e) when they are given for instruction, there is simony if the instruction has for its direct purpose the spiritual benefit of the disciple (e.g., catechetical instructions, sermons, spiritual direction); there is no simony if the instruction has for its direct purpose the improvement of the mind or the utility or advantage which the disciple will derive from it (e.g., instruction in theology, preparation for examinations). (d) when they are given for admission to religious life, there is simony if the money is paid for the religious state itself, the vows, or other spirituals; there is no simony if the money is paid for the temporal support of the religious institute, that it may be able to meet its expenses. . cases in which a transaction is not simoniacal, but lawful.--(a) there is no simony when a temporal is given on the occasion of but not for a spiritual. this happens when there is a just title for bestowal of the temporal, such as right of support (e.g., pastors' salaries, mass stipends, fees), extrinsic values in a work or object (e.g., the special labor in saying mass under certain conditions, and, according to some, the special affection one has for a relic, the _lucrum cessans_ on account of some function performed). (b) there is no simony when something of value is given in exchange, but not for a spiritual, nor in contravention of an anti-simony law. this happens whether like be exchanged for like (e.g., mass for mass), or a temporal for a thing associated with a spiritual as the latter's subject (e.g., money for a rosary or cemetery plot which has been blessed). in the former case there is no prohibition; in the latter, the temporalities have their own distinct values which may be paid for, if the price is not raised on account of the spiritual (see canons , ). . cases in which a transaction is not simoniacal, but is sinful.--(a) sins against god.--one who performs functions of religion primarily and principally, as far as his personal motive (_finis operantis_) is concerned, for the salary, stipend or fee, is not guilty of simony, since he does not regard the temporal even virtually as the price of the spiritual. but he does sin by indevotion, and the sin may even be mortal (e.g., a canon goes to choir chiefly because this yields him a living). offenses committed in the matter of mass stipends are not called simony in the code, but the penal law classes them with offenses against religion, as may be seen from canon . nepotism, favoritism in giving offices, and political and dishonest maneuvers to obtain church dignities are not in themselves simoniacal; but they are an unworthy and scandalous treatment of sacred things. (b) sins against others.--it is not simony but injustice to deny the sacraments to parishioners who do not contribute, to overcharge in lawful fees, and also, according to some, to take money for the omission of a spiritual act owed in justice (e.g., for refusal to hear the confession of a parishioner), or to demand money as the stipend for the performance of such a spiritual act (e.g., for hearing a confession). it is disobedience to take money in ways forbidden (e.g., to take mass stipends in the confessional, to earn money by gambling or trading forbidden in the canons). again, it is not strictly simony to put up as the stakes in a game a spiritual thing (e.g., the recitation of the rosary) against a temporal thing (e.g., ten dollars), for there is no intention to value the spiritual thing by the temporal; but such a practice is scandalous. greed about getting or keeping money pertains to avarice, not necessarily to simony. . cases in which a transaction is not simoniacal, but virtuous.--(a) some acts done in god's honor (e.g., to purchase a spiritual object, such as a sacred vessel or relic, from a person who would misuse it), when the purchaser intends the prevention of profanation. it is certainly not irreverence to a sacred thing to use means necessary to rescue it from such irreverence. (b) some acts done for the good of others (e.g., to give prizes to children who frequent the sacraments or sunday school, dowries to young girls that they may be able to enter religion, free education to worthy young men as an inducement to embrace the ecclesiastical state). in all these cases there is no purchase of a spiritual thing, because the temporal is a pure gift, and the spiritual is received, not by the giver of the temporal, but by another. there is no simony in the fees imposed for dispensations or in the alms sometimes prescribed for indulgences; for the temporal is not a price paid for the spiritual, but in the one case either a penance or a charge for expenses, and in the other a spiritual good work and duty prescribed as a condition for a spiritual benefit. (e) some acts done for the spiritual good of self (e.g., if one were in danger of death and could be baptized only by a person who demanded money for the service, it would not be simony to pay the money, since the price would be offered, not for the sacrament, but for the removal of an unjust annoyance). . theological malice of the sin of simony.--(a) simony against the divine law is a mortal sin from its nature and in every instance. no matter how small the spiritual thing that is sold, it is priceless, and a grave injury is done by putting a price on it. simony is a serious injury to god, since it usurps his place as the only lord of spiritual things (i cor., iv, ), to the spiritual things themselves, since it estimates their worth by vile material gain (prov., iii. ; acts, viii. ), and to the recipients, who should receive the gifts of god freely (matt, x, ). hence, st. peter denounced simon magus as deserving of perdition (acts, viii. ), and in law simony is spoken of as the worst of pests, a cancer, leprosy, a scourge. (b) simony against ecclesiastical law is a mortal sin from its nature, since it is forbidden as a protection to religion and under grave sin; but in particular cases it may be only a venial sin, since the church laws do not bind under grave sin, when the matter or the danger is not serious, as was said in . . moral malice of the sin of simony.--(a) simony is reducible to real sacrilege (see c). it is treated separately for the sake of convenience, on account of the large number of questions that pertain to it, and also because there is reason to consider it as a distinct species of sin ( c). hence, the moral malice of simony is that of irreligiousness. (b) simony of divine law and simony of ecclesiastical law, according to the more common and likely opinion, are alike in moral malice. for although the mere prohibition of the church does not make a non-sacred thing sacred, it does make the non-sacred thing unsaleable precisely because related to things that are sacred. in other words, the motive of the law is the protection of sacred things against the appearance or danger of simony, and the motive of the law is the factor that determines the moral character of precepts and prohibitions of human law. thus, to miss mass on sunday is a sin against religion, because the church commands in virtue of religion that mass be heard on sunday; to eat meat on friday is a sin against temperance, because the church forbids the use of meat on friday in virtue of temperance. hence, it is not merely disobedience, but simony, to violate a law which forbids a certain contract because of its nearness to the sale of spirituals for temporals. moreover, he who willfully exposes himself to the immediate danger of some sin wills the malice of that sin. . invalidity and penalties of simoniacal contracts.--(a) every simoniacal contract is invalid and of no force either in the external or in the internal forum, because it sells what is unsaleable under divine or ecclesiastical law. if the contract has to do with benefices, offices or dignities (e.g., "you vote as i wish and i will give you such and such favors," "you obtain for me such a dignity and i will pay you well"), the appointment to them is rendered null and void, even though the simoniacal act be done by a third party without the knowledge of the beneficiary, unless it be done by that third party to injure the beneficiary or against his protest (canon ). invalidity is also produced in case of simoniacal resignations (canon ), commissions (canon ), presentations (canon , § ), and prescription does not operate for one who holds a benefice obtained through simony (canon ). (b) certain simoniacal contracts subject the guilty parties to special punishments. thus, the penalty for simony in appointments, elections or promotions to office and dignities is excommunication _latæ sententiæ_ reserved simply to the holy see, and deprivation forever of all right of nominating, voting, presenting, and suspension (canon ); the penalty for simony in elevation to orders or in use of other sacraments is suspicion of heresy and suspension reserved to the holy see (canon ). . when the canonical penalties for simony do not apply.--(a) purely mental simony is not subject to ecclesiastical penalties, since the church does not pronounce on internal acts. but this does not take away the serious guilt in the sight of god. (b) external simony is subject to ecclesiastical penalties, but canonists dispute about the meaning of certain canons, for example, whether only real simony falls under the punishments _latæ sententiæ_, whether the penalties of canons and apply only to simony of divine law, or to simony of ecclesiastical law as well. . influence of simony on spiritual effects.--(a) on effects of the power of orders.--sacraments administered simoniacally are valid, for the law nullifies only the contract made about the sacrament, not the sacrament itself. it seems also that in the case of sacramentals (such as simple blessings imposed on articles) the blessing is not lost by sale of the article, provided the price is asked only for the object and not for the blessing. a blessed or consecrated object loses its blessing or consecration when it is put up for public sale (canon ). (b) on effects of the power of jurisdiction.--acts of jurisdiction are valid in spite of simony, unless there is special provision to the contrary. indulgences are lost _ipso facto_, if anything temporal is taken for the indulgenced object (canon ). religious profession, it seems, is valid, even though simoniacal. . restitution of the temporal price received for a spiritual thing.--(a) if the simoniacal contract is semi-real (that is, if the spiritual consideration has not been received), the price must be restored; for we have then the case of an immoral and unexecuted contract (see d). (b) if the simoniacal contract is real (that is, if the spiritual consideration has been received), the price should be given back; for the case then is one of commutative justice, a temporal price being taken for a thing (e.g., a blessing) that has no temporal price, or for a service that one was bound to give gratis (e.g., parochial sermon by the pastor). but if a service was not obligatory, it is held by some that there is no certain duty of restitution, if the spiritual thing cannot be restored (e.g., when one received a stipend for a mass of bination or demanded an excessive fee for a sacred function). . restitution of the temporal price received for temporal things annexed to spirituals.--restitution is obligatory as follows: (a) when commutative justice is violated, as when one charges for a blessed candle or rosary in excess of its market value or just price, or when by fear or force one compels another to exchange a chalice for a ciborium; (b) when law or judicial sentence imposes restitution as a penalty for an offense, as when for money one has resigned one's benefice in favor of another person. . circumstances of restitution for simony.--(a) the time for restitution.--if simony is against natural law, restitution is due before sentence; if against ecclesiastical law only, restitution is due only after sentence. (b) the person to whom restitution is to be made.--satisfaction should be given to the owner, or injured party (e.g., to the person who was charged for a blessing), or, if this is impossible, to the poor or pious causes. the revenues derived from a benefice simoniacally obtained should be restored to the church to which the benefice belongs, unless this is advantageous to the guilty parties, or probably to charity, or religion, or the successor in the benefice. (c) excuses from restitution.--impossibility, condonation or the permission of the church, express or presumed, excuses from the duty of restitution. . restitution of spiritual thing simoniacally received.--the spiritual thing simoniacally received must be restored even before the sentence of the judge (canon , § ). (a) thus, if it is a benefice, office or dignity that was obtained or conferred through simony, it must be resigned; nor may the guilty party keep the fruits, unless he was in good faith and permission is given. (b) if the spiritual thing is something other than a benefice, it should likewise be given up, provided it is of a kind that can be restored (e.g., it is impossible to restore a sacrament received or a consecration given to a church) and restitution will not cause irreverence (e.g., it would be irreverent to restore blessed objects or relics to the seller if he meant to profane them). art. : the remaining potential parts of justice; the virtue of piety; the commandments (_summa theologica_, ii-ii, qq. - .) . having treated of religion, the chief potential part of justice, we shall new consider the remaining subsidiary virtues of the present group, namely, piety, reverence, truthfulness, gratitude, vindication, friendship, liberality, equity (see - ). . the virtue of piety.--in general, piety is the virtue that inclines one to show due recognition of indebtedness to those from whom one has received life and existence. there are three senses of the word: (a) in its strictest meaning, it refers to the dutifulness owed to the immediate or secondary causes of our being, namely, parents and country; (b) in a derived meaning, it is applied to the religious duties owed to god, who is our heavenly father and the first author of our being. hence, those who are faithful to the worship of god are called pious and the divine services are known as works of piety; (c) in its widest meaning, piety is applied to works of mercy, since they are most pleasing to god as a tribute of filial devotion. the merciful man has pity (piety), because his kindness to the unfortunate honors god more than victims or sacrifices. hence, since god is merciful, he himself is sometimes called pious: "the lord is compassionate (_pius_) and merciful" (ecclus., ii. ). . definition of piety.--piety in the strictest sense is defined as "a moral virtue that inclines one to pay to father and fatherland the duty of respect and assistance that is owed them as the authors and sustainers of our being." (a) it is a moral virtue, one pertaining to justice, and hence it differs from the special duty of charity owed to parents and country (see , sqq.). charity loves parents and country out of love for god whose creatures they are; piety honors them in recognition of the benefits received from them and the authority vested in them. (b) piety is shown to father and fatherland; that is, just as religion gives worship to god in acknowledgment of his excellence and our dependence upon him, so does piety show due respect to those who hold the place of god in our respect on earth. filial piety is owed to the mother as well as to the father, and in a less degree to other relatives, inasmuch as they share or continue the blood of one's parents and may be regarded as representing them (e.g., brothers and sisters, husband or wife). patriotism belongs to one's native land or the country, nation, state, city, etc., of which one is a citizen; and it should include, not only fellow-citizens, but also the friends and allies of one's country. he who is the adopted citizen of a country should love the place of his birth, but loyalty and obedience are owed to the nation to which he has transferred his allegiance. (c) piety offers respect and assistance. the first duty is owed to parents on account of their position of progenitors and superiors; the second is owed to their condition when they are infirm or destitute or otherwise in need. it is more probable that filial piety is violated only when the personal goods (e.g., life, health, body, fame, honor) of parents are injured, and that injury to their real goods pertains to fraud, theft or damage, rather than to impiety. moreover, on account of the community of goods that exists between parents and children, real injuries between them are not rigorously acts of injustice and require more than the ordinary grave matter for serious sin (see ). (d) piety is owed to parents and country as the authors and sustainers of our being. thus, it differs from legal justice, which is the duty owed the state or community, precisely as it is the whole of which one is a part. it differs likewise from commutative justice, which is obligatory in agreements with parents or other superiors, for the duty is then owed them as partners to a free contract. on account of this nobility of the formal object, filial piety and patriotism are very like to religion and rank next after it in the catalogue of virtues. . the reverence required by piety.--(a) parents should be honored internally by the esteem in which their parental dignity and merits (not their personal failings) are held; externally, by the marks of respect customarily shown to parents. (b) relatives should receive a lower degree of respect commensurate with the nearness and quality of the kinship. thus, parents should treat their children with the consideration owed to members of the family, and not as servants or strangers, brothers and sisters and relatives of remoter degree should give one another that courtesy and regard which respect for common parents or ancestors calls for. lineal relatives are nearer than collaterals, and elder relatives (such as grandparents, uncles and aunts) are more entitled to respect than younger relatives (such as grandchildren, nephews and nieces). (e) country should be honored, not merely by the admiration one feels for its greatness in the past or present, but also and primarily by the tender feeling of veneration one has for the land that has given one birth, nurture and education. even though a country be poor and humble, it should be patriotically revered (ps. cxxxvi). external manifestations of piety towards country are the honors given its flag and symbols, marks of appreciation of its citizenship (acts, xxi. ), and efforts to promote its true glory at home and abroad. . the assistance required by piety.--(a) parents should be helped in their needs, spiritual or temporal. if they are sick, they should be visited; if they are poor, they should be assisted; if they are in need of the sacraments or prayers or suffrages, these spiritual means should be provided. but a son is not bound to pay the debts of his deceased father who left him nothing, since the debt was a personal one. (b) relatives should also be assisted in their needs, especially if the necessity is urgent and the relationship close (as in the case of brothers and sisters). but this duty is not as strict as that owed to parents, and, if the relationship is distant, there is no special obligation of piety. (c) country is helped by the aid given to fellow-countrymen who are in moral, mental or corporal need. the noblest patriots are those who devote their lives, labors or substance to the promotion of religion, education and contentment among their people, to the correction of real evils that threaten decay or disaster to the national life, and to the preservation of those special ideals and institutions that constitute what is characteristic and best in the nation. . sins against piety.--(a) by excess.--exaggerated respect for relatives or country is a sin, since it is not according to order or reason. thus, while children should not dishonor their parents under the pretext of religion (matt., xv. - ), neither should they be more devoted to their parents than to god (luke, xiv. ; matt., viii. ), nor neglect god's call when their parents do not need them (matt., iv. ). thus also, patriotism should not degenerate into patriolatry, in which country is enshrined as a god, all-perfect and all-powerful, nor into jingoism or chauvinism, with their boastfulness or contempt for other nations and their disregard for international justice or charity. (b) by defect.--disrespect for parents is felt when they are despised on account of their poverty, ignorance, or feebleness; it is shown by word (e.g., when they are addressed in bitter, reproachful, or contemptuous speech; or when they are ill spoken of to others), by signs (e.g., when mocking gestures or mimicry are used to ridicule them), by deeds (e.g., when they are threatened or struck), and by omissions (e.g., when their children are too proud to recognize them or to give them tokens of honor). disrespect for one's country is felt when one is imbued with anti-nationalistic doctrines (e.g., the principles of internationalism which hold that loyalty is due to a class, namely, the workers of the world or a capitalistic group, and that country should be sacrificed to selfish interests; the principle of humanitarianism, which holds that patriotism is incompatible with love of the race; the principle of egoism which holds that the individual has no obligations to society); it is practised when one speaks contemptuously about country, disregards its good name or prestige, subordinates its rightful pre-eminence to a class, section, party, personal ambition, or greed, etc. . malice of sins against piety.--(a) the moral malice is distinct from that of other sins, since injustice committed against the debt owed to the human principle of existence has a special character of wrong, as being opposed to a special kind of right. parricide and matricide have always been looked on as having a peculiar enormity among sins of homicide; and similarly, disrespect to father and mother are greater evils than disrespect to persons who have no like claim to honor. hence, he who has struck his father must mention the circumstance of relationship in confession, since it is a circumstance that changes the species of the sin. but he who has struck his fourth cousin need not confess the relationship, for distant kinship, though an aggravating circumstance, does not give the injury the character of impiety. (b) the theological malice of the sin is grave from the sin's nature, since piety ranks next to religion and is the object of a special commandment and promise from god. but the sin may be venial on account of lightness of the offense (e.g., when young children answer back or speak saucily to their parents, but without contempt) or on account of the lesser importance of the person offended (e.g., when a brother slaps his brother, the sin is not as serious as when a child strikes his parent). children who have been seriously disrespectful to their parents are obliged to beg pardon; but to impose the obligation regularly in confession is deemed unwise, since insistence may only lead the penitent to new sins, and moreover the forgiveness of parents may generally be presumed when there is amendment. . the virtue of reverence.--this virtue is known in latin as _observantia_, because its object is persons of authority, whom it carefully observes in order to revere their dignity and to learn their commands. it is defined as "a moral virtue which inclines one to render to persons of higher position the tribute of honor and obedience that is due their authority." (a) it is a moral virtue, that is, one concerned immediately with the direction of human acts. reverence belongs to justice because it renders to others what is due them. (b) the persons to whom it does justice are those of higher position, that is, superiors who rule over us or over others, and men distinguished for virtue, knowledge or other excellent qualities that make them fit to govern. superior here does not mean that the person who receives reverence must be in every way better than the person who shows reverence (e.g., he who is superior in jurisdiction owes some reverence to a subject who is more learned or virtuous than himself), or that there must be inequality between the one who gives and the one who receives reverence (e.g., two distinguished persons of equal rank and merit owe mutual reverence to each other on account of the superiority which each has to many others). (c) the reason for reverence is the authority vested in these persons, that is, the excellence of their state, which gives them a higher dignity than others, and their office of ruling, which empowers them to direct a subject to his proper end. here we see that reverence is a distinct virtue, for, while piety and reverence are both forms of veneration, the motive of each is different. thus, a child owes to his father piety, because from the father was received the beginning of his life, and reverence, because from the father is received direction to his end. again, a subject owes the rulers of his country both piety and reverence: piety, as regards their relation to the common good and the nation (e.g., when the ruler is given his special salute), reverence, as regards their personal rank and glory (e.g., when assistance is given the ruler to lessen the burden of his office). (d) the first tribute paid by reverence is honor, which is a testimony given to worth, and is offered to the dignity or rank of the superior. honor differs from reverence as the effect differs from the cause, or the means from the end; for it is reverence that prompts one to show honor, and honor is meant to excite in others reverence for the person honored. the debt of honor is due those who are superior in jurisdiction, from legal justice; it is due to those who are superiors, but not in jurisdiction, not from legal justice, since the law does not enforce it, but from moral obligation, since it is decent and becoming. (e) the second tribute of reverence is obedience, which is submission to law, and is offered to the ruling power of the superior. this tribute of reverence is paid only to one's own ruling superior, since others have no power to impose upon one their will or precept. . species of honor.--(a) as to kinds, there is common honor which is shown to all and by all (e.g., god honors the saints, and tobias and mardochaeus were honored by their sovereigns), and the special honor of homage which includes submission and is shown only by inferiors or servants to their superiors or masters. (b) as to modes, there is honor in general and praise, which is a special form of honor; praise is given in speech or writing; honor is shown not only by words, but also by deeds (e.g., by salutations, prostrations) and things (e.g., by monuments, presents, banquets, titles). (c) as to motives, there is civil honor (i.e., the respect shown to the temporal authority of rulers, teachers, employers, etc.), religious honor (i.e., the respect shown to the spiritual authority of the pope, bishops, priests, etc.), and supernatural honor (i.e., the respect given to the virtue of holy men). this last honor is known as _dulia_ (service) when offered to the saints who reign with christ in heaven, as _hyperdulia_ (superior service) when offered to the mother of god. . obligation of showing honor to deserving excellence.--(a) common honor should be given to all who are not irrevocably evil and malignant, that is, it should be shown to all creatures, the damned excepted. for, as was said above, there is no one who is not possessed of superiority in some respect, and it is even reasonable to believe that the most unpromising person is better than oneself in some quality or other. hence, the scriptures admonish us to honor all (i peter, ii. ), to be beforehand in giving honor to one another (rom., xii. ), and humbly to believe that others are superior (phil., ii. ). but in bestowing honor, while one should have at least in general an honorable opinion of others, the duty of external honor does not oblige at all times or in all circumstances; and the same kind of honor is not to be given by or to all persons. those who show the ordinary signs of charity (as they should) in greetings, salutations, courtesies, and the like, comply sufficiently with the duty of common honor. (b) special honor should be given all those who have a right to it: "tribute to whom tribute is due, honor to whom honor is due" (rom., xiii. ). thus, rulers and prelates should be given the respect due their station, even though personally they are wicked, for in the honor given their rank reverence is shown to god, whose ministers they are, and to the community which they represent. there is a moral, though not a legal, obligation to honor men distinguished for holiness for their own sakes since, while honor is not a sufficient reward of virtue, it is a distinguished mark of recognition, and for the sake of others, since virtue in honor is like a lamp placed upon a stand and shining for many (matt., v. ). . obligation of the religious cult of dulia.--(a) there is no strict duty of giving veneration to the blessed virgin, the angels, saints, images, or relics, for absolutely speaking it suffices for salvation to adore god. but it is of faith that the cult of these holy persons and things is lawful and useful; hence he who should neglect it would not merely disregard the earnest advice of the church, but he would also deny to god's friends and heroes the honors they deserve (ecclus., xliv. ; heb., xi), and would deprive himself of precious helps of intercession and inspiration. some believe it is at least venially sinful never to invoke the blessed virgin, and surely there would be sin--and perhaps even grave sin, _per accidens_--if the neglect was scandalous or perilous to salvation. (b) there is an obligation in performing acts of cult to make the veneration suitable to the dignity of the object (e.g., to the mother of god belongs _hyperdulia_, to the saints of god _dulia_; to holy persons is given absolute cult, to holy objects relative cult) and conformable to the laws of the church (e.g., the titles of venerable, blessed, saint are conferred only by the church; public cult may be performed only by those authorized to act in the name of the church and only by such rites as have been approved). it is lawful privately to pray to infants who died after baptism, and, according to many, to the souls in purgatory; but it would be superstitious to give to the damned or false saints the cult that belongs only to the canonized saints. . obedience.--obedience is a moral virtue annexed to justice which inclines one to comply promptly and willingly with the command of one's superior, because it is a command and obligatory. (a) obedience is prompt and willing, and so it differs from forced or unwilling or tardy submission and from servile and politic obedience (which would not obey were it not for fear or self-interest), for these lack either the good will or the good motive required by virtue. note also that the virtue of obedience differs from the vow of obedience in this, that the vow obliges to the external performance of a command, while the virtue includes also internal submission. (b) it is shown to a superior. between equals there is not obedience in the strict sense, though one of them may out of charity or friendship yield to what the other desires. (c) it is compliance with a command, that is, with a law or precept imposed by authority. some authorities hold that it is an act of obedience to fulfill the known will of a superior, even though it has not been imposed as obligatory; but others see in such a fulfillment, not obedience, but the perfection or spirit of obedience. thus, if a son knows that his father wishes him to perform a certain work, but has received no orders to do it and leaves it undone, this omission according to the first opinion is disobedience, while according to the second it is a want of the spirit of obedience. (d) it obeys precisely because the superior's will has been expressed as a command. it is this intention that sets off obedience from other acts of virtue about commanded matters. there is a material obedience which is a circumstance of other virtues and may be called a general virtue (e.g., when one keeps the first commandment out of love for god, there is charity; when one keeps the seventh commandment out of love of honesty, there is justice). the formal obedience of which we now speak is a peculiar and distinct virtue, because it keeps the law simply because it is law and as such should be kept. . power of jurisdiction and dominative power.--there are two kinds of power that confer moral authority to impose a command--the power of jurisdiction and dominative power. (a) the power of jurisdiction is had by one who rules in a perfect society (church or state), which has supreme authority and the right to impose laws. (b) dominative power is had by one who rules in an imperfect society, which has dependent authority and the right to impose precepts only. this power arises either from the very nature of society as a body composed of superior and subjects (e.g., in the family the children are necessarily subject to the father), or from agreement between the parties concerned (e.g., the wife by marrying becomes subject to her husband, the servant by taking employment becomes subject to the employer, the religious by entering a community or by vowing obedience becomes subject to the superior). . degrees of obedience.--ascetical authors distinguish three degrees of obedience: (a) external obedience, which performs with exactness the thing commanded though there is no heart or willingness in its act; (b) internal obedience, which joins willingness to external submission though the judgment doubts the wisdom or value or good faith of the command; (c) blind obedience, which submits the judgment itself to the superior's judgment, provided of course the thing ordered is not clearly sinful (matt, ix. ; gen., xxii. sqq.; matt., ii. sqq.). . comparison of obedience with the other virtues.--(a) obedience, as was explained above ( ), is distinct from the other virtues on account of its different formal object. its act is found sometimes joined with other virtues (e.g., to fast during lent in order to keep the law is an act of obedience, but it is also an act of temperance if actuated by love of moderation, or an act of religion if offered as homage to god); but obedience may be separate from other virtues, as when a superior commands or forbids something indifferent in order to try a subject's obedience (e.g., to take a walk solely because it has been commanded is an act of obedience only). (b) obedience is less perfect than the theological virtues, since it belongs to the moral virtues, which are not directly concerned with god himself but with the means to union with him (i tim., i. ). among those moral virtues that consist in contempt of temporal things, obedience which serves god in all things has a certain preeminence, inasmuch as it contemns for god's sake the noblest human good, one's own will, whereas the other virtues contemn lower goods (those of the body and external things); on the other hand, obedience is inferior to religion, since, while obedience consists in veneration of the law, religion consists in veneration of god himself. but acts of worship performed without devotion or without regard for god's will are not to be compared with respectful obedience, since the former are sins and the latter is both religious and obedient; hence, it is said that obedience is better than sacrifice (i kings, xv. ), which means that internal devotion is to be preferred to mere external worship. spiritual writers praise obedience as the guardian of all the virtues and the safe road in which they walk (prov., xxi. ). . comparison of acts of obedience.--(a) all acts of obedience are of the same species, since in spite of diversity of superiors or of laws there is always in obedience the same essential character on account of the motive. whoever may be the superior or whatever may be the law, the reason for obedience is always the authority that commands and the obligation that it imposes. thus, whether one obeys god, or the church, or the state, or parents, the virtue is always one and the same. (b) all acts of obedience are not of the same perfection, for circumstances (e.g., the willingness, the duration, the difficulty) add to the merit of obedience. it should be noted, however, that to obey by performing what one likes is not necessarily less virtuous than to obey by performing what one dislikes; for the thing liked may be something hard that appeals to few and may be performed from a spirit of willing obedience, whereas the thing that is disliked may be something easy and may be performed with less willingness. . the duty of obedience.--since obedience is obligatory because a superior has the right to command, the extent of the duty depends on the extent of the superior's authority. (a) thus, god must be obeyed in all things that he commands, for he is lord of all and cannot command what is unlawful: "let us do all that the lord has spoken and we shall be obedient" (exod., xxiv. ). man is not bound, however, to wish all that god wishes in particular, since god wishes things from the viewpoint of the universal good, and the creature from the viewpoint of the limited good known to him (e.g., it is not lawful for man to wish the damnation or the misfortune of those whom god will permit to suffer these evils); but man is bound to wish that which god desires him to wish (e.g., that his neighbor will not be lost, that his father will not now die). neither is man bound to perform what god proposed to him as a counsel. in certain instances (gen., xxii. ; exod., xii. ; osee, i. ) it appears that god commanded sin, but only a foolish or blasphemous person would interpret the facts in that impossible sense. in the physical order, a miracle wrought by god is not contrary to the law of nature established by him, but to the usual course of nature; and similarly the commands referred to were not contrary to the laws of virtue, but to the usual manner of virtue, as was explained in sqq. (b) man must be obeyed in all those things in which he has lawful authority to command, first, because god himself requires this and he who resists resists god (rom, xii. ); next, because without obedience the peaceful order of society cannot be maintained. even though the superior be wicked or an infidel, obedience is due him, for it is given him, not in his personal, but in his official capacity (matt, xxiii. , ). the scriptures command obedience to all classes of lawful superiors, whether ecclesiastical (heb, xiii. ), civil (titus, iii. ; i peter, ii. ), or domestic (eph, vi. , v. - , vi. - ). . when obedience is not lawful or obligatory.--obedience to a human superior is not lawful or not obligatory in those matters in which the superior has no authority to command. (a) it is not lawful to obey a human superior when his command is clearly contrary to the command of a higher superior, and therefore unlawful. thus, one may not obey any human superior when he orders sin, even a venial sin, for we must obey god rather than man (acts, v. ; rom., iii. ); neither may one obey a subordinate official who commands something clearly opposed to the law or to the regulations of his own superior. it does not belong to the subject, however, to sit in judgment on his superior, and hence, unless the unlawfulness of a command is manifest, the subject must presume that it is lawful. (b) it is not necessary to obey a human superior when his command exceeds his competency, or when he orders things over which he has no control. thus, god alone has authority over the internal action of the soul and over the natural state of the body; and as regards these things all men are equal, one indeed being less perfect mentally or bodily than another, but none being subject to another in these matters. divine law regulates the interior (e.g., the command to believe, the prohibition to covet), but human law is confined to external acts; divine law can regulate things pertaining to the nature of the body (e.g., god could command an individual to marry, or to observe virginity, or to abstain from all food), but human law is concerned with external things, in which men are unequal, and it cannot take away natural rights to life or the means thereto (see on inalienable rights). moreover, even as regards external acts and things, the authority of a superior is limited by the bounds which its nature gives it; for example, temporal authority cannot command spiritual acts, a ruler placed over one territory or group cannot command for others, a constitutional body cannot make laws beyond the powers conferred by its constitution, ecclesiastical laws or customs rejected by the code cannot be enforced, etc. it is clear, too, that no superior may command the execution of what is physically or morally impossible, and generally a subject should not be required to practise heroic virtue (e.g., to expose his life to danger; see ). if a command is plainly ridiculous (that is, if it lacks a reasonable motive), it would be more perfect to obey, but it seems it would not be a sin to disregard it. . obedience in cases where there is normally no obligation.--if a superior oversteps his authority, the subject may obey when the matter is lawful and the motive of submission is good. in certain cases it is even obligatory to obey a superior in matters over which normally he would not have authority. such cases are the following: (a) on account of a vow or other free and moral agreement, a subject is held to obedience in matters pertaining to the nature of the body (e.g., when he has made a vow of virginity). the church cannot impose virginity, but he who has vowed to observe it, must fulfill the conditions and precautions necessary for its observance, and can be ordered so to do; (b) on account of circumstances, such as scandal or danger of great evils, it is sometimes necessary to yield submission to a command that is not of itself obligatory (see , ). . internal actions and human superiors.--internal actions in themselves do not fall under human authority, and hence the apostle says: "judge not before the time until the lord come, who will make manifest the counsels of the heart" (i cor., iv. ). but in two ways these actions may be dealt with authoritatively by human superiors. (a) thus, in the internal forum and there alone, internal acts themselves are subject to a human superior; for the confessor knows and acts there, not as man, but as the representative of god, and hence he may pass on and prescribe internal thoughts and desires just as god may pass on them and prescribe them. (b) in the external forum, the church deals with internal acts in so far as they enter into an external act as a necessary ingredient of its goodness or malice, as when she commands a devout communion or pronounces censure against judges who are swayed by fear or favor. this question was treated above in . . obligation of the vow of obedience.--(a) the vow obliges a religious to observe the commands of superiors that are given according to the rule which the religious professed. hence, there would be no obligation in virtue of the vow of performing commands that are not authorized explicitly or implicitly in the rule (e.g., if a cloistered religious were bidden to engage in hospital work), nor, unless otherwise vowed, of keeping each prescription of the rule or constitutions. a command to accept a relaxation from the rule is obligatory, unless the dispensation is clearly invalid (cfr. , ). (b) the obligation is grave only when superiors command in a grave matter and with the intention of imposing a grave precept. the intention of a superior is indicated by a form of words and other circumstances which the rule or constitutions prescribe for the imposition of a grave precept. . sins against obedience.--since obedience is a moral virtue and therefore observes a mean, there is both an excess and a defect that it avoids. (a) thus, the sin of excess is not found in the quantity of obedience, for the more obedient a subject is, the more is he worthy of praise. it is found, therefore, in other circumstances of the act of submission, as when one obeys a person or a command which one should not obey. sinful submission is just as foreign to obedience as superstition is to religion; cringing submission or servility in matters where one should think and judge for oneself is only a simulacrum of obedience. (b) the sin of defect is found in disobedience to a lawful command. this sin may also be said to include both excess and defect--the former because the subject follows his own desires more than he should, and the latter because the superior does not receive what he is entitled to (see sqq.). . definition of disobedience.--disobedience is the transgression of the lawful command of a superior. (a) it is a transgression, that is, a voluntary neglect or refusal to perform what is ordered or to omit what is forbidden, or to perform or omit at the time or in the manner ordered. thus, there is no disobedience if fulfillment is impossible--for example, if a subject who is summoned to present himself at a certain place does not receive the notice or becomes too ill to make the journey, or if he is asked to give what he cannot give, or if he is burdened with so many laws or regulations that he cannot even know what they are, much less attempt to observe them. (b) disobedience transgresses a lawful command, that is, one which is morally good and issues from competent authority. it is not disobedience to refuse to do what is evidently illicit (e.g., to lie or steal), or what is illegally ordered (e.g., to submit to arrest blindly, to perform what the law forbids the superior to order). (c) it is violation of a command, that is, of a law or precept. hence, it is not disobedience to neglect advice or exhortations or requests made by superiors, if the subject-matter is not otherwise obligatory (e.g., a daughter is not disobedient if she does not choose the husband picked out for her by her parents). (d) it is against the command of a superior, and hence, if there is opposition between laws or precepts, the higher law and the higher superior prevails ( sqq.). . the kinds of disobedience.--(a) by reason of the subject, disobedience is either material or formal, according as the transgressor intends only the satisfaction of his sinful desire against some other virtue, or intends the violation of obedience itself. material disobedience is found in every sin, since every sin is a transgression, and in this sense the pride of the original sin is called disobedience (rom., v. ); but formal disobedience is a special sin, and it is committed only when the sinner transgresses purposely in order not to submit. (b) by reason of the object, formal disobedience is contempt either for the law or for the superior. in the former case the transgressor despises the commandment given him and vents his dislike in disobedience; in the latter case the transgressor belittles the authority of the lawmaker or superior who made the law or who gave the precept; or scorns his sinfulness, ignorance, or low birth; or hates or envies him, and therefore proceeds to break his laws or precepts. if contempt moves one to rebel against every command, it is perfect; if it extends to only one or another matter, it is imperfect. . it is not sinful contempt of a person in authority, however, if the subject does not admire his character, or agree with his opinions, or approve of his courses, when the subject has good reason for his view and does not forget the respect and obedience due to authority and law. . theological sinfulness of formal disobedience.--(a) from its nature formal disobedience is a grave sin, since it is contrary to charity, which is the life of the soul and the end of the law. love of god demands that we keep his commandments and be submissive to his representatives (rom., xiii. ; john, xiv, ; rom., ii. , xiii. ; luke, x. ). disobedience is classed by st. paul with the worst sins of the ancient pagans (rom., i. ) and of the sinners of the last days (ii tim, iii. ), with witchcraft and idolatry (i kings, xv. ). (b) from the imperfection of the act formal disobedience is sometimes only a venial sin, as when in a sudden fit of anger against his superiors a child refuses to obey his teachers or parents. (c) from the lightness of the matter, formal disobedience is only a venial sin, if the contempt is imperfect and not directed against god, and the matter of the command or transgression is not serious (e.g., if one gets up a few minutes late in the morning once or twice as a protest against a regulation). but, even though the matter is not serious in itself, formal disobedience is a grave sin, when the contempt is perfect (e.g., if in a spirit of defiance and of anarchistic contempt for all his laws one pays no heed to some minor regulation of a superior), and perhaps also when contempt is directed against a divine precept (e.g., if with the feeling that the eighth commandment is foolish or useless, one tells small lies); for in the former case there is grave contempt, in the latter case blasphemy. . moral species of disobedience.--(a) in formal disobedience, if the command belongs to some special virtue, there are two sins, namely, that against obedience and that against the virtue intended by the lawgiver (e.g., when out of contempt one violates the third commandment); but, if the command was given for the sake of obedience only, there is but the one sin of formal disobedience (e.g., when out of stubbornness a child refuses to do the study or other work imposed by parents or teachers). (b) in material disobedience, if the command was given for the sake of some special virtue, there is but the one sin against that virtue, as when one breaks the fifth or sixth commandment to satisfy passion; but if the command was given for the exercise of submission only, there is but the one general sin of disobedience, as when a child eats between meals against the command given by his mother. . circumstances that aggravate formal disobedience.--one act of formal disobedience can be worse than another such act in two ways: (a) by reason of the rank of the person who gave the command. thus, it is more serious to disobey god than to disobey man, and more serious to disobey a higher than a lower superior; (b) by reason of the rank which the thing commanded has in the intention of the superior. thus, when disobeying god it is more serious to transgress against the higher than against the lower good, for god always prefers the better good; but in disobeying man alone it is more serious to transgress against the good, higher or lower, which the lawgiver has more at heart. . comparison of formal disobedience with other sins.--(a) disobedience against god (e.g., contempt for his law) is worse than sins against the neighbor (e.g., murder, theft, adultery). this is true when these latter sins do not include formal disobedience against god, for, _per se_ and other things being equal, a sin against god is more serious than a sin against a creature; it is also true when sins against creatures include formal disobedience against god but offend a less important commandment, as when the one sin is perjury and the other theft. (b) contempt for the lawgiver, even without disobedience, is worse than contempt for the law with disobedience, since the lawgiver is of greater importance than his precept. thus, it is worse to blaspheme god than to despise his commandment; it is worse to hold a superior in contempt than to disregard his precept. . the virtue of gratitude.--religion, piety, reverence and obedience are annexed to justice on account of a legal debt; the virtues that remain, beginning with gratitude, are assigned to justice on account of a moral debt only (see ). gratitude is defined as "a moral virtue that inclines one to acknowledge with appreciation and to repay with gladness the favors one has received." (a) the object of gratitude is favors received, that is, some good useful and acceptable to the recipient and gratuitously bestowed. thus, gratitude is not owed for a thing that is harmful (e.g., for aid in the commission of sin, for gifts offered with purpose of bribery or simony) or useless (e.g., for old articles which the giver only wished to get rid of and forced one to take). neither is gratitude owed for presents made with the purpose of ridicule or offense. finally, no thanks are due for what was owed in justice (e.g., wages for work performed), though courtesy demands a pleasant response to every good one receives, even when it is not a favor. (b) the offices of gratitude are acknowledgment and repayment. the former consists in thoughts or words, such as remembrance of benefactors, praise of their good deeds, words of thanks; the latter consists in acts or things, such as honor, service, assistance, and gifts (tob., xii. , ). . two kinds of gratitude.--(a) in a wide sense, gratitude is the recognition of favors received from superiors, and does not differ from religion, piety and reverence, by which one gives due acknowledgment to god as the first cause of all benefits, to parents as the second cause of life and training, and to rulers as the second cause of direction or guidance or of public and common benefits. (b) in its strict sense, gratitude refers only to special and private benefits distinct from those mentioned above. gratitude, then, is a distinct virtue and follows in order after reverence. . is greater gratitude due to god for the gift of innocence or for the gift of repentance? (a) if we consider only the greatness of the favor, the one who has been preserved from sin owes more gratitude to god; for, _per se_ and other things being equal, it is a greater favor to be kept from sin than to be rescued from it. (b) if we consider the liberality of the favor, the one who has received the gift of repentance should be more thankful, for god is more generous when he bestows his grace on one who deserved punishment. . circumstances of gratitude.--(a) to whom gratitude should be shown.--every benefactor should be repaid internally (e.g., by kind remembrance and prayers) and also externally, unless this is impossible (e.g., when he has become so depraved that one can have no dealings with him). the internal debt is lessened if the benefactor was less benevolent (e.g., if he gave grudgingly, or in an unkind manner, or only with a view to self-advertisement), for the gift is esteemed chiefly from the good will of the giver; the external debt is lessened if the benefactor stands less in need of external help (e.g., if he is wealthy or famous). (b) by whom gratitude should be shown.--every person who is favored should be thankful. there is no one so high that another cannot be his benefactor, and the greatest or wealthiest person should not feel it beneath his dignity to repay even small favors sincerely given. neither is there anyone so low, whether child or pauper, that he cannot to some extent, by his respect, affection, prayers, etc., recompense his benefactors. (c) the time for gratitude.--internal gratitude should be immediate, and should be shown by the kindly manner in which a favor is received; but external repayment should await a suitable time, as it seems forced or unappreciative to give a favor in return as soon as one is received. (d) the degree of gratitude owed.--if the favor was bestowed by reason of a friendship of utility, the gratitude should correspond with the benefit received; but, if it was bestowed out of pure friendship or liberality, the gratitude should be measured by the benevolence that prompted the favor. hence, as seneca remarks, gratitude is sometimes more due to one who bestows small favors, but with liberality and willingness and disinterestedness. [e] the amount of recompense for favors.--it is suitable that one repay benefactors by giving more than was received from them, if this is possible; for otherwise one will seem only to give back all or part of what was received. but in gratitude, as in benefits, the good will counts for more than the favor; and hence if one cannot hope to surpass the favor (e.g., the case of children in relation to parents), one can at least surpass in desire and internal benevolence. . the sins against gratitude.--(a) since gratitude is a moral virtue, the sins against it are either by excess (e.g., if one is grateful for things one should not desire), or by defect (that is, by ingratitude). since gratitude inclines to surpass favors received, it is more offended by lack of thanks or ingratitude than by excessive thanks. (b) as to its motive, ingratitude is twofold, material and formal. formal ingratitude consists in contempt for the benefit or the benefactor, as when the person favored disdains what has been done for him, and therefore omits to give thanks or commits some injury against the benefactor. material ingratitude is any injury done a benefactor without contempt for him or his favor. (c) as to its mode, formal ingratitude is also twofold, that by omission and that by commission. the former is the culpable neglect of the grateful act of repaying a benefactor, or of the grateful word of thanking him, or of the grateful thought of remembering him with affection; the latter is the culpable return of evil for good (jerem., xviii. ; exod., xviii. ) by an injurious act, or by a word in contempt of the favor, or by a thought that it is a disfavor. . the moral species of ingratitude.--(a) material ingratitude is not a special sin, since it may be found in all kinds of sins committed against a benefactor; for example, every violation of a commandment is an act of ingratitude to god, and every injury done a human benefactor is an act of ingratitude to man. but material ingratitude is an aggravating circumstance, since it is worse to harm those to whom we owe thanks than to harm others. (b) formal ingratitude is a special sin, for it is the denial of a special debt owed in decency, and which a special virtue requires one to pay (see ). st. paul lists ingratitude with other special classes of sin (ii tim., iii. ). . the theological species of ingratitude.--(a) formal ingratitude from its nature seems to be a mortal sin, since it is against charity, which bids us love our benefactors. it may be venial, however, on account of the imperfection of the act or the smallness of the matter. thus, to offend a benefactor in some trifling matter would not be mortal, even though there be some slight contempt in the act. (b) material ingratitude is venial or mortal according to the nature of the injury done the benefactor. thus, a small injury is done when one gives a cheap present to a benefactor from whom one had received a valuable gift, for his right to more was not strict, and hence the sin is venial; but a grave injury is done when one seriously calumniates a benefactor, and the sin is then mortal. . is it right to confer favors on the ungrateful?--(a) if the favors will be of benefit, one should not desist merely because of the ingratitude with which they are received. it is not always certain that the beneficiary is ungrateful, and there may be reason to hope for his improvement (luke, vi. ). (b) if the favors are not beneficial, because the recipient is made worse (e.g., arrogant, lazy) through them, they should be discontinued. . the virtue of vengeance.--just as gratitude returns good for evil, so does vengeance (_vindicatio_) return evil for evil, that is, the evil of punishment for the evil of sin. vengeance is defined as "a moral virtue that inclines a private person to use lawful means for the punishment of wrongdoing, with a view to the satisfaction of public or private justice." (a) vengeance is a virtue of private persons; that is, it belongs to those who are not charged officially with the punishment of offenses. the duty of public persons, such as judges, is a much stricter one and pertains to the virtue of vindictive justice, which is a form of commutative justice; whereas vengeance is only a virtue annexed to justice (see above, sqq.). vindictive justice attends to the equality between fault and punishment, vengeance to the protection of the person who has been injured. (b) vengeance is concerned with the punishment of wrongdoing, or the infliction of some painful retribution upon one who has already committed an injury. thus, this virtue is not strictly identical with lawful self-defense, which is directed against an evil that is not past but present, though self-defense may be rated as a secondary act of the virtue of vengeance. (c) vengeance uses only lawful means; that is, it seeks redress or reparation from the authorities who have the right to give it and follows due process of law. this virtue differs, then, from private revenge, vendetta, lynch law, exercise of the "unwritten law," etc., which are acts of sinful violence, though sometimes subjectively excusable on account of ignorance. the virtue of vengeance is also exercised by those who desire that justice may be done against malefactors, or who visit upon them with moderation such punishments as are not forbidden to private persons (e.g., denial of friendship). parents also exercise this virtue whenever they properly correct and chastise their children. (d) vengeance has for its ends public and private justice, that is, the vindication of the right order of society or the compensation or satisfaction of an injured person. if some other good motive causes one to desire requital of evil deeds, the act will pertain to another virtue: thus, if one aims at the amendment of the evil-doer, one's act pertains to charity; if one desires by the deterrent of punishment to secure the peace and prosperity of the commonwealth, the act is one of legal justice; if one seeks the honor of god, the act is one of religion, etc. if an evil motive prompts the desire of punishment, the wish is not virtuous at all, but sinful. thus, he who labors to have a criminal captured, sentenced and executed, and whose intention is not the vindication of justice but the gratification of jealousy, hatred, cruelty or other like passion, sins grievously and perhaps makes himself worse than the criminal. to return evil for evil in this way is to be overcome by evil (rom., xii. - ). . the morality of vengeance.--(a) vengeance is lawful, since it pertains to justice, and our lord declares that it is found in the just and is approved by god (luke, xviii. ). it is, moreover, a special virtue, for it regulates the special natural inclination which moves man to attack what is harmful and injurious and has its own distinctive ends (see ). it is closely related to fortitude and zeal, which prepare the way for it; zeal, being a fervent love of god and man, inspires indignation against injustice, while fortitude removes the fear that might keep one back from attack on injustice. accidentally, however, on account of greater evils, vengeance is sometimes unlawful, as when it would involve the innocent with the guilty, or fall more heavily upon the less guilty (matt., xiii. , ). (b) vengeance is obligatory when an injury to oneself is also an injury to a public or other necessary good (e.g., to the rights of god or of the church). hence it was that elias and eliseus punished those who maltreated them (iv kings, i. sqq., ii. , ), that inspired writers pray god to punish the wicked (psalms xviii, xxxiv, lxviii, cviii, lxxviii, cxxxvi; jeremias, xi. , xvii, , xviii. , xx. ), and pope sylvester excommunicated those who sent him into exile. if an injury to oneself is merely personal, one should be willing to forego punishment of the guilty person, and should actually do so when this course is expedient, as our lord teaches in matthew, vi. , (see sqq.). when no necessity requires one to vindicate a personal wrong, the more perfect course is to pardon the wrong for the sake of god; for in avenging injuries to self there is always the danger of such evils as selfish motive, arrogance, hatred, scandal, and the loss of such goods as peace of mind, conversion of the other party, edification, and greater claim on god's forgiveness of self. hence, vengeance is called "a little virtue," since it is so often the less perfect way. . excess and defect.--punitive justice is a moral virtue and hence should be characterized by moderation as to all its circumstances. it should avoid the extremes of excess and defect. (a) the sin of excess here is cruelty, which in the quality or the quantity of the punishment offends human rights or surpasses the measure of the crime or the custom of the law. thus, it is immoral to associate young prisoners with hardened criminals, to deprive an offender of religious opportunities; it is inhuman to treat a human being as if he were a brute or less than a brute (e.g., by confinement in a loathsome dungeon, by overwork with starvation, by torture); it is unfair to use severe punishments unknown to law or custom, or whose rigor far surpasses the degree of offense. there is excess even in medicinal or reformatory penalties, if a higher good is sacrificed for a lower (e.g., the spiritual for the temporal, a major for a minor good quality), for then the remedy is worse than the disease. (b) the sin of defect in punishments is laxity, which rewards crime, or allows it to go unpunished, or imposes penalties which are agreeable to offenders, or not a deterrent, or not at all equal to the offense. scripture condemns this lenity when it declares that the parent who spares the rod spoils the child (prov., xiii. ). in weighing the gravity of a delinquency account should be taken of the fault itself, of the injury done and the scandal given. in the fault consideration must be had of the objective element (i.e., the nature and importance of the law violated), of the subjective element (i.e., the age, instruction, education, sex, and state of mind of the offender), of the circumstances (e.g., the time, the place, the persons involved, and the frequency). see canon . . circumstances of punitive justice.--(a) punishments that may be used.--punishment is virtuous only in so far as it restrains from evil those who cannot be restrained by love of virtue, but only by fear of penalty. hence, penalties should consist in the deprivation of goods that are more prized than the satisfactions obtained through delinquencies. both divine and human laws, therefore, have established as punishments the loss of a bodily good (e.g., by death, flogging, imprisonment) or of an external good (e.g., by exile, fine, infamy), the chief inducements to crime being found in bodily or external things. the extreme penalty of death should be reserved for extreme cases, and the other penalties should be suited to the crime, so as to remove the incentive or means (e.g., dishonesty should be punished by loss of goods, calumny by infamy, lust by pain, etc.). (b) persons who may be punished.--punishment again is virtuous only because it pertains to justice and rights the inequality caused by sin. accordingly, no one should be punished unless he has sinned or voluntarily transgressed. it is unlawful to punish the innocent for the guilty, or to punish an innocent person in order to keep him from future sins. it should be noted, however, that god inflicts temporal evils on the just for the sake of spiritual goods (e.g., that they may not become attached to this world, may have opportunities of merit, and may give good example); that one person may be punished for the sin of another when he associates himself with or approves of that sin, as when careless parents have bad children or careless subjects bad rulers (job, xxxiv. ; exod, xx. ); that for a sufficient reason an innocent person may be deprived of a good for which he is unfitted (e.g., ordination when one is irregular by defect) or to which he has no personal or absolute claim (e.g., the family property when it is lost to the children because the father is fined). . the virtue of truthfulness.--having treated the virtues of gratitude and vengeance, which deal with moral obligations caused by an act of the one owed, we now pass on to truthfulness, which is a moral obligation arising from the acts of the one owing in which he communicates with others. for he who speaks, writes, or otherwise manifests his mind to others puts himself under a duty of not deceiving. truthfulness or veracity is defined as "a moral virtue that inclines one duly and faithfully to express what is in one's mind." (a) it is a virtue, that is, a good habit, and so it differs from truth, which is the object of intellectual habits. thus, the first truth or god is the object of faith. truthfulness is not the object of a virtue, but it is a virtue. (b) it is a moral virtue. it deals with external things (viz., the words or signs by which we express our thoughts), and so it is not a theological virtue; moreover, though the knowledge of truth belongs to the intellect, the right manifestation of truth depends on a good will, and so truthfulness is not an intellectual virtue: the truthful man may be unlearned, but he loves honesty. (c) it regulates the expression of the mind, that is, the words, writing, gestures, conduct, and other external signs, so as to make them conformable to the mind which they stand for. truthfulness deals with internal things (e.g., when the speaker says that he has good health or is well disposed towards another) and with external things as they appear to the speaker (e.g., when he says that he is certain or believes that a report is accurate). (d) it is a faithful expression of what is in the mind or belief. hence, one may be truthful while making statements contrary to fact, or untruthful while making statements agreeable to facts, for truthfulness is sincerity, not correctness. (e) it is a due expression of one's mind or belief; that is, it is given when and where and as it should he given. a person who speaks out his mind on all occasions, with no regard for results, is not a liar, but he is at least imprudent, and he cannot be said to possess the virtue of truthfulness, for every virtue is prudent. examples of this are persons who unnecessarily indulge self-praise by telling their true virtues or perfections (prov., xxvii. ), or who vaingloriously or otherwise foolishly publish their true sins or imperfections (is. iii. ). . the excellence of truthfulness.--(a) truthfulness is a virtue, since it makes right use of language and other signs by employing them for the truth, and also serves society, which rests on the trust that men have in the words and promises of their fellow-men. st. paul admonishes the ephesians (iv. ) that each one speak the truth to his neighbor, since all are members of the other. (b) it is a moral virtue, preserving moderation in conversations and other interchanges of thought. this virtue sees that facts are neither exaggerated nor understated, that truth is not manifested when it should be concealed, nor concealed when it should be spoken. (c) it is a special virtue, for, while the other moral virtues regulate actions and external things, none of them except truthfulness regulates those objects precisely in their character of media or instruments for signifying and conveying thoughts, opinions, and decisions. and since a great part of human life is occupied in conference or correspondence with others, truthfulness is one of the most useful of the virtues and one whose exercise is most frequently called for. (d) it is a virtue annexed to justice. on the one hand, it is like justice, since it pays a debt which one social being owes another of speaking the truth; on the other hand, it falls short of justice, since the debt is moral, not legal. this is said of truthfulness in ordinary intercourse, for in judicial process and in contracts there is also a legal obligation of justice to tell the truth. . sincerity and fidelity.--two virtues that pertain to truthfulness are sincerity and fidelity. (a) sincerity (simplicity) is the virtue of one who is consistent with himself, avoiding duplicity and double dealing of every kind, such as lies, equivocations, sophistries, specious excuses, quibbles, dishonest shifts, distractions, concealments, and the like. (b) fidelity (loyalty) is the virtue of one who fulfills promises that are obligatory only in virtue of his word freely given. it differs from constancy, which is concerned not with promises but resolutions, and from virtues concerned with promises that are obligatory in virtue of legal debt, such as contracts, promissory oaths (see , , , ). fidelity makes an honest man's word as good as his bond, and it is therefore one of the most appreciated of virtues (matt., xxv. ; psalm xiv). horace calls it the sister of justice. . vices opposed to truthfulness.--(a) by defect one sins against truth through lying and breach of promise; (b) by excess one sins against truthfulness in violation of secret or other unjustifiable disclosures. . lying.--a lie is a word spoken with the purpose of stating what is not true. (a) it is said to be a word, by which is meant any external sign consisting in speech or its equivalent. a lie may be expressed by language, oral or written, by signs, by gestures, by insinuation, by expressive silence, by actions or conduct (see , ). (b) a lie is spoken, that is, expressed externally. but the guilt is found in the will, and hence those who plan lies are guilty of mendacity, even though they do not carry out their plans. (c) a lie is told with purpose; that is, there is a comparison by the intellect of the sign with the thing signified and a voluntary choice of the insufficient sign to be used. an infant or an unconscious person, therefore, may tell an untruth, but he cannot tell a lie. moreover, a person who has no good command of language or no clear understanding of a subject is not guilty of lying when in spite of his efforts to the contrary he gives misleading impressions. but those who do not think before they speak, or who use language carelessly or inaccurately, may be guilty of injustice and deception, or even of indirect lying. (d) the purpose of a lie is the statement of what is not true, or the pretense that what is not in one's mind is in one's mind. just as truth is the agreement of the word with the thought, so a lie is the disagreement of word with thought. but a lie need not be entirely false, and indeed one of the most dangerous of lies is what is known as a half-truth, in which some real facts are told in order to give support to pretended facts, or in which valid arguments are adduced to throw dust in the eyes as regards other arguments that are sophistical. . statements liable to misunderstanding or misinterpretation.--a word that sufficiently expresses one's idea is not a lie or a deception, even though another idea will be taken from it by a listener or is conveyed by its mere letter. (a) thus, misunderstanding due to defect, not of the speaker, but of the listener, does not make one's words untruthful, any more than it makes them scandalous (see ), as when the listener has not given attention to what was said (john, xxi. ). even a speech worded obscurely because the matter is obscure, or because the listener would be harmed by plainer speech (see ), is not mendacious but prudent. (b) misinterpretation to which a statement is open on account of its wording does not make the statement untruthful, if the context or circumstances sufficiently disclose the true meaning of the words. examples: hyperbolical, ironical or other metaphorical speech; words spoken in jest or in terms of customary politeness, such as "your most obedient servant", statements made inquiringly or hypothetically (e.g., when a judge or prosecutor accuses a defendant of crime in order to discover the truth; cfr. gen., xiii. ), or by way of mere quotation or of fictitious narrative (e.g., fairy tales, stories, reveries), or of disputation as in school debates exercised for the sake of practice in argumentation. it is not a lie to write under a pen-name, to speak according to the personality one represents (gen., xxxi. ; tob., v. ), to answer according to the mind of a questioner, as when a says to b: "have you seen your father?" meaning, "do you know where he is?" and b replies: "i have not seen him," meaning "i do not know where he is." lying contests, in which fishermen, sportsmen, etc., vie with one another to see who can tell the most incredible yarn or tall tale, are not in themselves sinful, but there may be circumstances (for example, scandal, deception, danger) that make them reprehensible. . divisions of lies.--(a) intrinsically, or in respect to its nature as a departure from the speaker's mind, every lie is either an exaggeration, which tells more than the truth, or a suppression, which tells less than the whole truth. he who affirms what he does not believe, or who states as certain what he thinks is uncertain, exaggerates; he who denies what he believes, or who states as doubtful what he holds as certain, is guilty of suppression. (b) extrinsically, or in respect to purpose, mode, and result, lies are of many kinds. as to mode, a lie is either spoken or acted, the former being a falsehood and the latter a simulation or hypocrisy. as to its immediate purpose, a lie is meant either to express falsehood only or to deceive, the former being misrepresentation and the latter deceit (e.g., if claudius knows that he calumniated and that sempronius heard the calumny, and yet brazenly denies the calumny to sempronius, there is misrepresentation); if claudius tries to mislead others who only suspect him and gives false alibis, there is deceit. as to its ulterior purpose, a lie is meant for good (an officious or jocose lie) or for evil (a pernicious lie), or is directed to both good and evil. as to its result, a lie sometimes produces and sometimes does not produce a statement at variance with fact; it sometimes deceives and sometimes does not deceive the auditors. . classification of lies.--every lie is harmful from its nature, since it tends to deceive others and so to disturb the good order of society. but the reason that moves persons to lie is not always evil, and hence we have the following classes of lies. (a) some lies are told for a good purpose, as when one lies in order to please (jocose lie) or to serve another (officious lie). jocose lies include all kinds of humorous and interesting narrations and descriptions meant only to afford pleasure, but given out as facts by one who does not believe them to be facts. untruths told in such a way (e.g., with a laugh or in a playful tone, especially if the auditors have a sense of humor) that it is clear they are not meant to be taken seriously, are not jocose lies or lies of any kind. officious lies are told with a view to assisting or accommodating a neighbor, that he may receive some good (e.g., to hold out false promises as an inducement to good conduct) or escape some evil (e.g., to fill the ears of a despondent man with false reports of good news in order to revive his spirits). it seems that we should regard as officious lies various statements made by jacob (gen., xxvii. ), david (i kings, xx. , xxi. , xxvii. ), and judith (x. xi. xii). (b) some lies are told for an evil purpose, as when one lies merely to indulge a propensity for falsehood or for the sheer pleasure of lying (lies of inclination), or when one lies to injure another person (pernicious lies). . motives for lying.--the motives for lying are not always simple, and it may happen that in one and the same lie there are several motives of different character. (a) thus, an officious lie is not always dictated by pure benevolence. it may be selfish (e.g., when one lies to conceal the delinquency of another in which one was involved), as well as altruistic (e.g., when the liar derives no benefit from the lie), or self-sacrificing (e.g., when the liar is put to expense, trouble or loss through his lie). (b) an officious lie may also be pernicious and jocose, for it may affect different persons in different ways. thus, if claudius calumniates julius in order to shield balbus from the bad opinion of caius, who does not know balbus, and to amuse sempronius who knows the truth, the lie is pernicious as regards julius, officious as regards balbus, and jocose as regards sempronius. . comparison of the gravity of various lies.--(a) lies of exaggeration are not worse as lies than lies of suppression, for in both cases the truth is departed from. but it is more imprudent to overstate than to understate, and in this sense the lie of exaggeration is worse. (b) lies are aggravated by the purpose to harm, and the greater the harm, the greater the sin. thus, the worst of all pernicious lies is that which is directed against god, as in false religious doctrine; and the lie that harms a man in spiritual goods is worse than a lie that harms in temporal things only. (c) lies are mitigated by the purpose to help, and the greater the good intended the less the sin. in other words, lies that are not pernicious are not so bad as pernicious lies, officious lies are less sinful than jocose lies, officious lies told for the sake of some great good are not so grave as those told for the sake of a lesser good. thus, it is a less evil to lie in order to save a man's life than to lie in order to take his life; it is less sinful to lie in order to spare another the shock of bad news than to lie for the sake of embellishing a tale; it is a less offense to lie in order to ward off a bodily harm than to lie in order to prevent a financial loss. . sinfulness of all lies.--but though lies are unequal in sinfulness, it remains that no lie, even the smallest (such as are called fibs or white lies), is ever justified, even by the greatest good (job, xiii. ), for a lie is intrinsically evil, and the end does not justify the means. (a) a lie is a sin, because it is an abuse of speech and other signs given by god for the manifestation of truth; because it is an unfriendly and unsocial act, tending to the disruption of kindly relations between men; because it is directly opposed to truth, the proper and distinctive good of the human mind. even the pagans have regarded liars with contempt and considered lies as disgraceful, and even those who lay no claim to virtue feel gravely insulted if called liars. in many places the scriptures forbid lying (exod., xxiii. ; levit., xix. ; prov., xii. ; ecclus., xx. ; col., iii. ), and st. paul especially (eph., iv. ) is very clear on this point: "putting away lying, speak ye the truth every man with his neighbor, for we are members one of another." the fathers and the theologians are generally agreed that no necessity, not even the danger of death, excuses a lie, any more than it excuses theft or adultery. if god could approve of even one lie, would not that approval undermine our faith in his own veracity? surely we have no implicit confidence in one who helps to deceive us even in a small matter. (b) a lie, considered precisely as a lie, seems from its nature to be only a venial sin, for the disorder of using signs against one's mind is not serious, and the harm done society by mere denial of truth is not necessarily grave (the case would be otherwise if truth could be denied on principle as a lawful thing). even pious persons do not regard harmless lies as very sinful (see , ). hence, as jocose and officious lies have no other malice than that of untruthfulness and as the malice is lessened by the intention, they are generally venial; but some extrinsic circumstance (such as scandal, the fact that one lies habitually and without scruple, or disastrous results) may render them mortal. pernicious lies have another malice besides that of untruthfulness, and accordingly the case with them is different. . when lying entails no formal sin.--lies are sometimes free from all formal sin on account of ignorance (as in the case of children or uninstructed persons, who think they may use lies in case of great difficulty) or on account of irresponsibility (as in the case of certain defectives who seem to be born liars). . pernicious lies.--pernicious lies are mortal sins from their nature, but may become venial from the imperfection of the act or the lightness of the matter. for a pernicious lie sins not against truth only, but also against justice or charity. hence, it is said that the liar destroys his own soul (wis., i. ), that a lie is abominated and hated by the lord (prov., vi. , xii. ), that it has the devil for its father (john, viii. ), that it brings down divine vengeance (ps. v. ) and will receive its portion in the pool of fire and brimstone (apoc., xxi. ). this sin is committed in two ways, as follows: (a) a lie is pernicious when its matter is harmful, as being contrary to sound doctrine, good morals or true science. hence, a preacher sins gravely if the substance of his pulpit teaching is mendacious (e.g., if in a sermon he enunciates or defends erroneous principles of conduct), venially if he lies about accidentals (e.g., if he gives the wrong chapter or verse for a text); a scientist, a physician, a jurist, or the like is similarly guilty of a pernicious lie when he misleads the public by unreliable information. a penitent in the confessional and a witness in court lie perniciously if their statements about relevant matters are untrue, for the one injures the sacrament and the other injures public justice; but if the lie is about some matter of slight importance, the sin is venial, unless there is no other matter in the confession, or the testimony is under oath; (b) a lie is also pernicious when the intention of the liar is to injure god or his neighbor, even though the matter itself is not opposed to true doctrine or is not official testimony. examples are found in those who lie in a humorous way in order to injure or sadden others. . concealment of the truth.--truthfulness is offended not only by the declaration of falsity (i.e., of what is not in the mind), but also by the unlawful concealment of the truth (i.e., of what is in the mind). the truth is concealed either negatively or positively. (a) there is negative concealment of the truth, when one has recourse to silence or evasion. everyone admits that this kind of concealment is lawful when there is no obligation to give information, or when there is an obligation not to give it. thus, a person who is besieged by newspaper reporters does not feel obligated to answer all their questions; a person who is interrogated by curious individuals about his business or financial affairs, does not feel guilty if he evades their questions by changing the subject, or by asking them similar questions, or by putting them off till a more convenient time, etc. (b) there is positive concealment of the truth, when one gives a reply in language that is obscure to the listener or obscure in itself. if the listener has no right to the truth, it is not wrong to speak to him in words which he will not understand (e.g., in technical or scientific terms); for if he is deceived, he can blame only his own impertinence or dullness. the case is more difficult, however, if the reply is obscure in itself, that is, if use is made of ambiguity or mental reservation. . mental reservation.--mental reservation is an act of the mind by which a speaker restricts or limits his words to a meaning which they do not naturally or clearly convey; or it is an internal modification of an external speech delivered without any or without clear external modification. there are two kinds of mental reservation. (a) strict mental reservation is that in which the internal modification is manifested by nothing external, neither by the natural sense of the words (i.e., the meaning that ordinarily attaches to them) nor by their accidental sense (i.e., the meaning they receive from their context, such as the circumstances of time, place, usage, person who questions, person who is questioned, etc.). example: titus, who struck balbus with a club, denies that he hit him, meaning that it was the club which hit balbus directly. (b) broad mental reservation is that in which the internal modification can be perceived, at least by a prudent person, either from the natural sense of the words (because they are known to be capable of different meanings), or from the context (because circumstances indicate that the words are not to be taken in their obvious sense). example: claudius accidentally ran against and wounded sempronius and the latter thinks that someone struck him a blow. claudius denies that he struck sempronius, or declares to those who have no right to ask that he knows nothing about the matter. . lawfulness of mental reservation.--(a) strict mental reservation is unlawful and has been condemned by the church (see denzinger, nn. - ). the reasons are, first, that it is a lie, since it employs words that do not at all express what the speaker has in mind, and his mental reservation cannot give them a significance they do not possess; secondly, that, if it were lawful, every dishonest person could easily escape the guilt of lying and yet deceive at will. according to scripture the sophistical speaker is hateful (ecclus., xxxvii. ), but the just man speaks and swears without guile (ps. xxxiii. , xxiii. ). (b) broad mental reservation is unlawful when there is a reason that forbids its use, or when there is no sufficient reason to justify its use. reservation is forbidden when a questioner has the right to an answer free from all ambiguity, for example, when a pastor questions parties preparing for marriage, when a person who is about to be inducted into office is asked about his freedom from disqualifications, when a witness in court is interrogated about matters on which he can testify, when one party to a contract seeks from the other necessary knowledge about the contract; for in all these cases injury is done by concealment of the truth. reservation is not justified, unless it is necessary in order to secure some good or avoid some evil, whether spiritual or temporal, whether for self or for another, and the end compensates by its importance for the deception that may be caused. apart from such necessity mental reservation is, to say the least, a departure from the virtue of christian sincerity or simplicity, which pertains to truthfulness and which forbids one to conceal the truth from others when there is no good reason for concealment (matt, v. ). moreover, the friendly relations of mankind would be impaired if it were lawful to speak equivocally even when trifling things are discussed or when there is no reason to be secretive. (c) broad mental reservation is lawful when there is a sufficient reason for it, such as the public welfare (e. g., the preservation of state secrets or of military plans), spiritual welfare (e.g., the prevention of blasphemy or intoxication), bodily welfare (e.g., the prevention of death or murder), or financial welfare (e.g., the prevention of robbery). but the reservation must be necessary, as being the only lawful means that will secure the end (e.g., one should not use reservation when evasion or silence will suffice); and it should not be injurious to the rights of another (e.g., it should not be employed against the common good, in favor of a private good). the reason for the present conclusion is found in the principle of double result (see sqq.) and in the fact that a broad mental reservation is not intrinsically evil, since it contains no lie or insincerity and causes no injury to individuals or society. there is no lie, because the words correspond with the thought, either from their natural signification (in case of double-meaning words), or from their accidental signification (in case of words whose meaning is varied by the context); there is no insincerity, for the aim is only to conceal a truth that should not be made known; there is no injury to the listener or questioner, since, if he is deceived, this is due to his own heedlessness or dullness or unjustified curiosity; there is no injury to society, since the general welfare demands that there be some honest means of eluding unjust inquiries and of protecting important secrets. our lord himself, who is infinitely above all suspicion of duplicity or insincerity, may have used broad mental reservations when he declared (john, vii. - ) that he would not go up to jerusalem, that the daughter of jairus was not dead but sleeping (matt., ix. ). other cases of mental reservation in scripture are found in eliseus (iv kings, vi. ). . when is broad mental reservation lawful?--there is general agreement that broad mental reservation is lawful in the following cases: (a) it is lawful and obligatory when one is bound to keep the truth from the person who asks it. hence, those who are questioned about secrets which sacramental or professional confidence forbids them to disclose (e.g., confessors, doctors, lawyers, statesmen, and secretaries) should deny knowledge, or, if hard-pressed, even the facts. the answer, "i do not know" or "no," in these cases simply means: "i have no personal or communicable knowledge." in war time a government has the right to censor the news in order to keep information from the enemy. a reason of charity might also make it obligatory to disguise the truth by mental reservation (e.g., when a clear reply given to the question of a sick person would only weaken a slender hope of saving his life, or when exact information given to a gunman would enable him to overtake an intended victim); (b) it is lawful when a reasonable local custom permits one to withhold the truth. thus, an accused person, even though guilty, has the right to plead not guilty, which means that he does not confess guilt; a person who has a visitor at an unseasonable hour may send word that he is not at home, which means that she is not at home to visitors, a person who is asked for an alms or a loan which he cannot conveniently grant may answer, according to many, that he has not the money, which means that he has no money to spare for those purposes (see ). . ambiguous answers.--are ambiguous answers which are not given according to the questioner's mind, and for which there are no reasonable justifications, to be classed as lies? (a) if the answer, even in the setting of its context, retains its ambiguity or can be interpreted in two ways, there is not strictly speaking a lie, for the words signify, though obscurely, what is in the speaker's mind. but this is a form of insincerity known as equivocation or quibbling, which many regard almost as disreputable as plain lying. the pagan oracles that made predictions that would suit any turn of events and politicians who so word themselves as to be on opposite sides at the same time are examples of equivocation. (b) if the answer, though verbally susceptible of two senses, is contextually limited to one sense, it is a lie; for it does not express the speaker's mind. thus, if titus knows that balbus is good physically or mentally but not morally, he equivocates by answering that balbus is good, if from the circumstances this indicates only that in some way or other balbus is good; but titus lies by answering that balbus is good and restricting his meaning to physical goodness or industry, if the question propounded referred to moral goodness. . simulation or pretence.--a special form of untruthfulness is simulation or pretence, which uses external deeds or things to signify the contrary of what one thinks or intends internally. (a) simulation uses external deeds or things, and thus there is an accidental difference between lying and simulation, the one being untruthfulness in word and the other untruthfulness in deed (see sqq.). (b) it employs deeds or things to signify. unlike words, deeds and things were not meant principally to signify, and hence not all conduct at variance with one's ideas is simulation. one may act without any thought of the impression the act makes on others (e.g., when one keeps sober, not from wish, but from necessity). and even when an act is done with the intention to influence others by it, the purpose may be, not to signify, but to conceal something (e.g., josue fled from the troops of hai to keep them from a knowledge of his plans, jos., viii. sqq.; david feigned insanity to conceal his identity, i kings, xxi. . sqq.). thus, simulation teaches error, and dissimulation hides truth from those who have no right to it. that dissimulation is generally recognized as lawful is seen from such examples as stratagems, ambushes, camouflage in war, disguises in detective work, and concealment of marriage by couples not ready for housekeeping. (c) it signifies the contrary of what one has in mind, as when one who is sad laughs and jokes to make others think he is happy, or one who is well apes the actions of a sick man so as to appear unwell, or when one who hates his neighbor treats him as a friend in public. a special form of simulation is hypocrisy, which makes a show of virtue that one does not possess at all or in the degree pretended. there is no simulation if the exterior corresponds with what one has is mind, for example, at emmaus christ made as though he would go farther (luke, xxiv. ), but he meant not to stop without an invitation. . the sinfulness of simulation.--(a) in general, simulation is a sin, since it is nothing else than an acted lie. but deeds, with the few exceptions of bows, nods, gestures and the like, are not from their nature signs of thoughts, and those employed to serve as signs are more indeterminate and equivocal than words; hence, it is not always as easy to decide that an act is simulatory as to decide that a word is a lie. thus, it is not simulation to make use of false hair, false teeth, or false jewelry as means of protection or of adornment, there being no intention to mislead; neither is it simulation for a wicked cleric to wear the clerical garb, for the dress signifies primarily his state, and not necessarily his personal moral character. (b) in particular, simulation by hypocrisy and treachery is detestable; for hypocrisy prostitutes works of virtue to the ignoble ends of applause or lucre or worse, while treachery uses the intimacy or marks of friendship as means for betrayal. the most stinging rebukes of our lord were given the hypocritical pharisees ("blind guides, whited sepulchres, serpents, generation of vipers," matt., xxiii. sqq.), and among the saddest words of christ are those addressed to judas ("dost thou betray the son of man with a kiss?" luke, xxii. ). against the former he pronounced woes, and he declared that it were better if the latter had never been born (matt., xxvi. ). . sinfulness of hypocrisy.--(a) hypocrisy in its strictest sense is the simulation of one who wishes to seem but not to be virtuous. this sin is mortal, since it cares nothing for virtue, and its external pretense is but a mockery. it is this hypocrisy that is so scathingly denounced in scripture. (b) hypocrisy in a less strict sense is the simulation of one who is in mortal sin, but wishes for some reason to appear virtuous or to lead a double life. the sin is mortal or venial according to the motive; for example, to act the hypocrite in order to seduce another is a mortal sin, though, if the motive is only vanity, the sin is venial. it should be noted that it is not hypocrisy for a just cause to conceal one's sin by dissimulation; indeed, isaias severely blames those who scandalize others by flaunting their wickedness before the public (is, iii. ). (c) hypocrisy in the widest sense assumes the appearance of a high degree of sanctity above that requisite for salvation, as when a person of ordinary goodness tries to gain the reputation of miracle-worker, or to pass as one better than others in faith, zeal, humility, etc. this sin is not mortal in itself, but it may become mortal on account of some motive, some means, or some other circumstance. there is no hypocrisy at all, however, in showing oneself for the virtue one really has; on the contrary, he lies, who being good pretends that he is not good, or who being free of a vice pretends that he is guilty of it. . self-glorification and self-depreciation.--two forms of lying about self are self-glorification and self-depreciation. (a) braggadocio is untruthful self-glorification, as when one pretends to be of royal descent, or makes a display of wealth beyond one's means, or poses as an authority on matters of which one is ignorant, or tries by bluff to make one's defects seem perfections. this sin is mortal when the lie is seriously injurious to god or others (ezech., xxviii. , luke, xviii. ), or when the motive is gravely sinful, such as grave arrogance, ambition, or avarice. (b) feigning of defects (irony) is untruthful self-depreciation, as when one falsely denies a good quality which one possesses (e.g., an excessively humble man denies the good deeds that others ascribe to him, though he knows they are real), or when one falsely admits a bad quality which one lacks (e.g., a person who wishes to curry favor accuses himself of misdeeds which he knows never happened). this sin is usually less than braggadocio, since as a rule its purpose is to avoid offense to others; but it may be serious sin on account of some circumstance, as when one speaks ill of self in order to scandalize or seduce another. at times the feigning of defects is a concealed braggadocio, as when one dresses in rags, hoping by this expedient to acquire repute as a person of great spirituality (prov., xxvi, ; matt., vi. ; ecclus., xix. ). . infidelity and violation of a secret.--it remains to speak of the vices of infidelity and violation of secret (see a). as to the former, since it has been discussed elsewhere ( sqq., , ; see also the matter on promissory oaths), it will suffice here to ask the question: is the breach of a promise freely given a sin? (a) if observance of the promise is due from fidelity only, there is no legal fault, but there is moral fault, and hence the breach of the promise is a sin. the malice is essentially the same as that of untruthfulness (see ), for both the liar and the promise-breaker show themselves unreliable, the former because his words do not square with his mind and the latter because his deeds do not live up to his plighted word. breach of promise, then, seems _per se_ to be a venial sin, though there are often circumstances (such as damage done) that make it mortal. (b) if observance of the promise is not due even from fidelity, on account of the presence of some defect, there is no moral obligation to keep the promise and no sin is committed by not keeping it. the defects referred to are such as make the promise lack force from the beginning (e.g., if it was immoral or extorted by force), or deprive it of the force it had (i.e., inability on the part of the promisor or loss of right on the part of the promisee). the promisor is unable to keep the promise, if the thing promised has become physically impossible (e.g., he no longer has the strength or the means to perform what he promised), or morally impossible (e.g., the thing promised has become unlawful, or a notable change has taken place which, could it have been foreseen, would have prevented the promise). the promisee loses his right if the sole or principal reason that dictated the promise has ceased, or if the promise has become useless to the promisee, or if the promisor has been released, or if the promisee forfeits his claim by his own perfidy towards the promisor (see sqq., ). . definition of a secret.--a secret is a matter (e.g., an invention, valuable information, concealed virtues, the fact that a crime has been committed) known privately by only one person or by so few that it is neither public property nor notorious. moralists distinguish the following kinds of secrets: (a) a natural secret, which is one that cannot be revealed without causing injury or annoyance to another, as when the revelation will harm a person in his reputation, honor, influence property. it is called natural for it arises from the very nature of the matter of the secret and not from any promise or contract. (b) a promised secret, which is one that a person has promised, but only after he had already learned it, to guard inviolate. it makes no difference whether the promisor learned the secret from the promisee or from some other source; (c) an entrusted or committed secret, which is one that a person promised (and before he learned it) to keep from others. the promise here is either implicit or explicit. an implicit promise of secrecy is one that is demanded by the confidential nature of communications between two parties (professional secret), as when physicians, lawyers, priests, parents, or friends are told of private matters on account of their position or relationship. an explicit promise is one that is given in express terms, as when a says to b: "i have a matter of great importance to tell you, but you must first promise that you will keep it secret"; and on b promising, a confides to him the secret. . sinfulness of violating a. secret.--a secret is the property of its owner, and to it he has a strict right; for if it is a good secret (such as an original idea or discovery), it is the product of his labor or at least a possession which he has lawfully come by; if it is an evil secret (such as a crime of which he has been guilty), it may not be made known without infringing on his right of reputation. it is no more lawful to violate the right to a secret than to violate the right to property, and, as there are three kinds of injuries to property, so there are three kinds of injuries to a secret. (a) thus, the right of possession is injured by those who by fraud or force or other illegal means deprive another of his secret (e.g., by secretly intercepting private letters, by making a person drunk in order to learn a secret). (b) the right of use is injured by those who on acquiring knowledge of a secret guide themselves or others by it to the detriment of the owner's rights. (c) the right of disposition is injured by those who reveal a secret which they were obliged not to reveal. . prying into others' secrets.--to seek to discover the secrets of others is not lawful unless the following conditions are present: (a) one must have a right to the knowledge. hence, if there is question about a crime that has been committed or that is about to be committed, one has a right to investigate in order to prevent harm to public or private good; in war one may try to discover the plans of the enemy. but it is not lawful to pry into purely personal matters, to fish from others natural or confidential secrets which they are bound to keep, to steal from another the thoughts, plans, inventions, etc, which are his own; (b) one must use only honest means to discover secrets to which one has a right ( ). thus, it does not seem lawful generally to inebriate another in order to learn his secret, and it is certainly sinful to resort to lies or simulation or immorality. . reading another's letters or papers.--when is it lawful to read the letters or other papers of another person? (a) this is lawful when the writings are not intended to be secret to anyone, as when a circular is meant for public use, when greetings are written on a postcard which all may read, and when a letter is left open and thrown away or otherwise abandoned. but a sealed letter, or one left open in a private room, or one lost in a public place, is secret. if a letter or manuscript has been torn up by its owner and thrown away on the street or other public place, it does not seem lawful to piece the fragments together and read the writing, for, though the paper has been abandoned, the owner by destroying it has indicated his will to keep the contents secret. (b) it is also lawful to read the writing of others that are not secret as regards oneself, as when one has received a just permission from the writer to peruse a letter written by him, or when one may presume such permission on account of friendship with the writer, or when rule or lawful custom gives the superior of an institution the right to inspect the correspondence of his subjects. exception must be made for exempted matter for which there is no permission, such as letters containing conscience matters and letters directed to higher religious superiors (see canon ). (c) it is also lawful to read the writings of others that are meant to be secret, if one has a right to know what is in them: for in such a case the owner would be unreasonable if he wished to exclude one from the knowledge. thus, the public authority (e.g., in time of war) has the right to open and read letters and private papers, when this is necessary for the common good; parents and heads of boarding schools may examine the correspondence of their subjects, though parents should respect conscience matter and others should not read family secrets; private individuals have the natural right, as a measure of self-defense, to read another's letter, when there is a prudent reason for thinking that it contains something gravely and unjustly harmful to themselves (such as conspiracy, a trap, calumny). . lawfulness of utilizing knowledge of secret.--one is said to use the knowledge obtained from a secret when one guides one's conduct by the knowledge, doing or omitting what one would not otherwise do or omit. is this use of a secret lawful? (a) if there was a promise not to use the secret, such use is unlawful (see ). breach of promise is then, in case of a merely promised secret, an act of infidelity at least, and in case of an entrusted secret an act of injustice. thus, when one consults a professional person, there is a tacit understanding that the knowledge communicated will not be used against one's interests or without one's consent, and hence a lawyer would be unjust if, on learning in the course of work for a client that the latter's business was not prosperous, he gave word of this to one of the client's creditors. (b) if there was no promise not to use the secret, the use of it is nevertheless unjust, if it infringes a strict right (e.g., to make money from a secret process on which another has a patent, to get knowledge of another's information and plans through reading his letters and thereby to prevent him from securing a vacant position), or if it is equivalent to unjust revelation of a secret. the use is uneharitable if it harms another person without necessity (e.g., to take away one's trade from a deserving merchant solely because one has learned that on one occasion he was accidentally intoxicated). (c) if there was no promise to avoid use and no harm will be done by use, it is lawful to use a secret for a non-necessary good (e.g., to raise the price on one's property when one accidentally learns through overhearing a secret conversation that the property is worth the higher price), and it is obligatory to use it for a necessary good (e.g., to assist a neighbor when one is told under secret that he is in dire need of one's charitable help). even though harm will result to another by use of the secret, use is not sinful if it infringes no right and could be sacrificed only at great inconvenience to oneself, as when one has discovered by one's own industry some important truth in an art or science which another had previously discovered but had neglected to make his own by exclusive right, or when one learns under secret that another person is one's enemy and has to be watched and avoided. . the sin committed by stealing or unduly using the secret of another.--(a) from its nature (cases of mere fidelity excepted) the sin is mortal, as being a violation of commutative justice or of charity. injury to property rights, whether in goods or in knowledge, is violation of a strict right (see , ). the sin is aggravated by the greater import of the secret or by the greater damages or displeasure caused. (b) from the imperfection of the act or the lightness of the matter the sin may become venial, as when one thoughtlessly reads another person's letters, or opens correspondence without authority, feeling morally sure that there is nothing confidential in it, or makes use of an unimportant secret without permission. . the obligation of keeping a secret.--(a) the natural secret obliges _per se_ under grave sin; for violation of it offends charity and justice by saddening and harming a neighbor. the sin may become venial on account of lightness of matter, as when little sadness or harm is caused. (b) the promised secret obliges ordinarily under light sin only; for as a rule the promisor intends to obligate himself in virtue of fidelity alone ( ), and the obligation of fidelity, as said above (see ), is not grave. but exceptionally the obligation may be grave, as when the promisor intended to bind himself in virtue of justice and under grave sin, or when the secret is natural as well as promised. (c) the entrusted secret obliges _per se_ under grave sin; for there is a duty of commutative and of legal justice to keep it, on account of the rights of contract and of the common good that are involved. the violator of an entrusted secret injures private good by disregard for contract, and he injures public good by weakening confidence in officials or professional persons to whom others must go for advice or assistance. violation of a committed secret may be only a venial sin on account of the lightness of the matter. thus, some think it is not a serious injustice to reveal a secret to one very discreet person, if the person whose secret is made known is not very much opposed to this and no other damage will result (see ). . comparison of secrets as regards binding force.--(a) the promised secret obliges less than the natural or the entrusted, as was said in the previous paragraph. (b) the natural secret obliges less _per se_ than the entrusted secret, for the safeguarding of the latter is agreed to in an onerous contract, while no engagement is made to keep the former. (c) some entrusted secrets are more sacred than others. thus, a secret confided from necessity is more binding than one confided without necessity; a secret one has sworn to keep is more obligatory than a secret one has given one's word of honor to keep; a professional secret is more imperious than a private secret; a state secret is far more important than any secret of private individuals. the most inviolable of all secrets is that of the confessional, because its violation is always a sacrilege. . cases wherein it is not necessary to keep a secret.--(a) if there has been no obligation from the time the secret was learned, it is not necessary to keep it. thus, if a merely promised secret was accepted under compulsion and revelation will be advantageous and not harmful, it does not seem necessary to keep the secret. (b) if the obligation of the secret has ceased, it is not necessary to be silent. examples are cases in which secrecy was promised only for a certain space of time, or in which a matter formerly secret has become public, or in which the owner of the secret wishes it to be divulged, or in which he has not kept faith with the possessor of the secret, provided of course that in these cases no injury or unnecessary harm is done by making known the secret. similarly, if the recipient of the secret cannot keep it without grave harm (e.g., death) to himself, he is not bound by it, unless charity (see , ) or justice calls for the contrary. commutative justice would demand silence (though many make exception for a most grave reason, regarding a promise to the contrary as prodigal) if there had been an express contract to guard the secret at all risks; legal justice would demand it, if the safety of the republic were involved. . cases wherein it is not lawful to keep a secret.--(a) if a secret cannot be kept without greater harm to the common good, it may not be kept, for legal justice requires that private good be subordinated to public safety. the violation of secrets is a harm to the public good and a greater harm than ordinary evils against the community (such as the escape of a guilty person); but it is a less harm than serious evils against the people (such as menace to public health, sedition, or treason). the possessor of a natural or promised secret must make it known at the command of lawful authority, as in court; but the superior has no right to question about entrusted secrets of a necessary kind, and this is usually recognized by positive law in the protection extended to professional communications. (b) if a secret cannot be kept without greater harm to the private good of the owner of the secret, distinction is made between a non-entrusted and an entrusted secret. in the former case the secret may not be kept, for charity bids one to help a neighbor escape a greater evil, and the owner of the secret would be unreasonable if he were opposed to its revelation (see sqq.). in the latter case, some are of the opinion that the secret should be kept, if it is professional (since the public good then takes precedence over the private good of the owner of the secret), but this is denied by others. example: titus knows that balbus is about to marry with a secret impediment that will nullify the marriage, but he cannot persuade balbus to disclose this impediment to the pastor. (c) if a secret cannot be kept without greater harm to the private good of a third party (i.e., one other than the owner of the secret), distinction is made between cases, according as injury is or is not done by the owner of the secret to the third party. if no injury is done the third party, the secret should be kept (e.g., if one knows in confidence that sempronius has made an invention which will supersede an invention made by claudius, one is not at liberty to make this known to the latter, for sempronius has done no injury to claudius). if, however, injury is done the third party by the owner of the secret when the secret is kept, one should not keep the secret; for charity requires that one help an innocent person to escape from harm, even if this has to be done at the expense of harm to the guilty cause of the harm. examples: if one knows as a secret that a, b and c have conspired to murder d tomorrow night, and one cannot otherwise prevent the murder, one should if possible break the secret, at least by sending warning to d that his life is in danger tomorrow night. if a doctor knows that a man who is about to contract marriage is syphilitic and pretends that he is sound, and if the doctor cannot persuade this man to make the facts known to the intended wife, the doctor himself should give notice to the woman, according to some authorities, unless the laws of the country forbid such use of professional knowledge. . what should the possessor of an entrusted secret do, if from the secret he knows that the one who entrusted it is guilty of a crime for which an innocent third person is about to be convicted and sentenced? (a) if the guilty party is responsible for the plight of the innocent party (e.g., because he falsely accused him or threw suspicion on him), natural law would require the possessor of the secret to make known the true state of affairs; for the guilty party is then the unjust cause of damage and is bound to accuse himself (see ). revelation of the true culprit would not be necessary, however, if there was some other way of saving the innocent person. (b) if the guilty person is not responsible for the difficulty in which the innocent person finds himself, not having used any means to bring the latter into suspicion, some believe that the secret should be kept, since the guilty person has then the right to keep his secret and therefore has also the right that his confidants keep it (see ). but others, while granting that the guilty person is not obliged to accuse himself, deny that the confidant is not obliged to accuse him; for the right of the guilty that his secret be kept and the right of the innocent that he be not deprived of life or liberty are in conflict and unequal, and he who prefers the former right does an injury to the innocent person (see ). . the previous question was concerned with an innocent third party. if the holder of the secret is also the accused, it seems he is not obliged, unless perhaps when he agreed to it, to prefer the inviolability of the secret to his own justification; for the acceptance of a secret does not mean that one binds oneself to grave hardship for its preservation (see ). the thing to do would be to warn the guilty person to escape in time, and then to exculpate oneself by making known the truth. . lawfulness of revealing a secret learned by stealth or force.--is it lawful, in order to avert some great evil, to use or reveal against the interests or wishes of its owner a secret which one has learned by stealth (e.g., by spying, eavesdropping, wiretapping, unauthorized inspection of papers) or by force? various answers are given to this question, but to us the following seems the best: (a) if the stealth or force would not be unjust here and now, because the owner of the secret has a duty to disclose it (e.g., on account of the public good, on account of the extreme need of a private person), or the other party has a right to seek after it (e.g., because he cannot otherwise defend himself against the unjust vexation of the owner of the secret), the answer is in the affirmative; for in such a case there is only applied the principle of lawful occupation or of lawful self-defense (see sqq., ). but if the stealth or force is excessive in its manner or productive of unnecessary harm, it is sinful and induces the duty of restitution, nor is there any right to make such use or such revelation of a secret as is sinful in itself (e.g., on account of calumnies, scandals, disorders); (b) if the stealth or force would be unjust here and now, the answer is in the negative; for in such a case there is real theft of a secret, a person's most intimate possession, and a continuation of the original injury by the use of the stolen property against its owner, or at least an unlawful conversion of property. hence, if there is no grave or proportionate reason for the use of the secret, or if other and simpler methods can be employed, the secret may not be used. those who play the detective ostensibly for other reasons but really for purposes of blackmail or other personal advantage, are therefore in the same class as thieves and are bound to restitution; their sin is _per se_ mortal, for secrets are usually esteemed more highly than money, and it would be seriously detrimental to the public weal if the practice of using secrets unlawfully obtained (e.g., by secretly taking down privileged communications or state secrets) were permissible. . the virtues of affability and liberality.--these two virtues, though they are not so important as those that preceded, are still most useful to human life (see ). affability (friendliness, politeness) is a virtue which inclines a person to show himself in serious matters properly agreeable to others in order thus to fulfill a duty to society. (a) affability has for its object to be agreeable to others, that is, in looks, manner, words and deeds to treat them with kindness and consideration, and so to give them pleasure. affability is more than mere civility, which avoids rudeness and observes necessary proprieties, but does not manifest a gracious spirit. the gentleman, according to cardinal newman ("idea of a university," discourse viii, ), is one who does not inflict pain and whose great concern is to make others at their ease and at home. the true gentleman is considerate for all his company, guards against unseasonable allusions or topics, is seldom prominent in conversation and never wearisome, makes light of his own favors, never speaks of himself except when compelled, avoids personalities and insinuations of evil, and is indulgent towards opponents. (b) affability is as agreeable as is becoming, or proper; that is, it observes the golden mean, attending to moderation and circumstances, suiting its deportment to the time, place, occasion, and persons and observing the recognized laws of etiquette for social, official, business, religious, domestic and other relations. indeed, there are times when affability should not be shown, as when it is necessary to display severity and displeasure, or even to sadden others, for the sake of some higher good (ii cor., vii. , ). (c) its purpose is to fulfill a social duty. without affability the ways of life are made rougher and more difficult for all, and therefore, since man is a social being, it becomes obligatory that each one should so conduct himself towards others as to avoid the displeasing and to cultivate the pleasing. thus, affability is less than friendship (see ), since it does not include special benevolence and is shown to friend and foe alike; but it is more than polish, for it consists not merely in external good manners but chiefly in an internal sense of responsibility to society and of deference to its requirements. affability is at its best, however, when prompted by friendship and christian charity. a modicum of courtesy, if accompanied by sincerity and goodness of heart, is more appreciated than profuse compliment and ceremony behind which there is little genuineness or little affection. (d) affability regulates conduct in serious matters, for the regulation of amusements or recreations pertain chiefly to modesty and falls under temperance rather than justice. aristotle calls the virtue directive of games _eutrapelia_, which may also be called reasonable relaxation, urbanity, or pleasantness. . offices of affability.--all, and especially the clergy, should practise courtesy, imitating st. paul, who became all things to all men, in order to gain all to christ (i cor., ix. ), and following his advice to be without offense to jew or gentile or to the church of god (i cor., x. ). the offices of affability can be reduced to the negative and the positive, as follows: (a) the negative offices are the avoidance of excess (adulation) and defect (surliness); (b) the positive offices are the observance on special occasions of the appropriate forms and usages and on all occasions the exercise of a gentle and thoughtful regard for the feelings of others. . the sins against affability.--(a) adulation is the vice of those who in the effort to please others go beyond what is proper, of the complaisant man who aims to gratify by merely conventional or extravagant compliments, and of the flatterer who seeks to win favors for himself by expressions of fulsome admiration. adulation is shown by exaggerated debasement of self (servility, obsequiousness), as well as by exaggerated exaltation of others (toadyism). the sin of adulation is not grave from its nature, being only an excessive will to please; but circumstances sometimes make it grave, such as its matter (e.g., when one compliments another's sins, is., v. ), its effect (e.g., when the person flattered will be made proud), or its purpose (e.g., when the flatterer means to seduce the other person, prov., xxvii. ). like to adulation in its exaggeration, but unlike it in manner, is the display of friendliness by offensive familiarity or boisterous conduct. (b) surliness is the sin of those who are ungracious in their manners, not because of hate or anger, but because of a desire to be unpleasant and to make others yield to themselves. the surly man is always ready to contradict or argue, he is hard to please, sensitive, sour in visage, gruff in words, and much given to complaint or sullen silence. surliness is _per se_ worse than adulation but not a mortal sin; for it is farther removed from affability than adulation, but does not necessarily inflict a severe wound on charity. but the smooth palaverer is usually a more dangerous character than the morose man (ps. cxl. ). like to surliness is the boorishness of those who from cynicism or laziness despise refinement, or from greed neglect proper manners at table. but entirely different from surliness is that dignity which can be reserved without being distant or hard of approach, and that seriousness which can be grave or silent without being ungracious. . liberality.--liberality is a virtue that moderates the love of riches and inclines one in ordinary affairs to bestow one's own goods upon others willingly, when and as right reason may dictate. (a) it moderates the love of riches; that is, it makes one value and esteem money at its true worth. in this respect it pertains at least improperly to temperance inasmuch as the love of money is a passion. liberality is thus distinguished from mercy and beneficence. these virtues are open-handed from charity, and give because another is in need or is loved; liberality, on the contrary, may be without charity and its bounty may be shown even to those who are not in need or who are not liked, for it is free in using money precisely because it does not prize external things excessively. (b) it inclines one to bestow one's own possessions, or freely to communicate them. in this respect liberality is assigned to justice, since its object is external things as owed by a certain moral debt to others. since liberality consists primarily in a generous inclination, even the poor may have this virtue; in fact, the poor oftentimes, being less wedded to money, are far more disposed to liberality than the rich. (c) it functions in ordinary affairs, for there is a special virtue of magnificence that makes wealthy men spend money lavishly in enterprise of the greatest moment. (d) the beneficiary of liberality is another, for no special virtue is needed to make one use money freely for one's own needs or comfort. (e) liberality bestows gladly, but according to right reason, for there is no merit in unwilling gifts, and no virtue in gifts bestowed unsuitably as to time, place, purpose, person, quantity, quality, etc. liberality, then, is not inconsistent with prudence about temporal affairs, that is, with economy which adapts expenditures to income, with thrift which puts something by for the future, and with frugality which spares unnecessary expenses on self, especially in the matter of luxuries (see sqq.). . the importance of liberality.--(a) liberality is not the greatest virtue. it is less than temperance, for temperance regulates the passions in reference to the body, while liberality regulates them in reference to externals; it is less than fortitude and justice, which serve the common good, whereas liberality regards individuals; it is less than the virtues that are concerned with divine things, for liberality has to do directly with temporals. (b) liberality is one of the most useful of virtues since it disposes one to use money well in the service of god and humanity, and gives one an influence that can be employed for good (ecclus., xxxi. ). according to aristotle, the virtues that chiefly attract fame are first bravery, next justice, and then liberality. moreover, this virtue of generosity is one of the surest indexes of internal religion and charity, as being the natural expression of devotion and benevolence (see , ), while miserliness is a sign of coldness towards god and man. . vice of avarice.--the vice which is opposed to liberality by defect in giving is avarice, which, properly speaking or as distinguished from theft and robbery, is an immoderate desire, love or delight entertained in respect to external corporal goods, such as lands or money. (a) the absolute malice of avarice.--this sin is _per se_ venial, since it is only an excess in the love of a thing that is in itself indifferent and lawful; but it becomes mortal if the affection for money is so great that one is prepared to sacrifice grave obligations for its sake (e.g., to stay away from church rather than contribute to religion or the suffering poor). it is not merely carnal, since not concerned with bodily pleasure; nor merely spiritual, since riches are not a spiritual object; hence, it stands midway between spiritual and carnal vices. (b) the comparative malice of avarice.--in regard to deformity, avarice is not worse than other sins, but rather the contrary. the less the good to which a vice is opposed, the less the deprivation caused by the vice; and hence since external goods, to whose proper esteem avarice is opposed, are less important than divine or human goods, it follows that avarice is not so sinful as irreligion, homicide, theft, etc. in regard to shamefulness, however, avarice is worse than other sins. the less valuable the created good that a vice pursues, the more disgraceful the vice; and hence since the miser sets his heart on external things, which are the lowest of all goods, preferring them to goods of body and of soul (e.g., to health, education) and even to divine goods, he is rightly regarded as more contemptible than other sinners. some forms of avarice, too, are more despicable than others. thus, in some persons avarice shows itself in their fear to consume or expend for their own necessary uses (parsimony, penuriousness); in others it shows itself by an unwillingness to give to others (stinginess, niggardliness), or a willingness to live at the expense of others (sponging); finally, the most disgusting form of avarice is seen in those who cannot bear to part with their possessions either for their own sake or for the sake of others, and find their happiness in mere possession (miserliness). in regard to influence, avarice has a pre-eminence among sins that causes it to be numbered among the seven capital vices. a capital vice is one of the chief sources of evil attraction that produces other sins, and it is clear that immoderate love of riches is one of the most prolific of sins. all are drawn to happiness, and money seems to secure the requisites for happiness (ecclus., x. ); hence we see that for the sake of holding to money men become hard of heart (matt., xxiii. ; luke, xvi. ), for the sake of acquiring it they become carnal and restless in mind (ecclus., xiv. ; matt., xiii. ) and have recourse to deeds of violence (iii kings, xxi. ), of deception (acts, xxiv. ), of perjury (matt., xxviii. sqq.), of fraud (luke, xvi. sqq.), and of treachery (matt., xxvi. ). avarice is at the same time one of the most dangerous of sins, for it will lead a man to sell even his own soul (ecclus., x. ) and to commit any enormity (i tim., vi. ), and one of the most incurable, for the miser never has enough (prov., xxx. , ) and is always able to make believe that his avarice is prudence or some other virtue (wis., xv. ). . vice of prodigality.--the vice opposed to liberality by excess in giving is prodigality, which is an insufficient regard for temporal things and an extravagant bestowal of them on others. (a) it is an insufficient care for temporal things: that is, as the miser loves money too much, so the prodigal esteems it too little; as the miser is over-anxious to get and keep money, so the prodigal is careless about earning or saving. (b) it is an extravagant bestowal of temporal things; that is, the prodigal gives more than he should, or else the circumstances do not call for his gift, as when he gives when or where or to whom he should not give. . the sinfulness of prodigality.--(a) from its nature it is venial. the prodigal is not the absolute owner of his goods, but a steward who is held to administer them according to reason. but his sin is not grave, since it does not injure others and the goods of which he deprives himself are of the lowest kind. (b) from its circumstances it may be mortal. thus, it is made mortal on account of the purpose (e.g., extravagant presents made with a view to seduction or bribery), or the consequences (e.g., wastefulness which makes one unable to pay debts or assist a relative who is in grave need), or the special obligation of devoting superfluities to charity, as when one squanders the excess revenues of a benefice (see ). . comparison of avarice and prodigality.--(a) they are associable, for the same person may be both avaricious and prodigal, though in different respects (e.g., some persons are spendthrifts in giving money away, and are thus forced to be grasping to get money and ready to obtain it by any means, foul or fair). (b) they are unequal in malice. prodigality is less sinful than avarice, because it is less removed from liberality, less harmful to self and others, and less difficult to cure. it is said that prodigality is the vice of youth, avarice the vice of old age. . the virtue of equity.--the virtues that have been so far treated in the present article are forms of particular justice, and they have the status of adjuncts or potential parts. we shall conclude the list of virtues grouped with justice by discussing equity, which belongs to general (legal) justice and has the rank of a subjective part (see above, , , , , ). . definition of equity.--in law, equity is any court system of extraordinary justice in which the standard is natural honesty as declared by the conscience of the judge or by a body of rules and procedures that supplement or override the usual rules and procedures where these are too narrow or limited. thus, in england and in the united states courts of equity are those that take care of defined special cases for which there is no remedy in the usual or common law courts (robinson, _elementary law_, § ). but as here taken equity is a moral virtue, and is of two kinds, particular equity which pertains to particular justice (natural equity) and general equity which belongs to legal justice (legal equity). (a) natural equity is a moral virtue that inclines one not to insist unnecessarily on one's strict or legal rights when to do so will be unpleasant or burdensome to others. it is exemplified in the acts of an employer who freely grants a bonus to deserving employees in addition to the wage promised, and of a creditor who grants an extension of time to a hard-pressed debtor. this virtue partakes of both charity and justice; of charity, since it tempers justice with mercy; of justice, since it is really identical with the virtue of affability or friendliness mentioned above ( ). its obligation as an act of justice is not grave, since the debt is not of a rigorous kind. (b) legal equity is a moral virtue that inclines one to justice beyond the common laws, or it is a correction of the law in that wherein the law by reason of its universality is manifestly deficient. the law is said to be deficient here when its application in a particular case would be prejudicial to the supreme purpose of law (i.e., to the common good or to equal justice). some precepts of the natural law (e.g., the prohibitions against lying and adultery) cannot be deficient in this way and need no supervising equity. but other precepts of natural law, according to some (e.g., the command that a deposit be returned to the depositor), and also precepts of positive law are found to be unsuitable in exceptional cases. the reason for this defect in a good law lies in the nature of the case; for these laws must be made in view of what happens in the majority of cases, and accordingly they are couched in general terms and permit of exceptions which the lawgiver himself would allow (see on epieikeia, sqq). . the greatness of legal equity.--(a) it is a distinct virtue, since it inclines the will to do good and avoid iniquity in a matter of special difficulty. it is not a transgression of law, since it upholds the spirit when the letter departs from the spirit, and prizes the lawgiver's intention to do what is just and right above the lawgiver's words. (b) it is a subjective part of common justice, since all that is contained in the concept of justice belongs to equity. thus, it differs from the potential and integral parts of justice so far treated in articles and . (c) it pertains to the species, not of particular, but of general or legal justice; for equity extends to all the virtues and is concerned with the debt owed to the common good. thus, _per se_ its obligation is grave (see ). (d) it is the higher part of legal justice. just as prudence has two parts--good judgment (_synesis_), which settles ordinary cases of morals according to the usual rules of conduct, and acute judgment (_gnome_), which passes on moral problems that are out of the ordinary run--so legal justice has two acts, a lower which applies the law to usual cases, and a higher (equity) which applies more remote principles (viz., that the common good be not injured, nor injustice done) where the immediate principles of the law are clearly inadequate. thus, if a madman demands from a depositary the return of his revolver in order to commit murder, the letter of the law would uphold the madman, but equity would decide against him; if the enemy are attacking a city and one cannot repel them except by disregarding an ordinance of the city, the law would forbid one to transgress the ordinance, while equity would command one to transgress it. (e) equity is, therefore, the noblest act of strict justice. for legal justice is preferred to particular justice ( , ), and equity is the superior act of legal justice. in will and intention the common good and justice must take precedence over laws and statutes at all times; but in act the supreme ends of law are served, except in extraordinary cases, by obedience to law. . the complements of justice.--to each of the various virtues correspond certain complements, namely, gifts of the holy ghost, fruits of the holy ghost, and beatitudes (see ). (a) the gift that corresponds to justice is piety, for, like justice, piety is exercised towards another, and moreover piety is the completion of the virtue of religion, the highest development of justice. this gift is defined as "an infused habit that renders the soul well disposed towards god as its kind father, and makes it quickly responsive to the holy spirit when he moves it to acts of filial affection towards god." as the virtue of piety is shown to earthly fathers, so the gift of piety is shown to the father in heaven: "you have received the spirit of adoption of sons, in which we cry: abba, father" (rom., viii. ). religion honors god as lord, piety as father; filial fear reveres his majesty, piety his lovingkindness. and as a child tenderly loves all that belongs to a good father, so piety makes the soul rejoice and be glad in the things of god, in the saints, the scriptures, the practices of religion, and the like. (b) the beatitudes assigned here are the fourth (blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice, for they shall have their fill), which agrees with justice, and the fifth (blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy), which is suitable for piety inasmuch as one who finds his love and joy in god as father will be compassionate to the suffering creatures of god. like justice, both of these beatitudes are exercised in reference to the neighbor (see ). (c) the fruits that seem most appropriate here are good will and kindness, which find a sweet joy in purposing and performing services for others. like justice, these acts have reference to others ( ); like piety, they see in their neighbors the children of the same heavenly father. thus, justice when alone is guided by prudence; it pays what is due to god as lord, to man as neighbor; it acts perhaps with pain, but from a sense of duty. but when justice is supernaturally perfected, it is the spirit of piety which guides, and which makes one to see in god one's father and in man the child of god; even that which is not owed is given from mercy, and there is a hunger and thirst for justice; and in the payment of duty to others there is at last a joy found in the very difficulty itself. . the commandments of justice.--the various precepts regarding justice are contained in the decalogue. for justice consists in the fulfillment of duties towards others whether they be superiors, equals or inferiors. the ten commandments sum up these duties of justice; the first three prescribe the duties owed to god, the fourth the duties owed to human superiors, and the other six the obligations which man has to his equals or to all fellowmen. . the order of the commandments is most appropriate, for their purpose is to form man to virtue and to lead him to perfection, which consists in the love of god and neighbor (see , sqq.), and they therefore outline first the service that is owed to god (commandments of the first table) and next the service that is owed to man (commandments of the second table). (a) the commandments of the first table lay the foundation of the edifice of justice, for they teach us that our first duty is to render to god the things that are god's. we must avoid, therefore, the excess of superstition (thou shalt not have strange gods before me) and the defect of irreligiousness (thou shalt not take the name of the lord thy god in vain); we must practise the virtue of religion (remember thou keep holy the sabbath day). (b) the commandments of the second table begin with the duties owed to those to whom we are most bound after god, namely, parents, country, superiors (honor thy father and thy mother). next follow prohibitions against injuries done to any neighbor by deeds or words, whether the harm be to his person (thou shalt not kill), or to those who are as one person with him (thou shalt not commit adultery), or to a neighbor's external corporal goods (thou shalt not steal), or to his external incorporeal goods of fame and honor (thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor). finally, there are prohibitions against thoughts or desires injurious to the neighbor, mention being made specially of those internal sins that are most common on account of the utility (thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods) or the pleasure (thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife) they afford. . we shall not give here any special treatment of the decalogue. rather we refer the reader to the excellent explanations that are contained in part iii of the catechism of the council of trent. moreover, each of the commandments has been treated in the present work, chiefly in the articles on justice, and supplementary matter can be drawn from some others of its articles. for the sake of convenience, however, we give here a list of references, showing the passages of this moral theology in which the commandments of the decalogue are explained. (a) thus, for the first commandment read on superstition ( sqq.) for the prohibitory part, on faith, hope and charity ( sqq.) for the perceptive part. (b) for the second commandment read on irreligiousness ( ) for the prohibitory part; on oaths, adjuration and praise ( sqq.) for the preceptive part. (c) for the third commandment as to its natural precept, read on the virtue of religion ( sqq.); as to its positive precept, read on positive laws ( sqq., , ) and on the first commandment of the church (see sqq.). (d) for the fourth commandment read on the virtues of piety, reverence, obedience and gratitude ( sqq.). other matter will be found under charity ( sqq., sqq.) and under the duties of particular states. (e) for the fifth commandment read on homicide, suicide, and bodily injury ( - ). other matter will be found in the articles on charity ( sqq., sqq.) and on affability ( sqq.). (f) for the sixth commandment read on injustice ( sqq.), on restitution ( ), and on the virtue of temperance ( sqq.). (g) for the seventh commandment read on commutative and distributive justice ( sqq.), on restitution ( sqq.), on injuries to property ( - ), on fraud ( sqq.), on liberality ( sqq.). (h) for the eighth commandment read on judicial injustice ( sqq.), on unjust words ( sqq.), and on truthfulness ( sqq.). (i) for the ninth and tenth commandments read on internal sins ( sqq.), and on the malice of the internal act of sin ( - ). art. : the virtue of fortitude (_summa theologica_, ii-ii, qq. - .) . the virtue of fortitude.--this virtue ranks next after justice and before temperance. prudence has the greatest amount of goodness since it deals directly with reason, the essential good of man; justice is next because it realizes the dictates of reason in human affairs; the other virtues uphold the reign of reason against the rebellion of passion, fortitude repressing fear, the most powerful foe of reason, and temperance subduing pleasure, which is after fear the strongest of reason's enemies (cfr. , , ). fortitude is nobler than temperance because more closely related to reason; it is the more difficult virtue, because it is harder to bear pain than to abstain from pleasure. . fortitude in general.--fortitude (etymologically, strength, vigor, firmness) in general is a moral quality which makes a person unshaken from the right by danger or difficulty. it has various senses. (a) it is used for a seeming virtue, which has the act but not the requisites (i.e., the knowledge and the free choice) of a moral virtue. thus, some are brave from ignorance or want of reflection, because they do not realize the danger (e.g., intoxicated persons) or because habit makes them act without thought, or because many successes have rendered them over-sanguine; others are brave from compulsion, because cowardice is severely punished, or from passion, because they are beside themselves with pain, anger, desire, etc. (b) it is used for an inchoate virtue or a natural fitness to withstand attack or encounter danger. thus, some persons are so constituted physically that the thought of risk, pain, or death does not affect them strongly (fearlessness, intrepidity), or even attracts them (adventurousness). this kind of bodily bravery is a preparation or predisposition for moral courage. (c) fortitude is also the name of a general virtue or rather of a general condition which must be found in every virtue. for there is no virtue without firmness and persistence in good, as the name virtue (i.e., strength) indicates. thus, a person who is weakly inclined to temperance and opposes no strong resistance to temptation cannot be said to possess the virtue of temperance. (d) finally, fortitude is the name of a special virtue which confers vigor and steadfastness in a special kind of trial, such as perils and pains which threaten or inflict severe evils. it is of this fortitude that we now speak. . definition of fortitude.--fortitude is defined as "a virtue which in the face of the greatest evils moderates the passions of fear and confidence within the bounds dictated by right reason." (a) the primary object of fortitude is the passions, or motions of the sensuous appetite through which the appetite is attracted or repelled by an object brought before it as good or evil, agreeable or disagreeable. justice is concerned with operations, fortitude and temperance with passions (see ). (b) the passions that chiefly fall within the scope of fortitude are fear and confidence; and thus it is set apart from temperance, which deals with the passions of pleasure. fortitude has to do with that which is disagreeable to sense, temperance with that which is agreeable. fear is a disturbance of soul produced by the imminence of an external evil that cannot be easily escaped; confidence is a feeling of self-reliance impelling one to face or attack a threatening evil. (c) the function of fortitude is to moderate fear and confidence, or to keep them to the happy mean between excess and defect. the passions in themselves are not evil, but they need regulation (see , ); and hence without fortitude one falls either into cowardice or rashness. (d) fortitude acts in the face of the greatest evils, that is, even when death itself, the greatest of corporal evils and the king of terrors, is at hand. virtue is the act of a perfect man, and hence we do not ascribe fortitude to a man who is not brave except in reference to things that are fearful only slightly or not at all (such as having a tooth pulled or a finger lanced). the right regulation of fear springs, therefore, from different good qualities, according to the kinds of objects that inspire alarm: to fortitude in the strictest sense, if there is question of supreme natural evil (that is, death or its equivalent in deadly disease, mortal wound or torture); to fortitude in a wider sense, if there is question of lesser corporal evils (e.g., blows, wounds or mutilation that do not cause death); to some other virtue, if there is question of other kinds of evils (e.g., liberality regulates the fear of losing money). (e) the motive of fortitude is conformity with right reason. the courageous person despises dangers because he wishes to hold fast to virtue and has for his last aim god and true beatitude. fortitude is exercised, then, only when one is courageous in a good cause; the end of the work (_finis operis_), or at least the end of the agent (_finis operantis_), must be virtuous. the aim of bravery itself is virtuous when it is the common good (e.g., soldiers fighting in defense of country) or the good of a particular virtue (e.g., a judge contending for justice, a virgin for purity, a martyr for religion); the aim of the brave man is good when he performs an indifferent act for virtue's sake (e.g., waits on another during pestilence because of friendship, goes on a perilous journey because of a pilgrimage). on the contrary, fortitude is not exercised if bravery has nothing to do with virtue (e.g., the imperturbability during sickness or shipwreck of a person who had resolved on suicide), or if it is opposed to virtue (e.g., the daring and coolness of a pirate, bandit, gunman or dueller); to risk ignoble death with bravado is not a virtue. . the two acts of fortitude.--(a) the moderation of fear is followed by endurance or firmness in the midst of danger, as in the case of the martyrs. this act in common speech is more especially designated "fortitude." it is not accurate to speak of it as passive resistance or passive courage. by it, indeed, no external act is performed, but this is due to a most firm internal resolution and self-control, such as a refusal to accept defeat, surrender principles or make peace with wrong. endurance to undergo is not the same thing, then, as stoical indifference or apathy. (b) the moderation of confidence is followed, where circumstances call for it, by prudent attack or even, when discretion is the better part of valor, by retreat as in warriors. a truly brave man does not fear to be called a coward, and hence he will not advance when reason forbids nor hesitate to retire when reason commands. brave endurance is a nobler act of fortitude than brave attack; for endurance struggles against superior strength, it feels the evil already present, and its fight is long and continuous, whereas attack is borne on by a sense of power, the object of dread is still in the distance, and its rush is quick and passing (prov., xvi. ). hence, not all who are courageous in attack are courageous under attack. but both acts are noble, and each is necessary at its proper time. . the excellence of fortitude.--(a) its rank.--fortitude is one of the four principal or cardinal virtues. a principal virtue is one that exercises in the most difficult circumstances one of the four qualities that every moral virtue must have. these qualities are firmness (for every virtue is a habit or strongly rooted quality), rectitude (since a virtue inclines to the good as the right or obligatory), moderation (since a virtue is moral, or measured according to reason), and discretion (since good inclinations must be guided by true direction). now, just as rectitude is most difficult, on account of self-love, in dealing with others, and moderation in governing the appetites, and discretion in ruling one's own actions, so firmness is most difficult in the presence of the greatest dangers; and therefore with justice, temperance, and prudence must also be associated fortitude as one of the chief of all virtues. these four principal virtues are also called cardinal virtues (from _cardo_, a hinge), because the whole moral life of man hinges on them. thus, though perils of death are comparatively rare, the occasions of such perils are common and one is constantly called on to exercise fortitude (e.g., to be prepared to incur mortal enmities rather than forsake justice, or purity, or religion). (b) its utility.--fortitude has a certain general utility, for it is found to be of advantage everywhere. thus, brave men and just men are admired in peace as well as in war, whereas liberal men are serviceable only in certain matters (aristotle). fortitude is like a strong tower, or like an army that protects the other virtues, and there are continual demands for its exercise. the life of man is a warfare (job, vii. ), and a manly spirit is needed to struggle against the temptations, injuries, infirmities, and trials that threaten virtue. without fortitude, then, no one can be saved, for the kingdom of heaven is captured only by the aggressive (matt., xi. ), and only those who fight shall receive the crown (ii tim., ii. ). . martyrdom.--as judgment is the chief act of justice (see ), so martyrdom is the chief act of fortitude, and in a sense the most perfect of all acts. for martyrdom is defined as "the voluntary acceptance for the sake of god of a violent death inflicted out of hatred of virtue." martyrdom belongs to fortitude which produces it, to love of god which commands it (i cor., xiii. ), and to faith which attracts it. merely as an act of courage, it is inferior to some other acts, since fortitude is not the highest virtue, and the goods for which martyrdom is undergone must be preferable to martyrdom itself. but in two ways martyrdom is the greatest act of virtue. (a) thus, internally it has charity for its end, and "greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (john, xv. ); it is the greatest sign of love of god. (b) externally it is a profession of faith in the superiority of the invisible and future to the visible and present goods, and no more efficacious proof of this faith can be given than martyrdom (job, ii. ; ii cor., iv. ). . kinds of martyrdom.--the word martyrdom is sometimes used loosely or less accurately, and hence we distinguish the following kinds of martyrdom: (a) false martyrdom is death suffered in an evil cause, as when one dies for erroneous principles or doctrines (e.g., for anarchy), martyrdom is testimony of blood given to the truth, not to error, and hence it is not the suffering but the cause that makes the martyr. improper martyrdom is death suffered for some purely natural good, as when a person dies for the cause of science or of a political party, or in defense of natural truths about god but without a religious motive; (b) true and proper martyrdom, which is not the virtue but the crown of martyrdom, is death inflicted on an infant out of hatred for christ, as in the case of the holy innocents. this is baptism of blood for infants, as the virtue is for adults, supplying the place of baptism of water (matt., x. ); (c) the virtue of martyrdom in the sight of god (theological martyrdom) is either in desire or in act. martyrdom of desire, which is the wish to die for god, may have the same essential glory as martyrdom in act, but it lacks the accidental glory, since it does not really suffer the trial (see - ). martyrdom in act, which is external suffering for justice's sake, has three degrees: the lowest degree is suffering that lacks one or other of the essential conditions (see ) for supreme self-sacrifice (imperfect martyrdom), the higher degree has all the essential conditions (perfect martyrdom), while the highest degree has also the accidentals that are most suitable for martyrdom (complete martyrdom); (d) the virtue of martyrdom in the sight of the church (canonical martyrdom) is that which, in addition to the conditions for perfect martyrdom, possesses also external indications sufficient to prove their existence and character. . conditions for martyrdom.--since martyrdom is a virtue and the supreme testimony, it must have the following conditions: (a) the cause of the martyrdom must be faith (e.g., persecution because the martyr is a catholic), or some virtue containing a profession of faith, inasmuch as a divine good (e.g., chastity) or a human good (e.g., the truth of a science, the safety of one's country) is defended for the sake of god; (b) the persecutor must act from hatred of virtue, but it is not necessary that he be an unbeliever, or that he avow his hatred of virtue as the motive of persecution, or that he pronounce or execute the sentence of death himself; (c) the martyr must accept martyrdom willingly (actual or virtual intention suffices, and perhaps also habitual); he must be free from guilt that provoked the sentence, and must be in the state of grace or at least repentant; he must die from a virtuous motive, not from vainglory, despair, or other sinful reason. some make non-resistance a condition for what we called perfect martyrdom, while others make it a condition for what we called complete martyrdom; according to the former opinion the crusaders or other soldiers dying in a just war cannot be called martyrs of religion, but according to the second opinion they may be ranked with the martyrs; (d) the punishment inflicted on the martyr must be death, either instant (as in decapitation) or delayed (as in gradual starvation, death by slow poisoning, mortal wounds, imprisonment or other hardship), hence, those who are not put to death, but who are tortured, mutilated or imprisoned (e.g., st. john the evangelist), are confessors of the faith, but only in an imperfect sense are they martyrs. some believe that suffering is necessary for perfect martyrdom, and hence that those who are put to death painlessly are not, strictly speaking, martyrs; but others--and with better reason, it seems--deny this. those who are not killed (e.g., persons who die from disease contracted while attending the sick or from austerities), or who are killed by themselves (e.g., the circumcellions who thought to win martyrdom by suicide), are not martyrs (on the cases of sts. apollonia and pelagia, see ). . practical questions about martyrdom.--(a) the desire of martyrdom.--a general desire for or the willingness to suffer martyrdom if the necessity should arise is required for salvation (i john, iii. ; rom., x. ). apart from necessity, a special desire of martyrdom is not of precept, since martyrdom is an act of perfection; but such a desire is of counsel, since it is encouraged by christ (i peter, ii. ), and many saints have prayed for martyrdom. (b) the choice of martyrdom.--regularly it is not lawful to offer oneself freely for martyrdom, for to do so gives the tyrant an occasion of committing injustice, and as a rule there are not sufficient reasons of public or private good for permitting his sin (see sqq.). exceptionally it is lawful, when there is no danger that one will be overcome and there are urgent reasons for the act, such as the glory of god or the peace of the faithful. (c) provocation of martyrdom.--regularly it is not lawful to bring on a persecution by aggression (e.g., by destroying idols), since generally this will make one guilty of complicity and presumption. but there are exceptional cases, when the good of souls demands attack on evils (dan., xiv. ; matt., xiv. , ). it is not provocation of persecution, however, to live virtuously (tob., ii. , ), or to reprove a persecutor after one has been apprehended (ii mach., viii. - ; acts, vii. - ). (d) flight from martyrdom.--flight is sometimes sinful, sometimes obligatory, sometimes optional, according to circumstances, as was explained in , . . sins opposed to fortitude.--(a) number.--the vices opposed to fortitude are four, two of excess and two of defect, according as fear and confidence are not regulated as to time, place, manner and other circumstances in the way of moderation. he who fears when or as he should not, is timorous (e.g., one who kills himself because he fears the hardships of life, one who neglects religion out of human respect); he who does not fear when or as he should, is insensible (e.g., one who exposes himself to peril of death for the sake of excitement). he who does not dare when or as he should, is cowardly (e.g., a superior who does not correct as he should); he who dares when or as he should not, is foolhardy (e.g., a superior who corrects when there is no chance of a good result). (b) malice.--these sins _per se_ are venial, since excess or defect in emotions, which in themselves are indifferent, is not a serious disorder. but they become mortal if they lead to grave evil (e.g., if from fear of persecution one becomes a pagan), or to grave danger (e.g., if from foolhardiness one exposes oneself to death or mutilation). insensibility and foolhardiness are caused by pride or vainglory, by contempt for life or for the strength of others. timidity and cowardice diminish culpability, though they do not remove it. . the parts of fortitude.--as has been said above, the parts of a virtue are subjective, integral and potential (see , ). (a) fortitude has no subjective parts, for it is concerned with a very specialized matter, namely, the danger of death; and hence there is no room for differences of kind, although there are differences of degree (e.g., greater courage is needed to face an ignominious or cruel death than to face death amid applause or with little suffering). (b) the integral parts of fortitude are those that are necessary for the perfect functioning of its offices in reference to major dangers (i.e., of death). now, the first act of fortitude, namely, attack, requires greatness of soul (which makes one love the best things and despise all that is opposed to them) and greatness of deed (which makes one perform generously what was nobly willed). the second act of fortitude, namely, endurance, requires patience (that the soul he not thrown into dejection by difficulties) and steadfastness (that the soul be not turned aside from its purpose or wearied by long-continued opposition). (c) the potential parts of fortitude are the four just named, but as exercised in reference to minor dangers. . greatness of soul.--greatness of soul or nobility (latin, _magnanimitas_) is a virtue that inclines one to aspire after excellence in things most honorable, but to esteem and use honors themselves with moderation. (a) the first act of this virtue is aspiration. it desires the higher manifestations of every virtue--the things that are more difficult and that befit a generous and elevated spirit, such as great austerity, great labor, great sacrifice, etc. thus, it resembles fortitude, for both virtues are exercised in difficult circumstances. (b) the second act of this virtue is moderation. it esteems honors at their true worth, for it is greatly concerned to possess the higher honors (i.e., good repute before god and godly men), knowing that these are solid and lasting, but it is less concerned about lower honors (i.e., the esteem and applause of the world), knowing that these are frail, fleeting, and common to good and bad alike. hence, the great of soul are not elated in prosperity or dejected in adversity. this virtue here differs from fortitude, since fortitude is concerned with dangers, which are unpleasant, while greatness of soul is occupied with honors which are pleasant. . comparison between greatness of soul and humility.--greatness of soul and humility are different, but not contrary. (a) thus, greatness of soul makes one regard oneself as worthy of great things, when one is indeed worthy of them on account of gifts bestowed by god (luke, i. ). hence, the great of soul put the good above the profitable, they do not busy themselves unduly about lesser things, they are slow to ask and quick to grant favors, they are not outdone in generosity, they are not subservient before the mighty, and they are familiar only with friends. but if they are truly great of soul, they are also humble, knowing that the good is from god, and that of themselves they are weak and sinful. (b) greatness of soul makes one regard oneself as superior to lower things, for it makes one loathe anything that would be unbecoming the gifts one has received from god. hence, as st. thomas says, the noble character does not flaunt his ideals, nor obtrude himself into places or offices of honor; he does not complain or remember injuries; he is not haughty with inferiors but gentle and considerate with all; in manner he is quiet and unhurried, speaks sincerely, and is not much given either to praise or to blame others. but though the noble person despises all that is petty, he is not proud; and hence he can see the good that is in others, and he reveres those who are superior to himself. . vices opposed to greatness of soul by excess.--the vices opposed to greatness of soul by excess are such as desire great deeds, or honors, or fame, when or where or how they should not be desired. (a) excessive desire of great deeds is presumption, which attempts to do greater things than one is able to perform (cfr. sqq.), this happens in conceited persons who overestimate their own abilities, taking on themselves offices for which they are incompetent or exercising powers for which they have no authority; also in vulgar persons who mistake their fortuitous advantages, such as wealth or influence or birth, for character and ability. presumption is a mortal sin when its cause is a grave sin (e.g., lack of faith) or when its effects are very harmful (e.g., when one who is ignorant presumes to teach or practise medicine, when one who is morally frail presumes to enter occasions of sin). there is no sin if one attempts too much in good faith and from inculpable ignorance. (b) excessive desire of honors (see , , ) is ambition, or an inordinate hankering after distinctions and deference. the great of soul desire honors when these are due to their station or when there is a just reason, such as the glory of god or the advantage of the neighbor (matt., v. , ; heb., v. ). the ambitious, on the contrary, seek to be honored beyond their deserts (e.g., when an ignorant man longs for academic degrees, a tyrant wishes to be respected on account of his tyranny, an inferior man seeks to perpetuate himself in temporary elective offices, a rich man or athletic hero expects that he will be revered above those who are eminent for virtue or learning), or they seek honor for its own or their own sake, like the pharisees who loved the first places at feasts and the first chairs in the synagogues, and salutations in the market place, and to be called by men rabbi (matt., xxiii. ; cfr. i tim., iii. sqq.; matt., xx. ). this sin, being excessive desire of something indifferent, is not _per se_ mortal; but it is made mortal either by a cause that is seriously sinful (e.g., if one's whole life is but a mad chase for preferments) or by a result that is seriously harmful (e.g., if one commits or is ready to commit serious injustice or uncharitableness to win a coveted dignity). ambition is cured chiefly by charity, for charity is not ambitious (i cor., xiii. ; cfr. gal., v. ). (c) excessive desire of praise or celebrity is vanity (see , ). the great of soul desire the good opinion of their fellow-men (see sqq.), but they also desire that their good reputation be well founded, and their motive is the glory of god or the spiritual profit of man. the vain, on the contrary, are eager for admiration and praise for which there is no justification (e.g., those who wish to be praised for virtues they do not possess) or which are valueless (e.g., those who fish for compliments over things of no great importance, such as good looks or dress, or who wish to appear learned among the uneducated, or who crave notoriety), or seek admiration without a proper motive (e.g., those who advertise themselves for self-glorification alone). vanity, like ambition, is _per se_ only a venial sin, but it becomes mortal on account of its cause (e.g., when the motive is to conceal crimes that are planned), or its results (e.g., when the desire to be famous makes one boast of one's crimes, or refuse to repair injuries done to others, or neglect the honor of god), or its matter (e.g., when one is vain about a reputation for skillful injustice). vanity is one of the capital sins (see sqq.), since it is one of the motives that chiefly lead men into sin; for all desire excellence, and in consequence the love of renown is one of the chief incentives to action. even the ambitious crave honors because of the glory honors bring. the offspring of vanity includes the sins by which a man seeks unlawfully to show off his good points, or to prove that he is not inferior and thus capture popularity or glory. in the first class are the publication by word or deed of one's own true or pretended exploits (boasting hypocrisy), the cultivation of novelties and eccentricities designed to attract attention (such as singularity in opinion, in pronunciation, in dress, etc.). in the latter class are sins of intellect which make one hold obstinately to one's views (stubbornness), sins of will which make one resist desires of others (discord), sins of word which make one loudly dispute (contention), sins of deed which make one refuse to yield to authority (disobedience). . vice opposed to greatness of soul by defect.--the sin opposed to greatness of soul by defect is pusillanimity (littleness of soul), which does not desire great things when one should desire them. (a) pusillanimity is sinful, because it excludes nobility of soul, springs from a lazy ignorance of one's own ability and worth and from a false fear of failure, and leads to the loss of great things that could be done for god and humanity. the scriptures reprove jonas, who fled from the great task set for him by god (jonas, i. sqq.), and the fearful servant who hid his talent in a napkin (matt, xxv. sqq.). pusillanimity is not to be confused, therefore, with humility; for humility excludes the unreasonable or immoderate desire of excellence, whereas pusillanimity represses even that desire of greatness which is reasonable and moderate. indeed, meanness of spirit may be associated with pride on account of obstinate refusal to take upon oneself what is commanded (prov., xxvi. ). thus, moses and jeremias showed humility by their fears of unworthiness (exod, iii. ; jerem., i. ), but they would have sinned by pusillanimity, and also by pride, had they held out against god's charge to them. (b) pusillanimity is _per se_ a venial sin (see ), but it may become mortal on account of its matter or consequences, as when one is so self-depreciative as to neglect grave obligations of correcting abuses. it is essentially more evil than presumption, for it turns one away from things and pursuits that are noble, and is thus more opposed to greatness of soul; but radically presumption is more evil, as it springs from pride (ecclus., xxxvii. ). the dread of attempting great deeds or pursuits is sometimes no sin at all, as when it is due to inculpable ignorance of what one can do or what one deserves, or from a fear that overpowers judgment, or from bodily disease, or from a sense of inferiority caused by education, excessive repression and habit (col., iii. ). . greatness of deed.--greatness of deed is the execution of the great things to which one is inclined by greatness of soul. (a) the virtue is a general one, if it includes every kind of noble performance; it is a special one, if restricted to princely generosity in the expenditure of large sums for great works (virtue of magnificence or munificence). the munificent person spends large sums from his purse in behalf of the worship of god (e.g., in building churches, monasteries, etc.), and for the common good (e.g., in founding schools, in endowing educational institutions, hospitals, etc.). this virtue resembles fortitude by the grandeur of its accomplishment; it falls short of fortitude, since it deals not with sacrifice of self but with sacrifice of goods. the mæcenases and the generous patrons of religion are among the greatest benefactors of humanity, for without them the best things would often languish for want of support. (b) the vices opposed to this virtue are meanness by deficiency and vulgarity by excess. the mean man is unable to do things on a great scale, and prefers to ruin a noble work rather than make the proper outlay (e.g., after planning a beautiful church, he will spoil it by using cheap materials). the vulgar man, on the contrary, is avid for ostentation, or heavy expenditure when there is no call for it. he is liberal to works of less importance (e.g., his own usual personal needs or comforts), but penurious with works of great importance (e.g., charitable causes); or he lavishes money needlessly on great works, as when his residence is over-ornamented and offensive to good taste, or when his wedding breakfast is served with profuse extravagance and waste in order to make a display of wealth. _per se_, these sins are venial, but they may be mortal on account of circumstances. munificence is the virtue of the rich, but even the poor may have the merit of this virtue, by a good intention, especially when they show liberality to great enterprises according to their means. . patience.--patience is a virtue which from the love of moderation so controls the sadness caused by present afflictions that this passion neither excessively disturbs the internal powers of the soul nor produces anything inordinate in the external conduct. hence it differs from the following: (a) from temperance, for, although temperance also regulates sadness, the sadness with which it deals is caused by lack of pleasures, while that with which patience deals is caused by the presence of evils, especially of those brought on by annoyances from others; (b) from the endurance of fortitude, for fortitude regulates fear of death, while patience regulates sadness caused by evils of whatever nature, such as sickness, bereavements, loss of money, persecution; (c) from longsuffering and constancy, for the matter of these virtues is a good which cannot be obtained except by long waiting or a good which must be continually exercised, whereas the matter of patience is an evil that has to be endured in the present. but since the delay of a desired good causes sadness (prov., xiii. ), and since continuance in good is irksome to the flesh, both longsuffering and constancy are included under patience. . the greatness of patience.--(a) its rank.--patience is less than the theological virtues, and also is inferior to prudence and justice, which perfect one in goodness; it is also less than fortitude and temperance, which preserve from the greatest impediments to goodness; for the office of patience is only to preserve one from lesser impediments, namely, the common adversities of life. but, on the other hand, patience is a part of fortitude--a potential part, because it does not connote the supreme heroism of fortitude, and an integral part, because courage in the face of death is bettered by the serenity which patience imparts. (b) its necessity.--patience is a most useful virtue. without it one cannot long continue in the way of virtue on account of the many trials man encounters (heb., x. ), whereas with it the enemies of other virtues are destroyed; and hence it is called the root and guardian of virtue (cfr. rom., v. , ; james, i. - ; luke, xxi. ). but there are degrees of patience: the lowest is equanimity, which offends god neither in thought, word nor deed even though sorely tried (job, ii. - ); a higher degree is submission, which prefers adversity to prosperity (ps. cxviii. ); the highest degree is joyful resignation, which smiles at grief and rejoices in tribulation (ii cor., xii. , vii. ). . the vices opposed to patience.--(a) the sin of deficiency in sorrow is stolidity, which is a brutal insensibility that is moved neither by one's own nor by others' misfortunes. this is not a virtue, but an inhuman and unnatural way of life, which takes no account of man as a feeling as well as a reasoning being. (b) the sin of excess in sorrow is impatience, which mourns excessively under afflictions, or in looks, words or deeds expresses a complaining and rebellious spirit (prov.. xiv. ; judith, viii. , ). stolidity and impatience are _per se_ venial sins, but they become mortal _per accidens_ on account of some circumstance, as when the unfeeling man gives great scandal by his hardhearted acts, or the impatient man blasphemes (see , ). . steadfastness.--steadfastness is a virtue which is so devoted to the goodness of continuing in the right that it is not fatigued by the length of time or the repeated effort required for a good work (virtue of persistence or perseverance), nor disheartened by the opposition which a good work encounters (virtue of manliness or constancy), but goes on unmoved until the conclusion which right reason calls for has been arrived at. (a) the virtue.--steadfastness belongs to fortitude, since the essence of both is a struggle against difficulty; but steadfastness is the inferior, since it is nobler and more heroic to be undismayed by the peril of death than to be unconquered by strain of monotony or opposition. steadfastness is a most important virtue, for it avails one little to begin a work well if it is not carried to a successful conclusion. without it one puts hand to the plow but looks back (luke, ix. ), or begins to build but does not finish (like, xiv. ); with it the work begun is crowned, the harvest will be reaped (gal., vi. , ), and salvation secured (matt., x. ). scripture abounds with exhortations to steadfastness (i cor., xv. ; phil., iv. i; ii tim., iii. ; ecclus., xi. , , v. ; john, viii. ; heb., xii. ); but final perseverance is a special gift of god (i peter, v. ). (b) the opposite vices.--opposed to steadfastness by deficiency is the vice of effeminacy or weakness, by excess the vice of pertinacity. the effeminate person, lacking stamina to go on in a necessary good, surrenders to weariness or opposition by abandoning the undertaking or by taking up with evil (matt., xi. , ). the pertinacious person continues in the course he has begun when right reason bids him to discontinue, as when one has taken a vow and does not wish to accept the dispensation which a change of circumstances necessitates. these sins are venial unless they go counter to a grave duty, as when an effeminate person gives up the resolution to avoid a very dangerous occasion of sin, or the headstrong person determines to fast during the remainder of lent when this will seriously injure his health. . the complements of fortitude.--we shall now speak of the gift, the beatitude, and the fruits that correspond to fortitude (see and ). (a) the gift of fortitude is an infused habit which makes the appetitive powers readily responsive to the encouragement of the holy spirit and filled with a courage that is more than human. thus, the gift of fortitude supplies for what is wanting in the virtue of fortitude. the virtue is regulated by the rules and measure of human prudence, but the gift is inspired by the presence and command of the holy spirit himself (ps. xliii. , xvii. , ); the virtue strengthens the soul, but the gift supports even the weakness of the flesh, for the spirit helpeth our infirmity (rom., viii. ; cfr. luke, xxii. ); the virtue aids one against the perils of death, but the gift strengthens in difficulties both of life and death, reinforcing not only courage but also the allied virtues, greatness of soul, munificence, patience and perseverance, for we can do all things in him that strengthens us (phil., iv. ); the virtue gives firm resolution to adhere to the right in spite of death itself, but the gift adds the unshaken confidence that one shall surmount every difficulty and win the crown of victory (rom., viii. sqq.). (b) the beatitude which is the special exercise of the gift of fortitude is the eighth: "blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice's sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" (matt, v ). the gift of fortitude makes the persecuted feel a great confidence and security in the midst of the struggle, and this is a foretaste of the copious, exceeding and eternal reward that follows this gift (gen., xv. ; rom., viii. ; ii cor., iv. ; ps. xciii. ; ii cor., i, ). others assign to this gift the beatitudes of the meek and of those who hunger and thirst for holiness. (c) the fruits that are most appropriate here are patience in bearing evil and longsuffering in awaiting or performing good; for these are acts that add a finish of maturity to fortitude (see , , ), and in their most excellent state (see ) the performance of them is no longer bitter but sweet. . the commandments of fortitude.--(a) fortitude itself is commanded both in the old and the new testament. in the old testament are found precepts of bravery in bodily warfare, as in deut. xx. : "hear, israel, you join battle this day against your enemies. let not your heart be dismayed, be not afraid, do not give back, fear ye them not." the new law commands courage before spiritual foes; "your adversary the devil goeth about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour, whom resist ye strong in faith" (i peter, v. ); "resist the devil and he will fly from you" (james, iv. ); "fight the good fight" (i tim., vi. ). it also commands fortitude in the presence of corporal dangers: "fear not them that kill the body, but cannot kill the soul" (matt., x. ). (b) the annexed virtues are counselled when (as is the case with greatness of soul and munificence) they incline to the excellent and superabundant; they are commanded when (as in the case of patience and perseverance) they are necessitated by normal conditions of earthly existence. greatness of soul is recommended in the invitations to be perfect (matt., v. ), to love god more ardently (see ) and to follow the counsels (see sqq.), and in the praise bestowed on the excellent virtue of noe (gen., vi. ), of john the baptist (matt., xi. ), and of mary magdalene (luke x. ). munificence is recommended in the eulogies of solomon (ecclus., xlvii. ), of magdalene (mark, xiv. ) and of joseph of arimathea (luke, xxiii. ff.). patience is commanded in luke, xxi. (in patience possess your souls), and in rom., xxii. (be patient in tribulation); perseverance in ecclus., ii. (in sorrow endure), in matt., x. (he that perseveres to the end shall be saved), in i cor., xv. (be steadfast and unmovable) and in heb. xxi. (persevere under discipline). . obligation of the precepts of fortitude and annexed virtues.--(a) the precepts of fortitude are negative or prohibitory, and therefore it is obligatory at all times to omit what they forbid (see ). it is never lawful to be timorous, insensible, cowardly, or foolhardy--to do anything intrinsically wrong, even to escape death (see , ). but it is not necessary to sacrifice life for the fulfillment of an affirmative precept, unless injury to god or the common safety, or an extreme spiritual loss to self will otherwise result (see , , ). (b) the precepts of patience and perseverance are also negative, and hence it is never lawful to be guilty of stolidity, impatience, effeminacy or stubbornness. but since patience and perseverance are not so difficult as fortitude, they have also affirmative precepts. these latter laws oblige always, but not for every occasion (see ). thus, one must be always willing to exercise patience, but one who is spared trials has not the occasion to exercise the virtue. patience itself never ceases to be a virtue, but there is a pseudo-patience which consists in toleration of evils that should not be tolerated, and which is not a virtue but a kind of supineness or spinelessness that pertains to effeminacy rather than to patience. . subjects of fortitude.--(a) laws have universal extension, and hence it would not be true to say that active fortitude is a masculine, passive fortitude or patience a feminine virtue. but greater courage is expected in some than in others on account of greater strength (e.g., the adult, the physically well) or greater necessity (as in soldiers, policemen, firemen, pastors, physicians, rulers). (b) the counsel of munificence, however, is only for the rich as regards exercise, since others have not the means wherewith to exercise this virtue. art. : the virtue of temperance (_summa theologica_, ii-ii, qq. - .) . definition of temperance.--temperance is a moral virtue which regulates according to reason the gratification of the lower pleasures and desires of sense. (a) it moderates pleasure and desire, and in consequence also the sadness caused by the absence of pleasure. just as a special virtue (fortitude) is needed to check the strongest of the repelled emotions (fear of death), so likewise a special virtue (temperance) is necessary to bridle the most vehement of the attracted emotions (pleasure and desire). (b) it moderates sensible pleasure, that is, satisfactions derived from the use of the external senses--sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. spiritual pleasures, which are derived from the loftier powers of intellect, will and imagination (e.g., from the study of theology, the reading of classical literature, the meeting of mother and child or of friend and friend), have no opposition to reason, except accidentally when a still higher activity which should be exercised is impeded by them. some of these (such as the pleasures of the intellect) may be called purely spiritual, since they make little or no impression on the sensible appetite; others, on the contrary (such as the pleasures of the will), may be called mixed pleasures, since at times they vehemently excite the sensitive appetite and powerfully affect the body (e.g., mothers have been known to die of joy at the return of a child who was thought to be dead). (c) temperance moderates the lower sensible pleasures, that is, the satisfactions caused primarily by touch and taste, and secondarily by other senses, in the activities necessary for preservation of the individual (eating and drinking) and of the race (sexual intercourse). these passions are called the lower, animal, or carnal pleasures, since they are common to man and beast, and are strongly rebellious against reason. the special virtue of temperance is necessary, then, to make man follow reason, not bacchus or venus. the higher sensible pleasures, on the other hand, are produced by a sensible object, not on account of any relation to venereal or gustatory delight, but on account of a perfection in the object that makes it suitable to the sense (e.g., the enjoyment derived from beautiful scenery, classical music, fragrant roses, or downy or velvety cloth). the esthete or the connoisseur obtains from these agreeable sensations a pleasure unknown to the animals, and one that is not from its nature refractory to reason nor seductive to carnal excess. hence, these higher sensual pleasures are not gross, but refined; they should be moderated by prudence, but they are not so dangerous as to demand a special virtue, like temperance, for their regulation. neither should we class with carnal pleasures the joys of physical well-being, such as the refreshment of sleep, the exhilaration of a sea bath or of a massage, the comfort of a balmy breeze, the ease of strength, or the relaxation of exercise. . the rule of moderation.--the rule of moderation which temperance imposes on the carnal appetites is this: "indulge only as necessity requires and duty allows." for pleasure is a means whose end is some reasonable need of life, and it is therefore a perversion to make pleasure an end by indulging it apart from need and duty (see ). but necessity is to be understood broadly, so as to include not only the essentials, but also the conveniences of life (e.g., seasonings and desserts with food). (a) as to venereal pleasures, then, the rule means that they should not be used outside matrimony, nor in matrimony except for the procreation of children and the other lawful ends of marriage. (b) as to the pleasures of the table, they should not be indulged except for the benefit of mind and body, and in such manner, quantity, quality, etc., as this purpose requires. but one may regulate one's food or drink by the higher purpose of mortification, and partake of less than the body demands here and now. . the excellence of temperance.--(a) temperance is among the four principal or cardinal virtues. it keeps in order one of the passions that is most natural and most necessary for the present life, and among the virtues it excels in the quality of moderation, since it chastens the inclination that is hardest to hold within bounds, and guards the senses, the gateways of the soul (see ). "wisdom teaches temperance, prudence, justice and fortitude, than which there is nothing more useful in life" (wis., viii. ). (b) in its nature temperance is not the chief but the least of the moral virtues. for justice and bravery are of greater service to the common welfare, and the good of the multitude, as aristotle remarks, is more divine than the good of the individual. but in accidental respects temperance has a superiority; for it is more tender and graceful than fortitude, more arduous than justice, and there is perhaps no other virtue whose exercise is so constantly called for. . the vices opposed to temperance.--(a) the vice of deficiency has been called insensibility, and consists in an unreasonable dislike of the inferior sensible pleasures, which makes one unwilling to use them when and as reason commands. thus, the stoics and manichees believed that material joys are intrinsically evil, and there have been fanatical advocates of teetotalism (e.g., the aquarians) and of purity (e.g., the puritans who would not permit a man to kiss his wife on sunday, the prudish and censorious who fear or suspect evil without reason, the pharisees who think they are defiled if a sinner speaks to them, the misogynists who disapprove of marriage). the sin is venial _per se_, since it does not submit to passion; but it may be mortal on account of some circumstance, as when the marriage debt is unjustly refused or necessary nourishment is not taken. this vice is rarer than its opposite, and it must not be confused with austerity, which for the sake of a spiritual good foregoes some lawful but unnecessary sensible enjoyment. (b) the vice of excess is immoderation, which includes gluttony and impurity. this is the most disgraceful of sins, because the most unworthy of a rational being; it enslaves man to pleasures of which the lower animals are capable; unlike other vices, it contains in itself nothing of intelligence, industry, generosity, and nothing that would at all liken it to virtue. the lowest depths of degradation are reached when immoderation is brutish even in its manner, as when one is gluttonous of human flesh or desirous of sodomitic pleasure. immoderation is called by aristotle a "childish sin," because, as a child is eager for pleasures and will follow them unduly unless instructed and trained, so also an immoderate person thinks only of his appetite, and will go from bad to worse unless he accepts the discipline of reason. but the child is excusable, while the immoderate man should know better. immoderation is worse than timidity; for, while the former seeks selfish delight and acts with willing unrestraint, the latter seeks self-preservation and is under some external menace. . the parts of temperance.--(a) the subjective parts or species of temperance are two, since there are two distinct objects of the virtue. these objects are the two delights of touch that are ruled by the virtue, namely, those associated with the nutritive and those associated with the generative function. the first subjective part of temperance includes abstemiousness as to food and sobriety as to drink; the second part includes chastity, as regards the principal sexual act (copulation), and decency or pudicity, as regards the secondary acts (kisses, touches, embraces, etc). (b) the integral parts are also two, since there are two conditions for the perfect exercise of temperance. these conditions are the fear and avoidance of what is disgraceful (shamefacedness, reserve, or delicacy) and the love of what is honorable (virtue of propriety or refinement). shamefacedness is a passion, but, as physical fearlessness is a disposition for moral courage, so is the fear of incurring reproach a preparation for virtue. hence, this delicacy is a laudable passion, and is ascribed chiefly to temperance, whose opposite is chief among things disgraceful. propriety is also assigned to temperance, because it is an attraction towards that which is spiritually good and beautiful, a habit most useful for temperance, which must subordinate the delightful to the good, the carnal to the spiritual. (c) the potential parts of temperance are its minor or servant virtues. they resemble temperance inasmuch as their chief praise is in moderation, but they are inferior to it inasmuch as that which is moderated by them is less recalcitrant than the sexual or gustatory appetites. first among these potential parts are those whose task of moderating, while not of the greatest difficulty, is yet more than ordinarily difficult; and here we have continence, which calms a will agitated by immoderate passion, and meekness, which governs the passion of anger. next among the potential parts are those whose task of moderating offers less or ordinary difficulty, because they keep in order matters less removed from reason. all the virtues of this second group are given the common name of modesty. they are reduced to four: humility and studiosity, which moderate the internal appetites of excellence and of learning respectively; modesty of bearing and modesty of living, which regulate respectively the external acts of the body and the external goods of food, drink, clothing, furnishings, etc. . abstemiousness.--abstemiousness is a virtue that moderates according to reason the desire and enjoyment of the pleasures of the table. (a) it is a special virtue, because the appetite it curbs is very powerful, and on account of the body's need of nourishment is often tempted. (b) it moderates by avoiding both defect and excess in meals as to time, place, quantity, quality, etc. there is not, then, one standard amount of food for all, since the needs and duties of all are not the same, and hence he who takes more or less than is normal or usual cannot from that alone be accused of being unabstemious. neither is the mean for an individual so rigidly fixed as not to permit some latitude within certain limits. it should be noted here too that abstemiousness is not the same thing as abstinence. thus, a person who is immoderately abstinent, denying himself the food necessary for life or for duty or for optional works better than his abstinence, is not abstemious, since he is not guided by prudence or obligation. (c) it moderates according to reason; that is, it decides what is proper for an individual, not merely from the viewpoint of bodily health, vigor, and longevity, as is done by the arts of medicine and hygiene, but also and chiefly from the viewpoints of higher goods, such as mental power, control of passion, austerity. (d) it moderates the pleasures of the table, that is, the desire for and actual enjoyment of food and non-intoxicating beverages. moderation in intoxicants is the special virtue of sobriety, which will be discussed later. hence, a person who drinks too much ginger ale or water, tea or coffee, sins against abstemiousness; he who drinks too much whisky, beer, or wine sins against sobriety. . degrees of abstemiousness.--(a) the lower degree practises temperance, taking sufficient food and drink for the preservation, not only of life and health, but also of the very pink of physical condition, yet so as to avoid all excess. (b) the higher degree practises austerity, taking less than is necessary for the best condition, or strength or comfort of the body, but sufficient for life and health. the austere person eats less than he could reasonably take, but not less than his health and work demand. the subtraction he makes in his food will more likely benefit his health in the long run and promote longevity, for, in the wise words of old galen, "abstemiousness is the best medicine." but even though this austerity be slightly detrimental to health, or may slightly abbreviate life, it is still lawful, since the higher goods of the mind and of virtue may always be secured at such reasonable sacrifice of corporal goods (see sqq., sqq.). . austerity.--the two chief forms of austerity in food and drink are fasting and abstinence. (a) nature.--the natural fast is the omission of all eating and drinking, or the omission to receive into the stomach anything whatever that has the nature of food, drink or medicine. the moral fast is the omission to take a certain quantity of food that could be taken without intemperance. abstinence is the omission to take a certain quality of food, such as meat or eggs. (b) kinds.--fast and abstinence are in respect to duration either perpetual (e.g., the abstinence from meat of the carthusians) or temporary (e.g., the abstinence for fridays and other appointed days of the faithful generally); either voluntary (e.g., a fast which one assumes under private vow) or obligatory (e.g., the fasts and abstinences prescribed in the general or particular laws of the church). the ecclesiastical fast and abstinence will be spoken of later when we treat of the precepts of the church and holy communion. . the excellence of fasting and abstinence.--(a) lawfulness.--fasting and abstinence are acts of virtue, for they subdue the unruly flesh, fit the mind for divine contemplation (dan, x. sqq.), satisfy for sins (joel, ii. ), and add weight to prayers (tob., xii. ; judith, iv. ; matt., xvii. ). the greatest men of the old and new testaments practised fasting--moses, samson, elias, john the baptist, and st. paul. our lord himself fasted forty days and forty nights (matt, iv. ). st. paul, therefore, numbers fasting with other virtues: "in fastings, in knowledge, in chastity" (ii cor., vi. ). examples of abstinence are daniel avoiding meat (dan, i. sqq.) and eleazar who died rather than eat forbidden swine flesh (ii mach., vi. sqq.). abstention from solid or liquid nourishment is not a virtue, however, if practised from purely indifferent or evil motives, for example, merely in order to recover health through diet, or to train for an athletic contest, or to preserve shape and beauty, or to commit suicide, or to simulate virtue, or to profess false doctrines or if carried to extremes. the forty-day fasts of moses, elias and of our lord are for our admiration, but very few are able to imitate these examples. (b) obligation.--fasting and abstinence in general are obligatory under natural law, because without them certain necessary ends cannot be obtained. they are remedies for past sins and preservatives against future sins; and, as sin is the common state of man (james, iii. ; gal., v. ), it would be presumptuous to neglect these antidotes. under the positive law fasting and abstinence have been prescribed in detail, and this was necessary since it is the duty of the church to determine the time, manner and other circumstances of natural duties of religion which the natural law itself has not determined. . the sins opposed to abstemiousness.--(a) the sin of deficiency in the matter of food is self-starvation. this is the sin of those who are martyrs to fashion, who in order to have a frail figure follow a diet (e.g., denying oneself all substantial food to reduce obesity) that undermines their constitutions and leaves them a prey to disease. it is also the sin of those who from unwise zeal for rigorous fasting deprive themselves of the necessaries of life, or eat what their stomachs rebel against. this sin does not differ from suicide or bodily injury treated above (see sqq., sqq.). "it is the same thing to kill yourself by slow degrees as to kill yourself in a moment. and he who kills himself by fasting is like one who offers god a sacrifice from stolen property" (st. jerome). (b) the sin of excess in food is gluttony. there is no sin in desiring food or in taking food with satisfaction, for the author of nature has willed that such an essential act as eating should be pleasurable, and it is a fact that digestion and health suffer when food is taken without appetite or a peaceful frame of mind. but the glutton goes to excess by the inordinate and unreasonable enjoyment he takes in feeding himself. . ways of committing gluttony.--there are many ways of committing gluttony, but they can all be reduced to two heads. (a) gluttony in food is excess in the substance, quantity, or quality of the things eaten. the gourmet is extremely fastidious about the substance of his food; he must have the most dainty or costly or rare viands, and nothing else will satisfy him. cannibalism seems to be lawful in extreme necessity, but it is not lawful to kill human beings in order to eat them. the gorger or gourmand may not be particular about the kind of food that is given him, but he desires a large quantity, more than is good for him. the epicure is too hard to please as to quality; even when there is no festal occasion, he must have a great variety of foods and they must be most carefully prepared, so that he may get the utmost joy of the palate. we should not class among gluttons, however, those who require special foods or special cooking for a good reason, as when health or hard work forces one to observe a strict diet. (b) gluttony in eating is excess as to the time or manner of taking food. there is excess about the time when a person is over-eager about the dinner bell, eats before or oftener than he should, or lingers too long at table. there is excess about the manner when a person eats greedily, hurriedly, or selfishly, rushing at his food like a tiger, bolting it like a dog, or depriving others like a pig. . the sinfulness of gluttony.--(a) gluttony is a mortal sin when it is so serious as to turn man away from his end itself, making him prefer his appetite to god. thus, those sin gravely who are such high livers that they are unable to pay their debts, to the serious detriment of creditors; or who gormandize so much that they can do little work and have to spend most of their time in exercising or taking cures; or whose heavy eating is the occasion of serious sins of anger, impurity, or neglect of religious or other duties. to all these apply the words of st. paul (phil., iii. ): "whose god is their belly." to eat until one vomits seems to be a mortal sin, if the vomit is caused by the enormous quantity of food consumed, for such an act seems to be gravely opposed to reason; but there is no grave sin if the vomit is due to the quality of the food or the weakness of the stomach. (b) gluttony in itself is a venial sin since it is a disorder about the means, and not a turning away from the end. this happens when one is inordinately fond of gastronomic joys, but is not prepared to sacrifice grave duties for their sakes. thus, a person who gives too much indulgence to a sweet tooth, or who likes to stuff himself now and then, but who doesn't disable himself or give scandal by his weakness, sins venially. . gluttony as a capital sin.--(a) the first condition of a capital sin is that it be one of the main sources of evil attraction. this condition is verified of gluttony, for all seek happiness, and gluttony contains one of the ingredients of happiness, namely, pleasure in an unusual degree. among all sensual delights those of the palate and stomach are admitted to be, along with those of sexual love, the most intense. the first of the three temptations with which satan assailed christ was that of gluttony (matt., iv. - ). (b) the second condition of a capital vice is that it be the final or motive cause of a large crop of sins. this condition is also verified in gluttony, since the greedy man is so in love with his pet vice that in order to pamper it he is ready to suffer various kinds of evils which he should not permit. evils of soul that are caused by gluttony are: heaviness in the mind, for an overloaded stomach unfits the mind to reflect on higher things or to consider the duty of moderation in rejoicing, in words or in acts (ecclus., ii. ); absurd mirth in the will, a feeling of security and gladness and unrestraint, for the glutton thinks only of his present contentment and does not consider the evils of his sin; loquacity in word, for his mental faculties being dulled and his will hilarious the glutton gives free rein to his tongue, often sinning by detraction, betrayal of secrets, contumely, and blasphemy (prov., x. ); levity in act, for the glutton wishes to give vent to his animal spirits, and he does so by unbecoming jokes and clownishness. evils of body due to gluttony are dirtiness and disease: the glutton is often filthy in his manner of eating, his breath is fetid, he is much occupied with natural necessities, excretion and exgurgitation, and he suffers from gout or indigestion or one of the numerous other maladies that are the price of overindulgence. . sobriety.--sobriety in its strictest sense is a virtue that keeps one to the moderation of temperance in the liking for intoxicating liquors and in their use. (a) thus, sobriety is concerned with intoxicants, that is, with substances that produce a poisonous effect upon the nerves and brain. it is, therefore, a different virtue from abstemiousness, since it has to subdue a vice far more alluring and deleterious than gluttony. alcohol has the same effect as a narcotic drug, for it benumbs both mind and body, sometimes to the point of insensibility, so that those who are under its influence are unable to think, speak or regulate their movements properly; but it gives a feeling of exhilaration and elevation and leaves behind it an insatiable craving, so that those who have once taken too much are very likely to repeat the act. habitual intoxication breaks down both morals and health, and the toper goes to a disgraceful and early grave. (b) sobriety is concerned with liquors, that is, with beverages and medicines. but secondarily it also controls the appetite for narcotics, such as opium, chloroform, tobacco, and the desire to inhale strong liquors or vapors or gases which may produce intoxication. . obligation to practise sobriety.--sobriety should be cultivated by all, but certain ones are more bound to it than others. (a) thus, on account of the greater physical evils of insobriety in their regard, the virtue should be especially cultivated by the young, the old, women, and persons of sedentary life. young people are greatly harmed by too much alcohol, because it stunts their growth and affects them more seriously in mind and body than adults. the old have not the strength to throw off the poison of too much stimulation and are accordingly more injured. women, being more excitable than men, are more easily affected by strong drink, and hence among the ancient romans females abstained from wine. finally, those who lead a sedentary or indoor life do not so easily get the poison out of their systems, and they feel the evil effects more than those who live out of doors or who engage in manual work. but there is no constitution, however iron it may be, that is not conquered in the end by alcoholism. (b) on account of the greater spiritual ills that result from their insobriety, the virtue of soberness is more imperative in certain individuals. thus, there are some who do greater spiritual harm to themselves by intoxication, for example, the young, whose passions are more easily inflamed, and females, who are more readily taken advantage of; and hence st. paul recommends sobriety to women and young men particularly (i tim., iii. ; tit., ii. ). there are also some who do greater harm to others by intoxication, such as those who should instruct others (tit., ii. ), or who should give good example (i tim., iii. ), or who are rulers over the people (prov., xxxi. ). . the sins against sobriety.--(a) the sin of excess may be called, for want of a special name, over-sobriety. it is committed by those who condemn all liking for or enjoyment of intoxicants as intrinsically evil (e.g., the manichees, who said that wine was the gall of the devil); also by those who deny to themselves or others intoxicants when the use of them is necessary (e.g., the encratites, who would allow only water for the eucharist, or a fanatical teetotaler who would see a man die rather than give him a necessary dose of whisky). (b) the sin of deficiency against sobriety is drunkenness, which is a voluntary and unjustified loss of the use of reason brought on by the consumption of too much intoxicating liquor. drunkenness as a sin (active drunkenness), therefore, is to be distinguished from drunkenness as a condition (passive drunkenness). there is active drunkenness or the sin of drunkenness when intoxication is both voluntary and inexcusable; there is passive drunkenness or the mere state of drunkenness when one or the other of these two conditions is lacking. usually those who sin by drunkenness seek the pleasure or forgetfulness which potations bring, but this is not essential, it seems, to the sin of inebriety; the malice of drunkenness is found not merely in the excessive pleasure, but especially in the subordination of spirit to the flesh and in the damage done to mind and body. hence, a person who yields to the insistence of a banquet companion that he drink wine which is disgusting to him, is guilty of drunkenness if he takes too much. . cases of mere passive drunkenness.--(a) involuntary drunkenness.--this occurs when there is invincible ignorance of fact (e.g., when an adult becomes intoxicated in good faith, because he had no reason to suspect that a cocktail or eggnog was very strong, or that his stomach was very weak), or of law (e.g., when a child gets drunk because he does not know that it is wrong to do so), or when there is lack of intention (e.g., when drink is forced on a person who does not want it). (b) excusable drunkenness.--this occurs according to most theologians when there is a proportionately grave reason which justifies the evil of intoxication (see sqq.). such grave reasons are the saving of life (e.g., to escape death from snake bite), the cure of serious disease (e.g., cholera or influenza), the avoidance or mitigation of severe suffering (e.g., before a surgical operation, or after a very painful accident, or when there is no other means of helping a grave case of insomnia). in all these cases it is generally admitted that one may bring on unconsciousness by the use of anesthetics and sedatives (such as chloroform, ether, morphine, opium); and there is no reason why we should not view intoxicants also in the light of remedies which may be taken on the advice of physicians or other competent persons if other remedies cannot be had. some theologians, however, refuse to excuse intoxication for any reason, since they regard drunkenness as intrinsically evil. in addition to the excuses just mentioned some also give that of escape from violent death, as when a burglar threatens to kill unless those present make themselves helpless by intoxication. but all agree that intoxication is not excused by ordinary advantages, such as escape from slight physical pain (e.g., toothache, seasickness), nor by the desire to avoid what can be avoided by other and more suitable means (e.g., worry about one's troubles, an unpleasant meeting or conversation). . the morality of total abstinence.--(a) obligation.--_per se_, there is no obligation of abstaining from every or any kind of intoxicating beverage, either perpetually or temporarily, for food and drink were intended by god for the use of man and the moderate use of intoxicants, especially when the percentage of alcohol is light, is found by many to be a help to digestion, a refreshing stimulant, an excellent tonic and remedy. the example of our lord, who changed water into wine, who partook of wine at banquets, and who made wine one of the elements of the most sacred of rites, is proof that it is not sinful to drink strong liquors. this is also clearly taught in the bible, which praises moderate drinking of wine (ecclus., xxxi ), recommends that a little be taken for a weak stomach (i tim., v. ), and declares that it is not what enters the mouth that defiles (matt., xv. ). but, _per accidens_, there is an obligation of total abstinence when a greater good requires that one sacrifice intoxicants, whether the good be of self (e.g., when intoxicants are a serious danger to one's health or morals, or when one is bound by vow or pledge to abstain from them) or of another (e.g., when the use of intoxicants gives serious scandal, rom., xiv. ). if the common safety is seriously imperilled through drunkenness, and obligatory abstinence can be enforced and will be the most reasonable method of correcting the evil, we can see no objection to prohibition laws. but whether these conditions exist in this or that particular place or case is a question of fact and has to be decided by impartial study. (b) lawfulness.--_per se_, it is also permissible to abstain freely from all intoxicants, for the sake of some higher good (e.g., in order the better to apply the mind to studies, ecclus., ii. ), to silence calumnious tongues, to practise mortification, or to give good example. but, _per accidens_, it is not lawful to abstain when law (e.g., in the celebration of mass) or necessity (e.g., a man dying from influenza who cannot be saved without whiskey) requires one to drink spirits. examples of total abstinence are the nazarites (num., vi. ), samson (judges, xiii. ), judith (jud., xii. , ), and john the baptist (luke, i. ). . degrees of the sin of drunkenness.--(a) the sin of perfect or complete drunkenness is a voluntary excess in intoxicants carried so far that one loses temporarily the use of reason. this does not mean that one must become insensible or fall in a stupor or be unable to walk or have delirium tremens (dead drunk), but only that one loses the mental power to direct oneself morally, even though one still retains enough judgment to direct oneself physically (e.g., to cross the street or ascend the stairs safely, or to find one's own quarters without help). the indications of perfect drunkenness are that the intoxicated person no longer distinguishes between right and wrong, perpetrates evils he would abhor in his right senses (e.g., beats his wife, runs down a pedestrian, blasphemes, or provokes quarrels), and cannot remember on sobering up the chief things he said or did while drunk. (b) the sin of imperfect or incomplete drunkenness is a voluntary excess in intoxicants carried so far that one is somewhat confused in mind, but does not lose the use of reason. hence, a person who is physically impeded though not mentally incapable on account of drink, who staggers, speaks incoherently, or sees uncertainly, but who knows that he should not beat his wife, or kill, or blaspheme, or quarrel, etc., is imperfectly drunk. there are also circumstances that aggravate the evil of perfect or imperfect drunkenness. thus, it is worse to be a toper or habitual drunkard than to be an occasional drunkard, and worse to go on a long spree than to be drunk only for an evening. . malice of the sin of drunkenness.--(a) perfect drunkenness is a mortal sin, because it is a grave disorder to deprive oneself of moral judgment and thus expose oneself to the danger of perpetrating serious crimes and injuries. moreover, it is a monstrous thing to despoil oneself unnecessarily of reason, the greatest natural good of man, and to make oneself for the time being a maniac, more like a beast than a human being. st. paul declares that those who would put on christ must put away drunkenness with other works of darkness (rom., xiii. ), and that drunkards shall not inherit the kingdom of god (gal, v. ). the opinion that perfect drunkenness is only venial if not habitual is now obsolete, and the opinion that perfect drunkenness is not mortal unless it lasts a considerable time (say, more than an hour) is commonly rejected; for the essential malice of drunkenness depends on its nature, not on its frequency or duration. a person who takes enough to make himself completely drunk and then escapes the consequences by artificial means (e.g., by using a drug or bringing on a vomit), does not sin mortally by drunkenness; but it seems that such a swinish person must sin mortally by reason of gluttony, injury to health, or scandal. (b) imperfect drunkenness is a venial sin, because the harm done is not considerable, for a tipsy man usually suffers nothing more than a slightly fuddled brain and some unsteadiness of body. indeed, if wine or beer produces nothing more than a spirit of moderate hilarity and talkativeness, there is no sin. accidentally, imperfect drunkenness may be a mortal sin by reason of circumstances, as when the person who is intoxicated gives great scandal on account of his position or office, or when the motive is to inflame passion or to commit other serious sin, or when the drunkenness is constantly repeated, or when the drunkard seriously neglects his business, family, or religious duties, or does other grave harm in consequence of his love of the bottle. in fact, there may be grave sin when one is not intoxicated at all, but is only a tippler. for the habit of drinking alcoholic beverages frequently (e.g., a nip or dram of whisky several times a day) is, according to medical authority, more harmful to the system (alcoholism) than intoxication at long intervals, especially if the portion is generous and the drinker is young. . drunkenness compared with other sins.--(a) it is not the worst of sins. sins against the theological virtues are more wicked, since they offend against divine good, whereas drunkenness is against human good. many sins against the moral virtues are worse, since they injure a greater human good; for example, it is more harmful to take away life than to suspend the use of reason. (b) it is one of the most ruinous of sins in its consequences (see , ): first, for society, since a large percentage of crime, insanity, destitution, and misery is due to intemperance; secondly, to religion, since indulgence in one sensual pleasure sharpens the appetite for others, while creating a distaste for spiritual things, for effort and self-sacrifice; thirdly, to the intellect, for strong drink steals away the mind and memory; fourthly, to the body, for drunkenness not only prostrates the nervous system at the moment and has most painful after-effects in bursting headaches and disabled stomach, but it also causes permanent disasters (to brain, heart, nerves, kidneys, and liver), weakens the resistance to disease and brings on an early death; fifthly, to goods of fortune, since drunkards squander their all for drink; sixthly, to posterity, since intemperate parents transmit constitutional weakness to their children. . responsibility of drunkard for sins committed while intoxicated.--(a) if the drunkenness is fully voluntary and culpable, he is responsible for all the sins he foresaw or should have foreseen; for then these sins are willed in their cause (see sqq.). hence one who is accustomed while under the influence of liquor to blaspheme, betray secrets, quarrel, etc., should confess that he committed them while drunk, or that he was prepared to commit them in getting drunk. under similar conditions one who misses mass because he was drunk is responsible for the omission; one who is too drunk to attend to a business appointment and thereby causes loss to another is held to restitution. but, if grave sins are foreseen only in a very confused way, generally they will be imputable only as venial in themselves. (b) if the drunkenness is fully voluntary and culpable, but the sins that ensued were not foreseen and could not humanly have been foreseen, the drunkard is excused at least in part from the guilt of these sins. hence, a person who gets drunk for the first time or who usually sleeps after getting drunk is not responsible for the bad language he uses, if the thought of profanity was farthest from his mind when he became drunk. but if this person was not completely drunk and had some realization of the malice and scandal of bad language, he is at least venially guilty of profanity and scandal. (c) if the drunkenness was involuntary, the drunken person is excused entirely in case of complete drunkenness; he is excused partially in case of incomplete drunkenness that did not exclude some realization of the sinfulness of what he said or did while intoxicated (see canon , § ). in the civil law drunkenness is not held to be an excuse for a criminal act, but it may negative a specific intent (robinson, _elements of law_, §§ , , ). . material coöperation in the sin of drunkenness--(a) if there is no grave reason for the coöperation, it is illicit. mere hospitality is not a sufficient reason for furnishing a table with a great supply of strong drinks when some of the guests are dipsomaniacs, and mere good fellowship does not justify one who has been treated to order another round of treats if some of the drinkers are already inebriated. parents or others in authority who get drunk before their subjects are guilty of scandal; those who encourage drunkenness are guilty of seduction; those who supply others with drink in order that these may become drunkards are guilty of formal coöperation. (b) if there is a grave reason for coöperation, it is not illicit ( sqq., sqq.). whether it is lawful to persuade another to get sinfully drunk in order to keep him from the commission of a greater evil (e.g., homicide or sacrilege), is a disputed question (see ). . is it lawful to make another person drunk when he will be guiltless of sin, and there is a grave reason? (a) according to one opinion this is not lawful, because drunkenness, like impurity, is intrinsically evil and never permissible, since the end does not justify the means. hence, just as it would be wrong to induce a drunken person to impurity, so it would also be wrong to intoxicate a child or an insane person (see ). (b) according to the common opinion, it is lawful to intoxicate oneself for a grave reason (see b), and hence also it is lawful to intoxicate another for a similar reason. thus, if a criminal were about to blow up a building and destroy many lives, it would be permissible or even obligatory to put powerful intoxicants into his drink so as to make him helpless. if one were about to be roasted by cannibals and could escape by making the cannibals drunk, it would not be sinful to make them drunk. . licit use of narcotics.--there are a great many substances that produce the same effects on mind and body as intoxicating liquors, namely, the narcotic poisons, such as morphine, opium, chloroform, ether, or laughing gas. to them then will apply the principles given above in reference to strong drink. thus, it would be a serious sin to make oneself insensible by using morphine, if there were no just reason; but it is lawful to take ether for an operation, gas when having a tooth pulled, morphine when it is ordered by a physician to relieve pain, etc. in his address of feb. , to a symposium of the italian society of anaesthesiology (_the pope speaks_, summer, , pp. ff.) pope pius xii considered some special aspects of the use of drugs in the practice of analgesis. among the questions submitted to him for consideration were the following: ) is there a general moral obligation to refuse analgesis and to accept physical pain in a spirit of faith? after indicating that in certain cases the acceptance of physical suffering is a matter of serious obligation, the pope responded that there was no conflict with the spirit of faith to avoid pain by the use of narcotics. pain can and does prevent the achievement of higher goods and interests and may licitly be avoided; obviously, too, the pain may be willingly accepted in fulfillment of the christian duty of renunciation and of interior purification. ) is it lawful for the dying or the sick who are in danger of death to make use of narcotics when there are medical reasons for their use? the pope responded; "yes--provided that no other means exist, and if, in the given circumstances, that action does not prevent the carrying out of other moral and religious duties." the duties referred to include settling important business, making a will, or going to confession. (should a dying man refuse first to attend to these duties and persist in asking for narcotics, the doctor can administer the drugs without rendering himself guilty of formal co-operation in the fault committed, which results, not from the narcotics but from the immoral will of the patient.) among the conditions and circumstances laid down for the licit use of narcotics in the case in question are the following: "if the dying person has received the last sacraments, if medical reasons clearly suggest the use of anaesthesia, if in delivering the dose the permitted amount is not exceeded, if the intensity and duration of the treatment is carefully reckoned, and finally, if the patient consents to it, then there is no objection, the use of anaesthesia is morally permissible." ) can narcotics be used even if the lessening of pain probably be accompanied by a shortening of life? the pope responded that "every form of direct euthanasia, that is, the administration of a narcotic in order to produce or hasten death, is unlawful because in that case one presumes to dispose directly of life . . . if between the narcotics and the shortening of life there exists no direct causal link, imposed either by the intention of the interested parties or by the nature of things (as would be the case if the suppression of the pain could be attained only by the shortening of life), and if, on the contrary, the administration of narcotics produces two distinct effects, one, the relief of pain and the other the shortening of life, then the action is lawful. however it must be determined whether there is a reasonable proportion between these two effects and whether the advantages of the one effect compensate for the disadvantages of the other. it is important also to ask oneself whether the present state of science does not make it possible for the same result to be obtained by other means. finally, in the use of the narcotics, one should not go beyond the limits which are actually necessary." . the virtue of purity.--as abstemiousness and sobriety preside over the pleasures of the self-preservative instinct, so purity governs those that pertain to the species-preservative instinct. purity is an inclusive name for the virtues of chastity and decency or pudicity, and its office is to regulate proximately the internal movements of the soul (thoughts and desires) and remotely the external words and acts that have to do with sexual delights. (a) chastity in its strictest sense is a virtue that moderates or chastens through reason venereal pleasure, chiefly as to its principal or consummated act (i.e., intercourse, semination) or as to its principal bodily centers (i.e., the genital organs). hence, there is a twofold chastity, conjugal and celibate: conjugal chastity abstains from unnatural pleasure, and uses the natural reasonably in marriage; celibate chastity abstains from all venereal pleasure, as being unlawful in the single state. (b) decency (_pudicitia_) in its strictest sense is a virtue that moderates by the sense of shame venereal pleasure chiefly in its secondary or non-consummated external acts (e.g., looks, conversations, touches, embraces, kisses), which are related to the principal act as being an enticement to it, its preparation, or its external sign and accompaniment. the conjugal act, though lawful, occasions a feeling of shame, and the same is true of the non-consummated acts; but decency is especially concerned with these latter, because they are usually more openly performed than the consummated act. decency means, then, that manifestations of carnal desire should be conducted with a sense that this desire arises from a lower and rebellious passion, removed in itself farthest from reason, and not more suited for unrestrained expression or public exhibition than other lower animal acts. the sense of shame and decency is a protection to the virtue of the unmarried and the married, restraining the former from the unlawful and holding the latter to moderation in the use of the lawful. . chastity and decency are not separate virtues; rather decency is a circumstance of chastity. (a) thus, chastity moderates also the secondary acts, for reason must chastise the pleasure that is taken in these acts, if this passion is to be kept in due bounds, (b) decency moderates also the primary act, for in the use of marriage there should be nothing unworthy, nothing to bring a blush of confusion. . virginity.--the highest form of chastity is virginity, which is a purity unblemished that retains the bloom of its original innocence. conjugal chastity uses venereal pleasures moderately and virtuously; virginity abstains from them entirely and virtuously. virginity is threefold. (a) virginity of body is freedom from corruption in the genitals, which means that a male has never had sexual intercourse, that the hymen of a female is inviolate. this physical purity belongs to the virtue of virginity accidentally, seeing that it is the result or indication of the virtue; but it does not belong to the virtue essentially, since virtue is in the soul, not in the body. hence, one may be virginal in body without the virtue of virginity (e.g., a new-born infant), or vice versa (e.g., a woman vowed to virginity who has been raped). (b) virginity of the lower part of the soul (the passions) is freedom from venereal pleasure voluntarily experienced. primarily, this refers to pleasure in consummated acts, secondarily to pleasure in non-consummated acts and internal acts of thought and desire. this kind of purity belongs to the virtue of virginity essentially, since sexual pleasures are the material element or subject-matter of virginity, whose office it is to exclude all indulgence of them. hence, a person who has had even one voluntary experience of these satisfactions, lawful or gravely unlawful, has lost virginity permanently, though the virtue of chastity may remain or may be recovered. for virginity cannot continue when its subject-matter has been removed. it should be noted that involuntary pleasures, as in nocturnal pollution or in rape or in passive spermic discharges, are not detrimental to the virtue of virginity. (c) virginity of the higher part of the soul (the mind) is the intention to abstain from every venereal act in the future. this purity of soul also belongs to the virtue of virginity essentially, being its formal element, since acts of the sensitive appetites are made moral and virtuous only from the direction and influence of reason and will. hence, one who has had no experience of voluntary carnal pleasure, but who intends to marry and use its rights or to act unchastely, has not in the first case the virtue of virginity, or in the second case the virtue of chastity. . loss of virginity.--physical or bodily virginity once lost can never be recovered, for this virginity means that a certain bodily action or passion has not occurred, whereas the loss means that such action or passion has occurred. of course, a miracle could restore bodily integrity. but a more important question is this: is moral virginity, or the virtue of virginity, also irrecoverable? (a) if the virtue has been lost as to its chief material element, it cannot be recovered. this material element (i.e., the absence of all voluntary seminal experience) cannot be restored, for even god cannot make what has been experienced a non-actuality. however, it should be noted once for all that loss of virginity does not necessarily imply loss of conjugal chastity, and that lost chastity may be recovered by repentance. (b) if virginity has been lost as to its formal element, and the intention not to abstain was unlawful and naturally, though not actually, productive of semination (e.g., copulation of a completely aspermatic adult, or internal and intense libidinous sin from which accidentally pollution does not result), it seems that the virtue cannot be recovered. for in these cases the sinner wills, at least indirectly, the loss of the chief material element of virginity, and it seems repugnant to reason to ascribe the glory of virginity to one who has sinned in this way. non expedit regulariter monere poenitentes de eorum virginitate irreparabiliter amissa, sed præstat quærentibus respondere omnia peccata remitti de quibus contritio habeatur. (c) if virginity has been lost as to its formal element and the intention not to abstain was lawful (e.g., a maid not under vow decided to marry and have children, but changed her mind and decided to remain single), or was unlawful but neither naturally nor actually productive of semination (e.g., external unchastity of a child incapable through impuberty of emissions, or internal and only mildly exciting unchastity of an adult), the virtue may be recovered, certainly in the first case and probably also in the second case. for the matter of virginity is certainly not taken away by the mere intention to have lawful venereal pleasure, nor probably even by pleasures that do not tend to semination. recovery of virginity is made in the one case by the retractation of contrary intention and in the other case by repentance and renewal of good purpose. . conditions necessary for the virtue of virginity.--(a) as to its manner, it seems more probable that this purpose must be expressed as a vow. the reason for this according to some is that virginity is a special virtue only because of the sacred character which religion gives it, and according to others also because of the unshakable renunciation which is conferred by a vow. but it is also held as probable that unvowed virginity may be called a lesser degree of the special virtue of virginity, at least, it is a higher degree of the virtue of chastity. (b) as to its motive, virginity must be justified by an extrinsic reason. chastity is justified by its own end, which is reasonable moderation. virginity, on the contrary, is not self-justificatory, since in itself it is unfruitful and without advantage. hence, it is not praiseworthy unless it serves some higher good than that of propagation, such as a good of the mind (e.g., plato remained single for the sake of philosophy) or of the will (e.g., the new testament recommends virginity for the sake of greater devotion to the things of god). virginity that results from mere contempt for sensible pleasure would be an excess, and continence embraced merely to escape the burdens of marriage and to lead an easy, self-indulgent, irresponsible life would be selfishness; but virginity followed from an ideal of self-sacrifice which reason approves observes the golden mean (see pius xii, _sacra virginitas_, march , ). . the excellence of virginity.-(a) virginity has the highest rank among the various forms of chastity. every kind of chastity (pre-nuptial, conjugal, vidual) is of great importance, because to this virtue is entrusted the right propagation of the entire race and the moral and physical health of the individual in the most insistent of passions. the material reproduction of the race is indeed a more urgent need than virginity, since without it the human species would die out; and if there were danger of race extinction, it would be more imperative to marry than to remain continent. but if we confine our attention to the ordinary course of things and compare virginity and non-virginal chastity from the viewpoint of nobility, it must be said virginity is more valuable both to the community and to the individual than the other kinds of chastity. it is more valuable to the community, since the example of its excellence is a protection to public morals, and its permanence gives the opportunity for a more general and ready service of society. it is more valuable to the individual, since to be occupied with the things of god is better than to be engrossed in the things of the world, and the unmarried have the opportunity to devote more time with less distraction to higher things. scripture affirms the superiority of virginity to marriage by its teaching (e.g., our lord in matt., xix. , counsels virginity; st. paul in i cor., vii. sqq., says that it is the better and more blessed state), by its examples (our lord, the blessed virgin, st. john the baptist, st. john the evangelist, and in the old dispensation josue, elias, eliseus, jeremias), and by its promised rewards (apoc., xiv. ). a popular philosophy of materialism today makes repressed sex-urges responsible for hysteria and other emotional disturbances, but experience proves that continence benefits both psychical and physical health. (b) virginity does not rank first among all the virtues. the theological virtues surpass it, being its goal; martyrdom and religious obedience are greater, because they sacrifice the superior goods of life and of the will. it may happen, then, that a person in the married state or a penitent (luke, vii. sqq.) is personally more holy than one dedicated to continence; a married person or penitent may surpass a virgin in faith, hope and charity, and may be therefore, simply speaking, more perfect. . the sin of impurity.--this sin, which is also known as lust, is an inordinate desire of sexual pleasure. (a) its object is sexual pleasure, that is, the sense of physical enjoyment in the bodily organs or of psychical satisfaction in the lower appetites of the soul derived from acts related to generation. hence, we should distinguish impurity from sensuality (which is an inordinate attachment to esthetic pleasure or other higher sense-pleasure), from luxury (which is an excessive desire of health and comfort), and from the vice called curiosity (which is an over-fondness for intellectual delights, see ). but it should be noted that sensual pleasure easily leads to venereal delight, and that intellectual curiosity about sex matters is dangerous, and hence this sensuality and curiosity may be, and frequently are, a temptation to impurity (see below on temptations to impurity). (b) impurity is in desire, for the passions in themselves are indifferent (see ), and they become sinful only when their abuse is consented to by the will. (c) impurity is inordinate; that is, it takes pleasure against lhe dictate of reason. this happens when sexual gratifications are indulged by the unmarried, or by the married in unnatural ways. it is a perversion and a sin to cheat the stomach in order to gratify the palate, because god willed that the pleasure of eating should serve the nourishment of the body, or, as the proverb has it, because man does not live to eat, but eats to live. now, sex pleasure has been ordained by god as an inducement to perform an act which has for its purpose the propagation and education of children, duties that cannot be rightly attended to except in the married state. hence, those who seek venereal pleasure outside of matrimony, or outside the way intended by nature, act unreasonably, for they sacrifice the end for the means. instinct guides the animal aright in these matters, but man is a nobler creature and must guide himself by religion and reason. . kinds of impurity.--(a) impurity is consummated when the act is continued to its natural conclusion and complete venereal satisfaction is had. this occurs in semination, which is the termination of the process set up by the impure thought and desire and the realization of its full pleasure. semination occurs either in the process of coition, or in extracoitional issues known as "pollution." equivalent to semination, morally speaking, are other emissions or secretions that accompany complete or almost complete gratification, but in which the fluid is not prolific (e.g., the urethral emissions in boys who have not attained puberty or in eunuchs, the vaginal flow in women, urethral distillations). consummated impurity is either natural (that is, suitable for reproduction, the end intended by nature), as in fornication or adultery, or unnatural (that is, not suited for reproduction), as in sodomy or pollution. (b) impurity is non-consummated when not carried to its natural conclusion of complete satisfaction and semination. there are two classes of the non-consummated sins, namely, the internal (as in thoughts and desires) and the external or lewdness (as in words, looks, kisses). this happens without carnal commotion (e.g., when a frigid old man thinks with mental pleasure only on the wild deeds of his youth), or with carnal commotion, that is, with an excitement and stimulation in the genital organs that prepares the way for semination. . gravity of the sin of impurity.--(a) impurity is a mortal sin, because it is a disorder that affects a good of the highest importance (viz, the propagation of the race), and brings in its train public and private, moral and physical, evils of the most serious kind. man has no more right to degrade his body by lust than he has to kill it by suicide, for god is the absolute lord over the body and he severely forbids impurity of every kind. those who do the works of the flesh, whether according to nature (e.g., fornicators and adulterers) or against nature (e.g., sodomites) or by unconsummated sin (e.g., the unclean, the impure), shall not obtain the kingdom of god (gal., v. ; i cor., vi. sqq.), nor have any inheritance with christ (eph., v. ). (b) impurity is not the worst of sins, because sins against god (e.g., hatred of god, sacrilege) are more heinous than sins against created goods, and sins of malice are more inexcusable than sins of passion or frailty. but carnal sins are peculiarly disgraceful on account of their animality (see b, ), and in a christian they are a kind of profanation, since his body has been given to christ in baptism and the other sacraments (i cor., vi. - ). (c) impurity is one of the seven capital vices. the capital sins have a preeminence in evil, as the cardinal virtues have a superiority in good. the preeminence in evil is due, first, to some special attractiveness of a vice that makes it an end for the commission of other sins, which are used as means to it or are incurred for its sake; or, secondly, to a power and influence that is so strong as to hurry those under its sway into various kinds of sin. now, impurity is a moral disease that ravages every part of the soul, its deadly effects appearing in the reason, the will and external speech; for the more one subjects oneself to the dominion of passion, the less fitted does one become for the higher and nobler things of life; and the more ignoble the inner life, the more vulgar, cheap and degrading will be the conversation. hence, the fathers trace back to impurity the following sins of imprudence in the mind: wrong apprehension, about the end or purpose of life, and precipitancy in deliberation, thoughtlessness in decision, inconstancy in direction, in reference to the means to the end (see sqq.). they also trace to impurity the following sins in the will: as to the end, voluptuarism (which subordinates all to fleshly pleasure) and hatred of god (which abhors the supreme lawgiver who forbids and punishes lust); as to the means, love of the present and horror of the future life (since the carnal man revels in bodily pleasures and dreads the thought of death and judgment). finally, they trace the following sins of the tongue to the vice of impurity: the subject of the lewd man's talk is filthy, for out of the heart the mouth speaketh (matt., xii. ), the expression itself is foolish, since passion clouds his mind, the origin of his talk is emptiness of mind which shows itself in frivolous words, and his purpose is unsuitable amusement, which leads to farcical or vulgar jokes. . evil fruits of impurity.--in addition to these moral consequences, impurity is also prolific of many other evil fruits. (a) thus, for the sinner himself it is like a cruel goad that constantly annoys him and takes away his peace (st. ambrose), like a sword that kills the nobler instincts (st. gregory the great), like a descent from human dignity to a condition below the beasts (st. eusebius of caesarea). (b) for society it is disastrous in many ways, since it propagates dread mental and physical diseases, disrupts the peace of families, brings disgrace and destitution on innocent children, eats away fortunes and leads up to innumerable crimes of injustice and violence. . is impurity ever a venial sin?--(a) by reason of the imperfection of the act, impurity is venial when there is no sufficient deliberation or consent. invincible ignorance in reference to the sixth commandment itself sometimes happens, especially in reference to internal sins of thought, to external sins of pollution if the person is young, and to other external sins when there is some complication of circumstances (e.g., kissing and other intimacy by engaged persons, onanism when married persons are poor or the woman sickly); and more frequently there is invincible ignorance about details of the sixth commandment (e.g., about the precise theological or moral malice of what is known to he sinful). (b) by reason of the matter, impurity according to the common teaching is always mortal if directly willed, but sometimes venial if only indirectly willed. impurity is directly willed when one posits an act intending to obtain from it unlawful venereal delectation, or perceives that such delectation is already present and consents to it. no matter how brief this voluntary assent, no matter how slight the commotion of the animal nature, no matter how far from the consummated is the impure act in question, there is always a serious injury done to a great good or at least (exception is made for the case of married persons) the proximate danger of such injury, and hence mortal sin (see ). that even slight yielding to impurity is a serious peril is the teaching of scripture (which declares that lust has killed even the strongest, prov., vii. ), of the church (which condemns the opinion that libidinous kisses are not dangerous, see denzinger, enchiridion, n. ), of theology (which reminds us that by original sin reason has been darkened, the will enfeebled and the passions strengthened), and of experience (which shows that those who expose themselves to passion's flame will be burnt). a small spark of fire is not trivial in the vicinity of a powder magazine, a minute flaw in a machine is not unimportant if it may bring on disaster, a first step is not safe if it is made on a slippery downward declivity. (c) impurity is indirectly willed when deliberately and without sufficient reason one posits an act which is not venereal pleasure (whether the act be good, such as a prayer made with great sensible fervor, or bad, such as gluttony, or indifferent, such as reading a book, looking at a picture, taking a bath), but which produces foreseen venereal pleasure (consummated or non-consummated) that one neither intends nor directly consents to. impurity thus indirectly willed is sinful, because the pleasure is foreseen and permitted without sufficient reason (see ), or in other words because one exposes oneself to danger of internal defilement (consent), or external pollution without justification (see ). indirect impurity is mortal when there is proximate danger of grave sin in the act done, that is, when the posited act _per se_ or from its nature strongly incites the agent to sexual passion, as when one gazes long and fixedly at obscene pictures, knowing that always or nearly always this arouses impure emotions. the sin is venial when there is only remote danger of grave sin. this happens when the posited act is not of a venereal kind (an unnecessary conversation on indifferent topics) or is only mildly exciting (e.g., a passing glance at an obscene object), or when the agent himself is not greatly affected by it (e.g., when an old man, or one who is of very cold disposition, or an artist whose only thought is the esthetic excellence, carefully studies a picture of the nude). . temptations to impurity.--before treating the various kinds of impurity, we shall speak briefly of temptations that occasion this sin and of the duties of the person tempted. (a) external temptation comes from the devil or the world, and the duty of struggling against it has been treated elsewhere (see , sqq., sqq.). thus, he who finds that certain persons, places or things are for him a temptation to impurity must be guided by the principles given for occasions of sin ( sqq.); he who finds that another wishes to seduce him into impurity must refuse all internal consent (see sqq.), and must also resist violence when there is hope of success, or when this is necessary to avoid giving scandal or yielding consent (see on self-defense, ). (b) internal temptation comes from the flesh. it consists in inchoative disturbances or excitements of the organs or fluids that serve generation (e.g., erections, clitoral movements). sometimes it is produced involuntarily, without any intention or consent of the will, by physiological states (e.g., conditions of the blood, nerves, etc., due solely to the weather, to disease, to aphrodisiac properties of ailment, to clothing, or position) or by psychical states (e.g., spontaneous images or appetites of the soul mentioned in ), and in these cases the temptation is manifestly free from all sin. st. pius v condemned the teaching of baius that those who suffer motions of concupiscence against their will are transgressors of the command: "thou shalt not covet" (see denziger, enchiridion, nn. , , ). sometimes the temptation is directly voluntary, as when the passion is deliberately awakened for the purpose of sin, and then there is grave guilt (see b). sometimes the temptation is indirectly voluntary, as when with the foresight of the passion but without desire of it an action is performed that arouses it. in this last case, if there is a just reason for the excitatory action (e.g., a physician sees and hears things that are calculated to be a temptation, but his reason is the exercise of his profession), no sin is committed; but if there is no just reason for the action (e.g., a person reads an erotic book, and curiosity is his only motive), sin is committed, and its gravity depends on the amount of danger to which one exposes oneself (see c). . resistance to internal temptations.--the fight against internal temptations is of various kinds. (a) by reason of its subject, the conflict is chiefly in the will, to which it belongs to give or withhold consent; secondarily, in the other powers of the soul and the body, which under command from the will perform acts designed to overcome temptation. (b) by reason of its manner, the conflict is either removal of the temptation (i.e., cessation from an act which produces the temptation) or resistance, passive or active. passive resistance is the suspension of activity relative to the temptation till it ends of itself, as when internally the will neither consents nor dissents, or externally nothing is done for or against the temptation. active resistance is positive opposition offered to temptation. it is made in two ways: first, by way of flight, as when internally the mind turns away to other thoughts (e.g., absorbing studies, meditation on the passion of christ), or the will devotes itself to other subjects of resolve (e.g., acts of love of god or of purity), or externally the body is removed or freed from conditions that excite temptation; secondly, by way of attack, as when internally the mind turns against the temptation (e.g., thinking of its dangers, calling on god to drive it away), or the will rejects the temptation (e.g., by despising it, by expressing dislike, disapproval and unwillingness, by firmly resolving not to yield, by deciding on measures against the passion), or when externally the body is subjected to pain or mortification. (c) by reason of its circumstances, resistance to temptation is either prolonged, as when the act by which the will resists is of considerable duration or is renewed at frequent intervals, or is brief, as when the act of rejection is momentary and is not repeated. . what opposition to temptation is sufficient?--opposition to temptations of the flesh must be sufficient to remove the temptation, when the temptation is due to the continuance of one's own sinful or unjustified act; for one is obliged to cease from sin or the unreasonable. this happens (a) when the temptation is directly voluntary--for example, one who wished to experience temptation and therefore reads a very seductive book must give over this reading; or (b) when the temptation is not directly voluntary and is without sufficient reason--for example, one who experiences carnal temptation due to a book which he reads from idle curiosity must desist from the book. but one is not bound to omit or interrupt necessary or useful acts, such as rest and sleep, prayer and charity; consent should be denied the evil, but the good should be continued. . insufficient, harmful and unnecessary opposition.--in other cases opposition to temptations of the flesh must be such as is sufficient to keep one from consent, that is, to protect one against the proximate danger of sin. (a) hence, that resistance is insufficient which does not strengthen the will. it seems that passive will-resistance is of this kind, since it is most difficult for the will to remain inactive in the presence of carnal stimulation or motions of the sensible appetites without being moved by the evil suggestion. in external resistance, however, passive opposition suffices when it alone is feasible, as when temptation grows out of necessary work, or rest that cannot be discontinued or interrupted by active resistance, provided the will registers internally its displeasure or disapproval; but external passivity is not permissible when the will needs the help of external resistance, as in the case of vehement and prolonged temptations. (b) that resistance is harmful which strengthens the temptation. hence, resistance by direct attack or by formal rejection is oftentimes to be omitted in favor of resistance by flight or by contempt; for it is a common teaching of the fathers and doctors confirmed by experience that dwelling on reasons and means of repelling passion often adds to its strength, and that resolving mightily and expressly to crush a weak and passing temptation often serves only to give it a longer life. it is better to brush a mosquito away than to risk one's neck by chasing it up and down stairs. (c) that resistance is unnecessary which demands a physical or moral impossibility. thus, a prolonged act of resistance or one repeated at intervals of a few minutes, or a resistance that includes extreme corporal austerities, is not required in ordinary cases at least. when a temptation is unusually vehement or is due to one's own fault, there should be proportionately greater resistance to offset the greater danger; but when a temptation is only moderately dangerous, it suffices to reject it firmly but briefly and to repeat this when there arises a new crisis or danger and the renewal of resistance is useful. . weapons against carnal temptations.--the most powerful weapons against carnal temptations are spiritual ones, and of these the most necessary is grace, which should be asked in prayer (wis., viii. ), especially through the intercession of the blessed virgin mary (see pius xii, _sacra virginitas_, march , ). but corporal means, chiefly of a preventive kind, should not be neglected. (a) physical measures are the observance of what are now often spoken of as sex hygiene for normal and sex therapeutics for abnormal cases. special health rules whose observance conduces to good morals are especially the cultivation of habits of bodily cleanliness, of hard mental and physical work, of vigorous exercise and the avoidance of unhealthful habits (such as constipation, drug or spirit stimulation), unsuitable clothing or sleeping conditions. surgical or medical treatment for structural abnormalities or for mental or bodily diseases that react unfavorably on sex life requires the service of a conscientious and competent physician. (b) religious measures are various forms of corporal mortification, such as custody of the eyes and other senses, deprivation in food (fasting and abstinence) and sleep (vigils, night watches), afflictive penances through the use of hairshirts, painful girdles, scourges or disciplines. but austerities must be suited to the health, age, condition, duties and other circumstances of the person who practises them, and should not be used without the consent of one's confessor or spiritual director. . sinfulness of negligence in resisting temptations.--it is sinful not to struggle against temptation, since he who in no way resists, not even passively, surrenders or yields to sin. hence, the church condemned the quietistic indifference to temptation of molinos (denzinger, nn. , , ). it is also sinful to resist, but only insufficiently, as regards promptness, vigor, manner, etc. (a) the theological malice.--it is mortally or venially sinful to be negligent against temptation, according to the greatness or smallness of the danger to which the negligence exposes one (see - ). thus, it is not a serious sin to omit all resistance to a weak and dying temptation, or to neglect from indolence or other venial fault all external resistance when the danger is made remote by the internal displeasure or resolution; but it is a serious sin to trifle with any very attractive temptation or to put off resistance until a progressing temptation has grown formidable and made self-control difficult, and this is true even though consent is not finally given to the impure suggestion. (b) the moral malice.--negligences in reference to carnal temptations do not differ specifically but only in degree, according to the approach the stimuli make towards complete lust. even when there is an object (e.g., fornication, adultery) before the mind, the difference in species of the object, it seems, does not induce a difference in species of the sin, since the sin is the general one of carelessness in presence of temptation. hence, it suffices to confess that one has been remiss in banishing impure emotions or thoughts. . applications.--(a) the principles here given in reference to emotions of the sensible appetite and rebellions of the flesh should be applied to other involuntary acts in the imagination, reason and will (see ). thus, thoughts or images of impure scenes that pass through the mind should be treated in the same way as temptations of the flesh. (b) the principles here given about the person who suffers temptation should also be applied to the person who causes temptation. since it is a mortal sin to commit impurity, it is also a mortal sin to solicit impurity; since it is a mortal sin of lust to make oneself drunk in order to experience carnal emotions, it is also a mortal sin of lust to make another person drunk that he may become likewise inflamed; since it is a mortal sin to expose oneself to extreme danger by reading a pornographic work, it is also a mortal sin to wish to expose another to a like danger. and this is true even though the temptation is unsuccessful. physicians who minimize the wrong of masturbation, or who counsel fornication to young men on the absurd plea that continence is unhealthy or productive of impotency, share in the guilt of pollution or fornication which they counsel; and young persons who seek to win the sinful love of others by nourishing their hair, painting their faces, exposing their bodies, etc., have the guilt, if not the gain, of seduction. . non-consummated sins of impurity.--these include all those preparatory sins in which unlawful sex pleasure is not carried to completion by coition or pollution. we shall speak first of the internal sins of thought, delight, and desire (see sqq.), and next of the external sins of unlawful looks, words, kisses, and embraces. . impure thoughts.--impure thoughts (_delectatio morosa_) are representations in the mind or imagination of impure venereal objects in which deliberate pleasure is taken. (a) they are representations, that is, mental pictures or images of things absent from the senses, but thought of or imagined as present. thus, impure thoughts differ from desires, which consist in attraction with will to accomplish, and also from sense contact of various kinds with objects present to the eyes, ears, or touch. (b) they are joined with deliberate pleasure of the will, that is, one intends them or consents even momentarily to them after perceiving their presence and malice, even though carnal pleasure is not felt or does not threaten. thus, impure thoughts differ from tempting thoughts, which are transient and unwished forms that appear in the mind, and are thought on before their true character is adverted to, or which gain a lodging in spite of efforts to eject them. a tempting thought is not sinful, but an occasion of merit when resisted, no matter how long it endures (see b). (c) the pleasure is taken in a venereal object, that is, in the thought of fornication, adultery or other carnal sin, committed by oneself or by another. hence, impure thoughts are not to be confused with the pleasure taken in knowledge about impurity (e.g., a professor of medicine or morality is not impure when he rejoices at the sexual knowledge he possesses and which is necessary for his duties, or willingly thinks about sex matters when it is necessary or useful for him to do so), or with pleasure taken in the morally indifferent manner of the venereal sin. for example, amusement over a ridiculous feature of a sin which one detests is not an impure thought (see - ). . the malice of impure thoughts.--(a) the theological malice.--impure thoughts are mortal sins: for he who deliberately rejoices at the thought of sin, loves sin and is therefore guilty of it. they are venial sins when there is imperfect advertence, and also when there is lightness of matter on account of the remoteness of the danger of a thought only indirectly voluntary. they are mortal when there is full deliberation and the impure thought is directly voluntary or gravely dangerous (see ). (b) the moral malice.--impure thoughts have the same specific malice as the representation of the object which is entertained as a welcome guest in the mind; for not only is impurity given the hospitality of the mind, but a particular kind of impurity (see , ). hence it follows, first, that a specifically different object (as is the case with different consummated sins) makes a specifically different sin (e.g., to think pleasurably of unlawful intercourse is mental fornication if the persons in mind are unmarried, and is mental adultery if the person in mind is married); secondly, that objects not specifically different--as is the case with different non-consummated sins of lewdness--do not make specifically different sins (e.g., to think pleasurably of a sinful kiss and to think sinfully of a sinful touch are both mental lewdness or impure thoughts); thirdly, that special malices of the object from which the mind can prescind--viz., those which in the external act do not change the species or do not explain the venereal pleasure--and from which it does prescind, are not incurred (e.g., to think pleasurably of sin with a woman who is married and a relative, if the thought that she is married or one's relative is not pleasing or is displeasing, is mental fornication, not mental adultery or mental incest). in praxi vero consulitur confessariis ut regulariter abstineant a quaestionibus de specie morali delectationis morosae; nam fideles plerumque nesciunt faciliter distinguere inter species morales cogitationum, et sic interrogatio evaderet vel inutilis, vel etiam ratione materiæ perieulosa. ad hæc quum casus crebriores sint, maximo esset incommodo, tum confessariis, tum poenitentibus, si sacerdos exquireret quæ vix cognosci possunt. sufficit igitur ordinarie sciscitari de specie theologica (utrum voluntas complacuerit), vel de specie morali generali (utrum actus internus delectatio morosa vel potius desiderium fuerit). see canon , § ; norms for confessors in dealing with the sixth commandment, holy office, may , . . impure rejoicing.--impure rejoicing is a deliberate pleasure of the mind yielded to the recollection of a past sin of impurity. hence, this sin of rejoicing is committed when one thinks with approval of a fornication of former days, but the sin of rejoicing is not committed when one confines one's pleasure to some good consequence of a fornication (e.g., the excellent child that was born), or to a lawful pleasure of the past, as when a widower thinks without present carnal commotion or danger of his former married life. the circumstances are more readily willed here than in impure thoughts, for here the mind is picturing an actual, not an imaginary case of sin, and the mental representation will therefore be more distinct; nevertheless, in the case of impure rejoicing the moral sub-species--at times even the distinction between impure rejoicing and impure thoughts--is usually not perceived. the principles of the previous paragraph apply to impure rejoicing. . impure desires.--impure desire is a deliberate intention to commit impurity in the future. (a) it is a deliberate intention, that is, a purpose or will to which consent is given internally. hence, an impure desire is not the same thing as a statement of fact, as when a passionate person declares that he would sin, were it not for fear of the consequences, meaning only that he is frail, not that he wishes to sin. neither is it the same as a mere velleity, which desires venereal pleasure under circumstances that would make it lawful, as when a married man wishes that he were lawfully married to a woman other than his present wife, or that both he and the other woman were free to marry each other. but these velleities are foolish and venially sinful, and often on account of danger they are mortally sinful. an impure desire exists when the will consents unconditionally (as when a person decides or wishes to fornicate tomorrow) or conditionally under a proviso that does not take away the malice (as when a person decides that he would fornicate were it not for fear of punishment, or wishes that it were lawful for him to practise fornication). (b) it is an intention to commit impurity, and hence there is no impure desire in wishing what is not venereal pleasure (e.g., the spiritual, mental or bodily relief that follows on an involuntary pollution), or what is lawful venereal pleasure (e.g., when engaged persons think, but without carnal commotion or danger, of the benefits of their future married relationship). . malice of impure desires.--impure desires are mortal sins and have the malice of the object and of the circumstances that one has in mind; that is, one commits the same kind of sin in desiring as in performing impurity. hence, our lord declares that he who looks upon a woman to desire her unlawfully has already committed adultery in his heart (matt., v. ), and hence also the ninth commandment forbids sins of impure desire. the principles given in , , apply also to impure desires with this difference that the mind when it wills external performance considers the object as it is in itself, not as it is mentally represented, and hence is less likely to prescind from actual circumstances known to it, but even here confessional investigation is sometimes not necessary on account of its moral impossibility. . lewdness.--after the internal sins follow the external sins of lewdness or indecency (_impudicitia_). these may be defined as "external acts which are performed from or with deliberate venereal pleasure that is not consummated, and which are not directed to the conjugal act." (a) they are external acts of the body, such as the looks of the eye, the speech of the tongue, kisses of the lips, touches, fondling, embraces, pressure of the hand, etc. those also are guilty of lewdness who permit themselves to be petted, kissed or otherwise impurely handled, unless it is morally impossible to resist, as when a woman who gives no internal consent cannot defend herself against a forced kiss without being killed, or cannot without great scandal refuse to shake hands with one whose motive is impure love. lewdness (e.g., an impure look) may also be directed to one's own person, or to an animal, or to an artificial object, such as a statue or book. (b) they are performed from or with pleasure; that is, passion either causes or accompanies the impure look or other act. these non-consummated acts are indifferent in themselves and may be licitly performed for a just cause; they become sinful by reason of the evil passion that animates them. the carnal motive appears either from the end of the act (e.g., an indecent kiss naturally tends to impurity or grave danger thereof, no matter what good purpose the kisser may have), or from the end of the one acting (e.g., a decent kiss becomes an impure act if the one who kisses is moved by carnal desire). hence, there is no sin of lewdness when one of the acts now considered is performed becomingly as to externals and innocently as to the internal motive and quality (e.g., from a sense of duty, not from pleasure). (c) the pleasure intended or consented to is venereal; that is, such as is consummated in copulation or pollution. hence, there is no sin of lewdness when the acts in question are performed becomingly and with and for pleasure of a spiritual kind (as when members of a family give one another the customary kiss or embrace of affection), or of a merely sensual kind (e.g., when a nurse kisses the tender skin of an infant). on the distinction of intellectual, sensual and venereal pleasures see above ( ). (d) the external act is not consummated by copulation or pollution. these are often its result but they are a different degree of sin, and lewdness is committed even without them (see ). (e) lewdness is an action not directed to the conjugal act. coition itself is lawful in the married state, and this legitimatizes all the preparatory or accessory endearments. hence, the rule as to married persons is that venereal kisses and other such acts are lawful when given with a view to the exercise of the lawful marriage act and kept within the bounds of decency and moderation; that they are sinful, gravely or lightly according to the case, when unbecoming or immoderate; that they are venially sinful, on account of the inordinate use of a thing lawful in itself ( a), when only pleasure is intended; that they are mortally sinful, when they tend to pollution, whether solitary or not solitary, for then they are acts of lewdness. the rights and duties during courtship and engagement will be treated below in question iii. . cases wherein no sin is committed.--since lewdness proceeds from or is accompanied by culpable venereal pleasure, it does not exist in the following cases: (a) in children who have not attained puberty and the capacity for sex pleasure, and hence there is no sin by reason of proximate danger in looks or touches exercised by them, which would be gravely sinful in those who have reached the age of puberty. these children may, however, sin against modesty or obedience, at least venially. they should be trained from their earliest years to reserve and decency, and it is a most serious sin to scandalize their innocence. the question of sex instruction for the young will be dealt with in the question on the duties of particular states. if an adult person were as unmoved as a child by the stimulus of passion, such a one would incur no personal guilt of lewdness by kissing and the like acts, but such an adult person is very rare; (b) in adult persons when a dangerous act is exercised by them, without consent or proximate danger, and with a sufficient reason for the exercise. thus, a student of literature may read an erotic story from the classics, if he is proof against the danger and intends only improvement in style, though for the young such books should be expurgated; a professor of medicine or moral theology may discourse prudently to his students on venereal diseases or sins; an artist may use naked models in painting, if and as far as this is necessary; farm hands may attend to the service of female by male animals; looks and touches that would otherwise be immodest are lawful for proportionate reasons of utility, as in bathing oneself, in performing the services of nurse or physician for others, etc. (see sqq.). . conditions governing propriety of external acts.--the becomingness of the external acts spoken of in b includes two conditions. (a) on the side of its object, the act must not be directed unnecessarily to the parts of the body that are shameful and private (i.e., the genitals and immediately adjacent parts). it is customary to distinguish the remaining or non-shameful parts of the body into becoming, which are uncovered (e.g., face, hands, feet), and less becoming, which are covered (e.g., legs, breast, back). but as to less decent parts much depends on local usage. for example, at a bathing beach it is not unbecoming to appear in a mixed crowd with uncovered legs or arms, and in very warm countries it is not improper to go about in public with less clothing than is worn in colder climates. (b) on the side of its subject, the act must be performed with moderation and respect for reasonable custom. thus, columbine (popularly called "french") kissing and the ardent or prolonged embraces known as "necking" or "petting" are admittedly indecent, even when not accompanied by sexual excitement. oral abuse committed by or with either sex is indecent both as to the object, i.e., the part of the body involved, and as to the subject, i.e., the mode of action. it is the filthiest form of lewdness and is usually joined with pollution (irrumation). . morality of kissing and similar acts.--(a) _per se_, or from their nature, these acts are indifferent, since they can be employed, not only for evil (job, xxxi. ; luke, xxii. ), but also for good, as we see from the examples of the kiss of peace (i thess., v. ), the kiss of fraternal greeting (gen., xxvii. , ), and the kiss of respectful homage (luke, vii. , ). (b) _per accidens_, or from their circumstances, these acts are often venially or mortally sinful against purity or against some other virtue, or against both. thus, justice is offended by injuries or violence (e.g., stolen kisses, unhygienic kisses that transmit venereal or other disease); charity is offended by scandal given the object of affection or the onlookers (e.g., kisses given by way of greeting to a member of the opposite sex by an ecclesiastic or religious, kisses forced upon children by grown-ups and which are harmful to the youthful sense of modest reserve); purity itself is offended by familiarities which, though not impure in themselves, constitute a peril for the virtue of one or both parties, as is true especially in demonstrations of sensual affection or pleasure. but even though there be some carnal commotion, it is not unlawful to give with a pure intention the decent salutation customary in one's country (e.g., to shake hands with a lady, to kiss one's stepmother or sister-in-law). . morality of sensual gratification.--sensual gratification, or the pleasure experienced from the perfection in the sensible order of some object, is indifferent and lawful in itself (see , ). when it is aroused by objects not venereally exciting (e.g., the beauty of the heavens or scenery, the harmony of music, the tender softness of the rose), it does not tempt to impurity; but when it is aroused by objects that are venereally exciting (e.g., the beautiful face or eyes or sweet voice or soft skin of a person much admired), it approaches so closely to the confines of venereal gratification as to seem almost the same thing. hence arises the question; is deliberate sensual gratification about objects sexually exciting always a mortal sin? (a) many theologians answer in the affirmative, and give as their reason that in the state of fallen nature there is no one who can be assured that such gratification is not for him or her a proximate occasion of pollution, or of what is morally the same thing, of inchoate pollution. this opinion does not include gratifications not deliberately sought or yielded to, nor those in which experience has shown that the venereal attraction of the object, at least for the subject concerned, is nil or practically nil (e.g., sensual kisses of an infant by a nurse.) (b) other theologians dissent from the rigorous view, and argue that, since sensual and venereal attraction are really distinct, there is always the possibility of intending the former and excluding consent to the latter. (c) to the present authors it seems that there is room for a middle way between these two extreme views. as was said above ( ), it is sometimes sinful and sometimes not sinful to encounter temptation, according to the intention and reason one has, and a temptation willed unjustifiably but only indirectly is a grave or a light sin according to the great or small danger that is risked. now, it seems that certain forms of sensual gratification (e.g., those derived from beautiful but modest music or paintings) have only a very slight sexual allurement for even the passionate; whereas other forms (e.g., those derived from the warm kiss or caress of a handsome adult person of the opposite sex) are vehemently alluring. hence, if sensual pleasure of the first kind is sought inordinately, or if it is dangerous to purity, there is a venial sin; if sensual pleasure of the second kind is sought, there is very likely mortal sin. . the theological species of the sin of lewdness.--(a) _per se_, or from its nature, this sin is mortal, even though the external act (kiss, etc.) be decent (see ) and of the briefest duration; for lewdness is consent to unlawful venereal pleasure, which from the nature of the case is a serious matter, tending either to illicit copulation or to pollution (see ). hence, even a shake of the hand made with lustful intent is a mortal sin. if the guilt of adultery is found even in libidinous thoughts (deut., v. ) and glances (matt., v. ), much more is it found in lewd kisses, embraces, and conversations. scripture strongly condemns every form of lewdness: impure speech ("uncleanness let it not so much as be named among you, or obscenity, or foolish talking," eph., v. , ), impure reading ("evil communications corrupt good morals," i cor., xv. ), impure looks ("whosoever shall look on a woman to lust after her hath already committed adultery with her in his heart," matt., v, ), impure kisses and other touches ("it is good for a man not to touch a woman, but for fear of fornication let every man have his own wife," i cor., vii. ). (b) _per accidens_, this sin may be venial as follows: first, on account of the imperfection of deliberation, as when a person under the influence of liquor, drugs or sleep acts with only a partial realization of what he is doing, especially if the lewd offense has not occurred before; secondly, on account of the lightness of the matter, when the lewd act is indirectly voluntary and the danger remote (see ), as when slight danger is risked in gratifying the sensual desire to gaze at a famous painting, or in yielding to an impulse of curiosity, levity, or playfulness, to indulge in suitable recreations or even unnecessary conversations in which occur glances or touches that arouse some small degree of sexual emotion. were mortal guilt of impurity incurred in these instances, very few could remain free from it unless there was a general retirement into isolation. but even in the _per accidens_ cases there may be other mortal sins (e.g., that of drunkenness or of scandal). . a large proportion of the sins of lewdness are only indirectly voluntary, and hence they are mortal or venial according to the amount of danger to which one exposes oneself. no ironclad rules, however, can be given to determine universally what things are gravely and what slightly dangerous, since the force and direction of concupiscence are not the same in all persons. some persons are oversexed or passionate, others are undersexed or cold; some have normal, others abnormal inclinations (e.g., homosexuality, sadism, masochism, sexual fetishism) in matters venereal. hypersexuality and abnormal sexuality are not in themselves sinful, but are manifestations of that inordinate concupiscence that is the effect of original sin and, if yielded to, becomes the cause of actual sin. proximately they may be due to disease. but since these subjective differences do exist, what we shall set down in the following paragraphs about gravity and lightness of danger is to be understood of the average or normal person and in the abstract, for it is impossible to consider every individual case. . circumstances that increase or lessen the danger of sin.--(a) the person acting.--there is less danger before and after than during puberty, less for an invalid than for a person full of health, less for an inhabitant of a cold region than for a dweller in the tropics, less for one habituated to suppress venereal passion (e.g., a bachelor) than for one who has been accustomed to indulge it (e.g., a widower), less in some cases for the married who can lawfully enjoy sexual intercourse than for the single who cannot. familiarity also can give a certain amount of immunity (e.g., where naked bathing or naked statuary in public places is according to custom, the natives are less disturbed by these things than outsiders). those who know (without self-deception) from their experience that certain things excite them very little do not run grave danger in encountering such things. (b) the person or being who is the object of the act.--there is less allurement in an animal than in a human, less in a small than in a large animal, less in a representation than in the original, less in young children than in adults, less in one's own person or sex than in another person or the opposite sex, less in an elderly or homely person than in one who is young and attractive. (c) the sense used.--hearing (and, for a similar reason, reading) is less dangerous than sight, for hearing is nearer to the immanent activities of thought and desire, while sight has more of an emanant character (e.g., to hear or read about an obscene act is farther removed from it, and hence less seductive, than to see it in picture or reality). sight in turn is less dangerous than touch, for sight is a more elevated and less material kind of perception, being exercised by a cognitional, not by a physical contact with its object, as is the case with touch (e.g., to behold others embrace is not so moving as to give or receive an embrace). thus, impure touches (kisses, embraces, handling) are the most dangerous form of lewdness. (d) the sense-object acted upon.--the degree of danger corresponds with the approach made to the act of generation (e.g., smutty stories are worse when they deal with consummated than with non-consummated acts) or to the genitals (e.g., impure touches are worse when directed to the organs of reproduction than to the non-shameful regions). (e) the manner.--there is greater danger when the act is prolonged than when it is momentary, when it is ardent than when it is calm (e.g., a passing glance or peep at an obscene picture is not as dangerous as a leisurely inspection, a loose linking of arms not as dangerous as a hug). the more exposed the object of attraction and the more secluded the parties themselves, the greater the danger (e.g., love-making between parties who are not fully clothed or who are alone in the dark or in a closed and curtained room is more dangerous than love-making between those who are properly dressed and seated among a crowd of people). . cases wherein the danger of sin is grave or slight.--a physician must know the difference between mortal and non-mortal diseases, and likewise a priest must know the distinction between various kinds of spiritual leprosies. but when certain cases are listed as less dangerous, this does not mean that they are not dangerous at all and that no account should be taken of them. especially in the matter of impurity should the warning of scripture be remembered: "he that contemneth small things shall fall by little and little" (ecclus., xix. ). with this in mind, we now subjoin some examples of grave and slight danger for cases in which a lewd act is indirectly voluntary, but is prompted only by curiosity, joke, levity or other such insufficient reason. (a) speech.--dirty or suggestive stories, conversations, songs, music, or radio entertainments are a grave danger when the persons present are very impressionable (e.g., on account of age or character), or if the topic is utterly vile (e.g., descriptions of filthy or unnatural sex acts), or if the manner is very seductive (e.g., the terms used are unfit for polite society, or the story is very detailed, or sin is boasted about, or the conversation is prolonged). on the other hand, the danger is light when the persons present are of mature age and not strongly inclined to impurity, especially if the topic and the language are not very disgusting; but there may be serious sin on account of circumstances, as when the speaker or approving listener is a person from whom good example is expected. obscene talk is generally not a serious sin when the persons are husband and wife, or a group of married men or of married women; on the contrary, it is generally a serious matter when the persons are a group of young people of the same sex, more serious when they are a mixed group, and still more serious when they are a boy and a girl or a young man and a young woman. the fact that those of the younger generation often do not admit this, does not change its abiding truth. (b) reading.--the remarks made on speech apply also to reading, which is a kind of silent speech. a noteworthy difference between the two in the present matter, however, is that reading is often more dangerous than conversation, since it is usually more protracted. love letters and romances were once the chief temptation in this line, but today they seem mild in comparison with the supply of pornography that is easily accessible to all (e.,g., the magazines and papers that pander to depraved tastes, the stories and pseudo-scientific books that corrupt the youth of every land). even without grave danger to self, one may still be guilty of grave sin in reading obscene books on account of the coöperation with the vendors of immorality, or the scandal, or the disobedience thereby shown to the church (see sqq., , ). (c) looks.--there is generally no danger in a look at the full nudity of a small infant, or at the less becoming parts of a person of the same sex; there is generally only slight danger when the object is the privates of self or of another of the same sex, or the coition of animals, unless the gaze be fixed, prolonged and the object near; there is grave danger in beholding a completely non-infant naked person of the opposite sex, or the coition or other grave external sex acts of human beings (unless the glance be brief or not attentive), or even at times the less becoming parts of the opposite sex, if the look is very intent and continuous. representations of the bodily parts or acts just mentioned (pictures, drawings, diagrams, etc.) have generally the same dangers as the originals, though the allurement in itself is less vivid; circumstances may even make the representations equally or more dangerous (e.g., on account of a thin veil of concealment in paintings or sculpture that only increases the attraction; or on account of the suggestive music, the voluptuous dance, the crowd atmosphere that accompanies an immoral scene on the stage or screen). the saying of oscar wilde that esthetics are above ethics is opposed both to morality (since all conduct should be guided by reason) and to art (for the highest beauty is that of virtue and the spirit and purity). (d) touches.--kisses are seriously dangerous to purity when warmly or lingeringly exchanged between adults of different sex who are attracted to one another as male and female; in other cases, kisses, if impressed on decent parts of the body and in a decent manner, may be only slightly dangerous. holding or grasping between such adults is also a serious danger when it is vehement (e.g., the tight squeeze or hug of certain dances) or long (e.g., the repeated or hour-long fondling of love-makers); it is of slight or no danger in other cases, as in the customary handclasp of greeting, handling or feeling, if passing, hurried or light, is generally not dangerous, when it has to do with the becoming parts of another person, or with the less becoming parts of a person of the same sex, or with personal private parts; it is only slightly dangerous, under the same conditions, in reference to the verenda of animals or small infants; it is gravely dangerous when directed to the privates of another person who has passed infancy, or to the less becoming parts of a person of opposite sex, or to the breasts of a woman, unless it be entirely casual, passing, or light. tactile contact made under the clothing is of course more dangerous than that which is external. . the moral species of lewdness.--(a) theoretically, it is more probable that the imperfect sins of impurity do not differ from the perfect sins to which they tend; for the natural circumstances or antecedents of an act have really the same morality as the act itself (see ). in the physical order, the fetus, the infant, and the child do not differ essentially from the full-grown man; and likewise, in the moral order, the thought, the purpose and the external beginning do not differ essentially from completed murder, even though for some reason the act be not finished. hence, immodest words, reading, looks and touches belong to fornication, or adultery, or incest, or sodomy, according to their tendency (e.g., to read an immodest love story with another man's wife and to kiss her is incipient adultery, and, if the guilty person has a vow of chastity, it is also sacrilege). but the species is taken only from the object, not from the purely accidental circumstances, such as the elicitive faculty (e.g., an immodest look at another does not differ essentially from an immodest touch) or the intensity (e.g., incomplete pleasure in touches by one who has not attained puberty does not differ essentially, according to some, from the completed pleasure of which he is capable). moreover, it seems that, in regard to looks if not as regards touch, abstraction (see ) is easily made by the guilty person from various circumstances; for example, one who looks immodestly on a person consecrated to god, may be thinking only of his unlawful love for a person of the other sex, and so may be guilty of incipient fornication, but not of sacrilege, or he may be thinking, without any affection for the other person, only of his own pleasure, and so may perhaps be guilty only of incipient pollution. a less probable opinion makes lewdness a species of sin distinct from pollution and the other consummated sins. (b) practically, penitents should confess that their sin was indecent and not completed lust (such as pollution), and they should also confess whether the lewdness was committed by speech, reading, looks, kisses, embraces, or touches; and also the object of the sin, whether male or female, whether married or single, relative or non-relative, etc. otherwise, since few penitents know how to distinguish the moral species of sins, there will be great danger of incomplete confessions; and, moreover, the additional sins usually committed in cases of lewdness (e.g., scandals, injustices, and bad company keeping) will not be disclosed. if a consummated sin of fornication, pollution, etc., followed the indecency, this consummated sin should be confessed distinctly. similarly, those who expose, incite or tempt others to impure thoughts or to lewdness in word, reading, looks, kisses or touches, should confess the kind of sin they intended (see ), even though their purpose failed, whether it was incipient fornication, sacrilege, sodomy, etc. but some authors admit a generic confession (in which the penitent merely states that he sinned mortally or venially, as the case was, by indecency), if the lewdness was solitary, or was committed with another but certainly without scandal or lustful desire of the other person. . the consummated sins of impurity.--there are in all seven species of completed acts of impurity. (a) thus, some sins of impurity are against reason because they do not observe the ends of sexual intercourse. these ends are, first, the begetting of children (to which is opposed unnatural impurity), and, secondly, the rearing of children (to which is opposed fornication). (b) other sins of impurity are against reason because they violate a right of the person with whom intercourse is had (incest), or of a third party to whom that person belongs. if the third party is injured in conjugal rights, there is adultery; if in parental rights, there is defloration or rape, according as the injury is done without or with force; if in religious rights, there is sacrilege. this second category of sins is classed under impurity rather than under injustice, because the purpose of the guilty person and his act belong to venereal sin. . comparative malice of the sins of consummated lust.--(a) in the abuse of an act, the worst evil is the disregard of what nature itself determines as the fundamentals upon which all else depends, just as in speculative matters the worst error is that which goes astray about first principles. now, the prime dictates of nature as to sexual intercourse are that it serve the race and the family. hence, the sin of unnatural lust (which injures the race by defeating its propagation) and the sin of incest (which injures the family by offending piety) are the worst of carnal vices. (b) in the abuse of an act a lesser evil is that which observes the natural fundamentals, but disregards what right reason teaches about things secondary, in the manner of performing the act. but reason requires that in sexual intercourse the rights of the individual be respected. a most serious violation of individual right is adultery, which usurps the right of intercourse belonging to another; next in gravity is rape, which violently seizes for lust a person under the care of another or undefiled; next is defloration, which trespasses on the right of guardianship, or removes bodily virginity, but without violence; last among these sins is fornication, which is an injury done not to the living, but to the unborn. . multiplication of sins of lust.--the various kinds of lust may be combined in one and the same act, as when unnatural vice (e.g., sodomy) is practised with a relative (incest). sacrilege, of course, aggravates every other kind of carnal sin, and thus there is sacrilegious sodomy, sacrilegious adultery, sacrilegious incest, etc. . fornication.--fornication is the copulation of an unmarried man with an unmarried woman who is not a virgin. (a) it is copulation, or sexual intercourse suited for generation of children. thus, it differs from lewdness, which consists in unconsummated acts, and from sodomitic intercourse, which is consummated but unsuited for generation. onanism is an aggravating circumstance of fornication, or rather a new sin of unnatural intercourse. (b) it is committed by unmarried persons, and thus it differs from adultery. (c) it is committed with a woman, and is thus distinguished from sodomy. (d) it is committed with a woman who is not a virgin, and thus differs from defloration. . sinfulness of fornication.--it is of faith that fornication is a mortal sin. (a) thus, it is gravely forbidden by the divine positive law. hence, whores and whoremongers are an abomination to the lord (deut., xxiii. ); fornicators are worthy of death (rom., i. - ), they shall not enter the kingdom of god (gal., v. - ; eph., v. ; heb., xiii. ; apoc., xxi. ). the fathers teach that fornication is a grave crime (st. fulgentius), and that it brings condemnation on the guilty person (st. chrysostom). the declarations of the church on the evil of this sin are found in the council of vienne and in the censures of alexander vii and innocent xi (denzinger, nn. , , ). (b) fornication is gravely forbidden by the natural law. for it is seriously against reason to cause an injury to the entire life of another human being; but fornication does this very thing by depriving the unborn child of its natural rights to legitimacy, to the protection of both parents, and to education in the home circle. true, in some cases there may be no prospect of a child, or there may be provision for its proper rearing; but these cases are the exception, since fornication from its nature tends to the neglect of the child, and the morality of acts must be judged, not by the exceptional and accidental, but by the usual and natural. those who commit fornication are thinking of their own pleasure rather than of duty, and will generally shirk the difficult burdens of parenthood. society also would be gravely wounded if unmarried intercourse were at any time lawful. hence, st. paul reproves the pagans, though ignorant of scripture, for their sins of fornication (i cor., vi. - ; eph., v. - ), since reason itself should have taught them the unlawfulness of this practice. it seems, though, that invincible ignorance of the wrong of fornication is possible among very rude or barbarous people, since the injury to the neighbor does not show itself so clearly in this sin as in many others. . fornication compared with other sins.--(a) it is less serious than those that offend a divine good (e.g., unbelief, despair, hatred of god, irreligion), or human life (e.g., abortion), or the human goods of those already in being (e.g., adultery). (b) it is more serious than sins that offend only an external good (e.g., theft), or that are opposed only to decency in the marriage state (e.g., unbecoming kisses of husband and wife). . circumstances of fornication.--(a) circumstances that aggravate the malice are the condition of the person with whom the sin is committed (e.g., that the female is a widow, or the employee of the man, or his ward, or a minor). (b) circumstances that add a new malice to fornication are of various kinds. thus, previous circumstances are the distinct desires of the sin entertained beforehand, the solicitation and scandal of the other party or parties with whom the sin was committed; concomitant circumstances are the quality of the persons (e.g., fornication is sacrilegious if one of the parties is consecrated to god, and also, according to some, if one party is a christian and the other an infidel; it is unjust if one of the couple is betrothed to a third party), or the quality of the act itself (e.g., if it is performed onanistically, though pollution may be excused if it results accidentally from the good purpose to discontinue the sinful act); subsequent circumstances are injury done to the partner in sin (e.g., by refusal to pay the support or restitution due) or to the offspring (e.g., by exposure, abortion, neglect). whether the fornication of an engaged person with a third party is a distinct species of sin is disputed. (a) according to some, it is a distinct species, or at least a form of adultery on account of the infidelity. (b) according to others, it is a distinct species if the guilty party is the woman, but not if it is the man, for the infidelity of the former is a far more serious matter than the infidelity of the latter. (c) according to still others, it is never a distinct species, since engagement to marry is a dissoluble agreement and the injury to the contract is therefore not a notable one. in this last opinion the manner of the sin is an aggravating circumstance, not a distinct species that has to be declared in confession. . forms of fornication.--there are three special forms of fornication, which are all the same essentially, but which differ accidentally in malice or in results. (a) thus, ordinary fornication is that which is committed with a woman who is neither a harlot nor a concubine. this sin is in itself the least grave of the three, since it is not so harmful as whoremongering, nor so enduring as concubinage. ordinary fornication also has its degrees of bad and worse: thus, engaged persons who sin together habitually are worse than those who sin only occasionally, and circumstances such as artificial onanism and abortion add to the guilt. (b) whoremongering is fornication committed with a harlot, that is, with a woman who makes a business of illicit intercourse and hires herself out for pay to all comers. rarely does a harlot choose her life from passion or love, but is dragged in by white slavers, or enters from poverty, or after disgrace, or the like. this sin is worse than ordinary fornication from the viewpoint of propagation, since few harlots become mothers. but its most dire consequences are visited on the guilty persons themselves and on society: for the life of a prostitute is a most degrading slavery; to her patrons she communicates the most terrible diseases, which are then carried to innocent wives and children, and to the innocent she often becomes a cause of ruin, seeking her trade in the streets and public places. today, according to reliable newspaper reports, many men and women have become rich in the terrible business known as the white-slave traffic. this horrible abuse has grown into a vast international machine which is efficiently organized, and which profits not only from prostitution, but from many other kinds of crime. the patrons of brothels, therefore, coöperate with the crying injustice that is often done the fallen woman, and with the criminals who destroy souls and bodies for their own advantage. (c) free love is fornication committed with one's concubine, that is, with a woman who is not a public harlot but who has contracted with one man for habitual sexual intercourse as if they were man and wife. according to reports, this is quite common in europe, where lawful marriage is very often preceded by free unions. the trial marriage advocated by some in this country, in which paramours agree to live together as husband and wife for a certain term of years or at pleasure, also falls under the category of concubinage. this sin is worse than mere whoremongering in one respect, namely, that it includes the purpose to continue in the state of sin, at least for a certain length of time. moreover, there is often the public scandal and contempt for public opinion which other kinds of fornication may be free from. one who practises concubinage is living in a proximate occasion of sin, and hence he cannot be absolved unless he dismisses the concubine, if they cohabit, or agrees to keep away from her, if they do not cohabit. . the state and places of prostitution.--it is clear that civil government has no right to support or provide places of prostitution, or to give permission for its practice, since fornication is intrinsically evil. but what should be said of toleration or license given to prostitutes by the public authority? (a) theoretically, the civil power has the right to give toleration or license; for, if the common welfare will suffer from a greater evil unless a lesser evil is suffered to go on, the lesser evil should be endured, and it is certain that there are greater evils than prostitution (such as rape and unnatural crimes of lust). (b) practically, the question is open to dispute. older moralists held that toleration was actually more beneficial to the common good than suppression. but under the conditions of the present time many moralists think it is a mistake to give any recognition to prostitutes, and much less to houses of prostitution. even in large cities, where alone the license could be beneficial, the purposes of toleration are not fulfilled; for the moral evil seems to be greater, since an appearance of legality is given to prostitution, its practice is facilitated, its habitats become dens of every kind of iniquity, and the purpose of segregation is not realized; the physical evils also are not lessened, but perhaps increased, for even with medical inspection of prostitutes, syphilis and gonorrhea cannot be prevented. . defloration and rape.--defloration and rape are distinct species of lust, for each of them in its very concept includes a special and notable deformity not found in other species of impurity. (a) defloration is unlawful carnal knowledge of a woman who is virginal in body ( a). it has the special deformity of depriving the woman of the physical integrity that is most highly prized among all the unmarried of her sex, or at least of her own self-respect, and of setting her on the way to become a strumpet rather than an honorable wife or spinster. some authors do not consider defloration a special sin unless it is done by violence, or unless injury is done the parental right over the virgin; and even the authors who consider unforced defloration a special sin hold that the new or additional malice in it is slight and venial, and therefore not a necessary matter of confession. the first sin of fornication by a male is not a special sin, because the consequences are not so serious for the man as for the woman, but of course seduction is always a special sin, whether the injured party be male or female. (b) rape is physical or moral coercion (i.e., force or fear) employed against any person (male or female, married or single, pure or corrupt), or against his or her guardians, to compel him or her to an act of lust. it has the special deformity of inflicting bodily injury on the person ravished. the sin of rape should not be confused with the canonical crime of rape, which consists in abduction, and which is an impediment to marriage (canon ); nor with seduction, as when an innocent person is deceived into believing that an act of impurity is lawful, or is tricked into sin by false promises of marriage. equivalent to rape is the carnal knowledge of a person drugged, hypnotized, or otherwise unconscious, or the seduction of an infant. a person who is ravished is obliged to deny all consent internally, and to resist or make outcry when this is possible (see a). . adultery.--adultery is also a distinct species of lust.--(a) definition.--adultery is sexual intercourse with the husband or wife of another. if the sin is committed only in desire, there is mental adultery; if the paramours allow themselves unlawful familiarities without intercourse, or if a married person is guilty of solitary lust, there is imperfect adultery. (b) sinfulness of adultery.--adultery is a grave sin, since it is an act of impurity and is expressly forbidden in the sixth commandment (exod., xx. ), and is classed among the sins that exclude from the kingdom of heaven (i cor., vi. , ). it is a special sin, because it is a violation of the faith pledged in the contract and sacrament of matrimony, and an injury to the right of one's spouse and of the conjugal state (matt., xix. ; rom., vii. ; i cor., vii. ). even though a husband gives his wife permission to commit adultery or vice versa, the injustice remains, for though the individual is not formally injured, the married state is injured, since no married person has the right to give a permission opposed to the sacredness of the marriage vows (denzinger, n. ). (c) degrees of malice.--there are three degrees of malice in adultery. the first is that in which a married man sins with a single woman; the second that in which a married woman sins with a single man; the third that in which a married man sins with another man's wife. the second is worse than the first, on account of its consequences (e.g., sterility, uncertainty of paternity, rearing of an illegitimate child in the family); the third is worse than the second, because in addition to the consequences just mentioned, it contains a double injustice (viz., unfaithfulness to an innocent wife and unfaithfulness to an innocent husband), and it multiplies the sin. if an adulterer's husband or wife is also unfaithful, the injustice is lessened, but not removed; for not merely the two married persons are to be considered, but also the children, the family, society, and god; and the wrong done by one of the parties does not take away the right to fidelity pledged absolutely to all of these in marriage. (d) effects.--the party whose marriage rights have been injured by adultery was permitted under some former civil codes to kill a wife taken in adultery. but such laws were against justice and charity: against justice since no guilty person should be put to death unheard, and no injured person should be judge and accuser in his own case; against charity, since by such summary vengeance the adulteress would be sent to death in the midst of sin and without opportunity for repentance. the remedies of canon law for the innocent spouse will be noted below ( ). . incest.--incest is impurity committed with a person related to one within the degrees in which marriage is forbidden. (a) it is impurity, internal or external. internal desires are mental incest, while external unconsummated (e.g., kisses) or consummated (e.g., intercourse) acts are actual incest. (b) it is committed with a relative, that is, with a person, male or female, who is near to one by the tie of common ancestry (blood relationship, kinship, consanguinity), or of marriage to one's kin (marriage relationship, affinity), or of sacramental administration (spiritual relationship), or of adoption (legal relationship). alias species cognationis non pertinent ad incestum, sed novam aliquam malitiam possunt tribuere; v.g., si partes sunt parochus et parochiana, confessarius et poenitens, habetur scandalum, seductio. (c) the relationship is within the canonical degrees. thus, marriage between blood relatives is forbidden in all degrees of the direct line (e.g., as to all female ancestry and posterity of a man) and in the first three degrees of the collateral line, which includes, for a man, his sisters, nieces, grandnieces, aunts, first and second cousins, grand aunts and their daughters and granddaughters. marriage between those who are relatives-in-law is forbidden in all degrees of the direct line (e.g., as to wife's mother, daughter, etc.) and in the first two degrees of the collateral line (e.g., wife's sister, first cousin, aunt or niece). spiritual relationship which is impedient of marriage exists between a person baptized and his baptizer, and also between the god-child and the god-parent in baptism. legal relationship exists between the adopter and the adopted, when and as the civil law makes it a bar to marriage. (d) incest is committed within the forbidden degrees, and hence if a dispensation from an impediment of relationship had been granted to parties about to marry, a sin between them would not be incestuous. . incest as a distinct species of sin.--(a) there is a specific distinction between incest and other forms of lust, since incest violates not only purity, but also the piety and respect due each other by those who are so closely related as to be unable to contract a lawful marriage. nature itself abhors this sin; for, apart from the exceptional cases in which a dispensation is given, even lawful marriage with near relatives would be an incentive to many sins before marriage and would prevent the widening circle of friendships between mankind which marriage with non-relatives produces, and would cause a physical and mental enfeeblement of the race. in scripture incest is spoken of with peculiar horror as a nefarious deed deserving of death (lev., xx. sqq.), and as an act unworthy even of pagans (i cor., v. sqq.). (b) there are three distinct sub-species of incest, namely, natural incest (between kin by blood or marriage), spiritual incest (between the baptized and his baptizer or god-parent), and legal incest (between persons who are kin in virtue of , marriage-impeding adoption). the first violates piety due to natural origin, the second that due to spiritual origin, and the third that due to legal origin. and in each species the nearer the relationship, the greater the sin (e.g., incest with a sister-in-law is less than that with a sister, incest with a sister is less than that with a mother). . carnal sacrilege.--carnal sacrilege is the violation by an act of impurity of the sacredness of a person, place or thing. (a) it is a violation of sacredness, and thus it is a special sin, adding irreligion to lust (see sqq.). (b) it is an act of impurity, internal or external, consummated or non-consummated. the impurity, however, must be so related to that which is sacred as to treat its sanctity with injury or contempt (formal disrespect), and there is no sacrilege if the impurity is associated with something holy in such a way as not to show any notable irreverence (material disrespect). (c) its first species is personal sacrilege, and it is committed by a sacred person (see ) when he is impure internally or externally, or by a non-sacred person when in desire or act he commits impurity with a sacred person. if two sacred persons sin together, there is a double sacrilege, which multiplies the sin. (d) its second species is local sacrilege, and is committed when an impure act is done in a sacred place ( ) in such a way as to show formal disrespect. hence, consummated acts done in a church are sacrilegious, and the same is probably true of non-consummated acts, at least if they are of an enormous kind (e.g., a lascivious dance), and even of internal desires to sin in the sacred place. but impure thoughts or passing glances of prurient curiosity in a church are not sacrilegious. (e) its third species is real sacrilege, and it occurs when impurity is committed in such a way as to show formal disrespect to a sacred object ( ). hence, there is sacrilege of this kind when one commits impurity immediately after communion, or when one uses the sacrament of penance as a means to solicit impurity. but the fact that a person commits impurity while wearing a scapular is not sacrilegious, unless contempt for the scapular was intended. . unnatural lust.--worst among the sins of impurity, as such, are crimes of unnatural lust, for they exercise the sexual act, not only illicitly, but also in a manner that defeats its purpose of reproduction. in some non-venereal respects, however, natural sins of impurity may be worse than the unnatural; for example, adultery is worse as regards injustice, sacrilegious lust as regards irreligion, etc. there are four distinct species of unnatural impurities-- pollution, unnatural coition, sodomy, bestiality (see denzinger, n. ). (a) for procreation nature requires copulation, and hence pollution is unnatural, for it exercises semination without copulation, either alone (self-abuse, solitary vice, masturbation) or with another (softness). (b) for procreation nature requires proper copulation, that is, one that will permit of a fertile union between the two life elements, the sperma and the ovum. hence, unnatural coition does not comply with this necessity, for it does not employ the proper organ of sexual union, substituting rectal for vaginal intercourse, or else by some form of natural or artificial onanism it frustrates the act of its destined conclusion. this sin is worse than pollution, since pollution omits to use intercourse, whereas unnatural coition positively abuses it. (c) for procreation nature requires heterosexual intercourse, a condition disregarded by sodomy, which is the lustful commerce of male with male (pederasty, uranism), or of female with female (tribadism, sapphism, lesbian love). this sin is worse than unnatural coition, for it is a greater perversity to neglect one of the two needed life elements than to neglect the right process for their union (see gen., xix. , ; lev., xx. ; rom., i. , ), (d) finally, for procreation nature requires homogeneous intercourse, a law violated by bestiality, which is coition of a human being, male or female, with a brute animal. this is the worst of unnatural impurities, since it sins against the most fundamental condition for the sexual act, namely, that the participants be of the same nature (see lev., xx. , ). similar to bestiality is the crime of necrophilism (intercourse with a corpse). . pollution.--pollution is the voluntary emission of semen apart from coition. (a) it is an emission, that is an external discharge. the internal secretion in the so-called female semination is also included by many under the head of pollution. the carnal motions spoken of in b are a preparation for pollution. (b) it is a discharge of semen, that is, of the male fluid that fertilizes the female ovum. but equivalent pollution, from the moral viewpoint, is found in the discharge of certain non-prolific fluids that are accessory to generation or that produce in their movement a venereal satisfaction, such as the vaginal fluid in females (female semination), the urethral fluid in males capable or incapable of procreation (distillation). there is no pollution, however, in natural discharges such as menstruation and urination. (c) it is apart from coition, and thus it differs from other consummated sins. but pollution may be committed either alone (solitary vice), or with another, and in the latter case it pertains reductively to adultery, fornication, sodomy, etc., as the case may be. (d) it is voluntary directly or indirectly: directly, when one intends it as an end (e.g., for the sake of the pleasure) or as a means (e.g., as a relief from temptation or bodily itching, to obtain a specimen of semen for medical diagnosis); indirectly, when one unjustifiably does something from which one foresees that pollution will result. in all these cases pollution is formal or sinful, and it is not to be confused with material or natural pollution, which is a discharge of semen or distillation that is involuntary or unimputable. . cases of material or non-sinful pollution.--(a) involuntary pollution is passive or active. the former happens even when one is awake. it is evoked by such slight causes as physical movement and exertion, and is unaccompanied by pleasure; when habitual, it is a disease due to organic debility the latter happens during sleep, and may be caused by a superfluity of fluid. it is accompanied by pleasure and often by libidinous dreams. it is a means used by nature to relieve the system, and is therefore healthful and beneficial, unless the discharges are too frequent (e.g., nightly). there is no obligation of repressing the continuance of a pollution that began involuntarily during sleep, since it may be regarded as an act of nature; but consent must be withheld ( sqq.). moreover, if merely natural pollution be considered, not as to its venereal gratification but solely as to its good effects (e.g., that it ends a temptation, that it benefits the mind or the health), there is no sin in rejoicing at its accomplishment or in desiring its fulfillment, provided nothing is done to produce it and the intention is good; for then the object of the will is indifferent and the end is good. (b) unimputable pollution is caused by a lawful act from which one foresees that pollution will ensue, there being no proximate danger of consent to sin, and the pollution being only permitted, and that for a proportionately grave reason. . unimputable pollution.--in reference to unimputable pollution the following distinctions should be noted: (a) the danger risked by an act may be either of formal pollution (i.e., with consent to sin) or of material pollution (i.e., without consent to sin); (b) the danger of pollution is either proximate or remote, the former being that from which pollution naturally and usually results and the latter that from which it does not naturally or usually result. remotely dangerous are acts of a non-venereal kind, such as horseback riding, gymnastics, drinking alcoholic beverages, and also acts of a sexual kind that are only mildly exciting, such as conversations or books that are slightly "off color" when the parties are of mature age (see , ). proximately dangerous are acts of a venereal kind that notably inflame passion, such as warm and lingering kisses between persons of opposite sexes (see , ); (c) the reason for running the danger of pollution is either grave, serious, or slight. a grave reason is real necessity (e.g., the removal of disease or pain or of a very painful or troublesome itch due to the blood or disease) or great utility (e.g., the preservation of health, cleanliness of body); a serious reason is an important convenience of soul or body (e.g., the exercise of common politeness, the enjoyment of reasonable comfort); a slight reason is one in which none of the mentioned motives is found (e.g., the satisfaction of an idle curiosity, the removal of a trifling irritation or itch). . proximate and remote occasions of pollution.--it is never lawful to expose oneself to the immediate danger of sin, for he who loves the danger loves the sin (see , ); but if one uses means to make the danger remote, one may lawfully encounter it for a good reason (see , , ). it is lawful to permit an evil effect when there is sufficient justification according to the principle of double effect (see sqq.). (a) hence, if there is proximate danger of formal pollution (that is, of consent to sin), no reason excuses an act even of a non-sexual kind, such as horseback riding. but if the act is necessary, the danger must be made remote by the use of special means, such as prayer, firm resolves, etc. (see sqq.). (b) if there is proximate danger of material pollution, a grave reason suffices (e.g., the care of patients by physicians and nurses, assistance of bathers by attendants, warm soporific drinks taken for the sake of sleep). (c) if there is remote danger of material pollution, a serious reason suffices (e.g., customary salutations of the country, physical exercises, moderate comfort in posture, seasoning in food.). a slight reason may excuse at times from mortal sin (e.g., unnecessary curiosity about the sciences of anatomy or sexology). . the theological malice of sinful pollution.--(a) from its nature pollution is a mortal sin, because it is an act of impurity ( ) and a perversion of nature ( ). moreover, its consequences are most injurious to society (it tends to self-indulgence and the avoidance of the burdens of marriage) and to the individual (when habitual, it weakens mental and will power and often brings on a breakdown of bodily vigor especially among young people), in scripture it is represented as gravely illicit (i cor., vi. ; gal., v. ; eph., v. ). hence, pollution is always a mortal sin when directly willed (e.g., when practised deliberately in order to be rid of a temptation or of bodily irritation or itch certainly due to superfluity of semen or to passion), and also when indirectly willed if there is proximate danger of consent to sin (e.g., when one who has always committed formal pollution in certain company goes into that company without necessity, or without use of means to prevent a fall) or grave danger of pollution and no sufficient reason for permitting it (e.g., undue familiarities from which nocturnal pollution is foreseen as most probable). (b) from the imperfection of the internal act, pollution is sometimes only a venial sin. this happens in case of invincible ignorance (e.g., young children who do not understand the evil of masturbation, students who have been taught by instructors or physical directors that it is necessary for health or that it is unsanitary but not sinful), or of incomplete consent (e.g., when the person is only half awake and does not ordinarily desire pollution, when he is a psychopathic and not fully responsible for his acts). (c) from the lightness of the matter pollution is venial when willed indirectly and permitted without sufficient reason, if there is only slight danger of it from the nature of the action performed (see ). examples are the reading for pastime of love stories before falling asleep with the prevision that this may possibly bring on pollution during sleep. . if the action productive of pollution is gravely illicit, as being seriously opposed to chastity (e.g., lewdness) or to some other virtue (e.g., extreme intemperance in drugs or alcohol), is one thereby guilty of the grave sin of pollution? (a) if the case be considered in the abstract, the answer is in the negative. for if the action in question is only remotely dangerous as regards pollution (e.g., an action of a non-venereal kind such as intemperance does not necessarily tend to impurity, an act of a venereal kind that is momentary, such as a desire, does not strongly affect the passions), the sin is only venial in so far as pollution is concerned (see , ). (b) if the case be considered in the concrete, the answer is in the affirmative as a rule when there is question of a habit. for generally those who act habitually in this way yield consent to the pollution as well as to the sin that precedes. authorities note, however, that he who repents of the cause of pollution before the pollution results is not guilty of the actual pollution. . the moral species of sinful pollution.--(a) the general species of pollution is distinct from other consummated sins of impurity, since it is unnatural, and this in a special way (see , and denzinger, n. ), but some authors regard equivalent pollution (see , ) as not a consummated sin, since it is without true semination, and hence according to them it may be confessed simply as impure pleasure (see b). (b) the particular species of pollution is derived from circumstances that give it a new essential malice. if it is solitary, and committed by one who is under no bond of marriage or vow, and accompanied by no thought or desire except in reference to self or self-gratification (autoerotism, narcissism), there is the single sin of pollution. but there are other sins if it is committed by one under special obligation (i.e., adultery or sacrilege), or if committed with another person (e.g., seduction, coöperation, rape), or if committed with impure thoughts or desires about others (e.g., mental adultery, fornication, sodomy, bestiality). the manner in which pollution is performed (e.g., whether coöperative pollution is active or passive, by irrumation or concubitus or touch, with or without an instrument) is _per se_ an accidental circumstance. according to some authors, coöperative pollution brought on by touch alone is not diversified in species, if there is no special affection for the other person, but only the desire of carnal gratification, and hence it may be declared simply as pollution from touch. . penalties for immorality decreed in canons - .--(a) laymen who are guilty of certain offenses against the sixth commandment become infamous on conviction and are excluded from legitimate ecclesiastical acts. in case of adultery, the injured spouse may obtain a separation, temporary or perpetual, from the offending spouse (canon ). (b) clerics in minor orders are subject to special punishments, and may even be dismissed from the clerical state. (c) clerics in major orders are subject to penalties named in law (e.g., suspension, infamy, deposition) for graver crimes such as concubinage, adultery, and to penalties decreed by the lawful superior for other delinquencies. . the potential parts of temperance.--the appetites of pleasure are the most difficult to restrain, and there is need of a perfect virtue like temperance to rule over them and keep them within the bounds of reason. the analogous or potential virtues of temperance are that one which is able to check, though it does not tame, the animal appetites (continency), and those that preside and rule over the less violent appetites for vengeance, exercise of authority, superior excellence, knowledge, amusement and display (meekness, etc.). see above, c. . continence.--(a) its nature.--this quality, as here taken, is the state of one who has not gained mastery over the passions sufficient to keep down strong, frequent and persistent rebellions, but whose will is firmly disposed to resist their attacks. it is less than a moral virtue, then, since it does not tranquillize the lower appetites. the temperate man has already subdued his passions, and hence he is less disturbed by them, or at least he has less trouble in rejecting their onsets. (b) its relation to temperance.--greater difficulty increases merit, if it is due to the presence of a corporal or external impediment (e.g., a man of sickly constitution or one who suffers great opposition deserves more credit for his work than a man of vigorous constitution or one who enjoys great favors and opportunities); not, however, if it is due to the absence of a spiritual excellence (e.g., a man who finds work hard because he is lazy does not deserve more credit than another who finds it easy because he is industrious). hence, temperance is more deserving than continence, for it controls passion with greater ease simply because it has subjected not only the higher but also the lower appetite to the dictates of reason. (c) its opposite.--the vice opposed to continence is incontinence, which does not follow the dictate of reason to resist the onslaughts of passion; it sees and approves the higher things, but it follows the lower. this sin is less grievous than intemperance, just as a passing indisposition is less harmful than a settled malady. for passion comes and goes, and the incontinent man quickly regrets his weakness; but a sinful habit of gluttony or impurity is permanent, and is so like a second nature that its votaries rejoice when they have satisfied their desires (prov., ii. ). incontinence in pleasure is more disgraceful than incontinence in anger, for anger is less distant from reason; but on the other hand the irascible man usually sins more grievously by the greater harm he does to others. it is more difficult to contain oneself from wrath than from intemperance in the sense that wrath storms the soul by a more vehement and compelling attack; yet, it is harder to be unconquered by pleasure, because it lays persistent siege to the soul and demands a more unwearied vigilance. . meekness.--meekness or mildness is the virtue that moderates anger. (a) it is a virtue, since it consists in moderation according to right reason. our lord proclaims it blessed (matt., v. ). and st. paul numbers it among the fruits of the spirit (gal., v. ). illustrious models of mildness are joseph (gen., l. ), moses (num., xii. ), david (i kings, xxiv), christ (luke, xv; john, i. , viii. ), st. paul (acts, xx. ). (b) its office is moderation, and hence in its manner, though not in its matter, it is like temperance. it follows the middle way between the extremes of sinful indignation and sinful indulgence. (c) its matter is the passion of anger, that is, the sensitive appetite that inclines one to avenge an evil by punishing its author. like other passions ( ), anger is indifferent in itself, but it is made good or evil by its reasonableness or unreasonableness. the meek man is angry at times, but only when and where and as he should be (ps. iv. ); his anger is not a blind impulse, but a righteous zeal that attacks a wrong only after reason has shown that this is the proper course. . anger.--anger is sinful when it deviates from reason, as to its matter or its manner. (a) thus, it is unreasonable as to its matter (i.e., its vengeance) when it punishes unjustifiably (e.g., when the person punished is innocent, when the penalty is excessive, when the legal order is not followed, when the motive is not justice or correction, but hatred, etc). (b) it is unreasonable as to its manner (i.e., the degree of excitement felt or shown) when temper goes beyond measure. great anger is not sinful when a great evil calls for it (e.g., the anger of our lord against the money-changers in john, vi. sqq.; that of mathathias against the idolatrous jew in i mach., ii. ); but to fly into a rage at nothings or trifles is sinful. . gravity of the sin of anger.--(a) if anger is sinful on account of its matter, it is mortal from its nature as being opposed to charity and justice. he that is angry against his brother is worthy of hell fire (matt., v. , ). it may be venial, however, on account of imperfection of the act (e.g., the sudden impulse to strike down those who do not agree with one's opinions) or the lightness of the matter (e.g., a slap or push or box on the ears given a naughty child when a word of reproof would have sufficed). (b) if anger is sinful on account of its manner, it is venial from its nature; for excess in an otherwise indifferent passion is not a serious disorder (see ). but the sin may be mortal by reason of circumstances, as when an angry person acts like a wild man, curses and swears, breaks the furniture, gives serious scandal on account of his position, or the time or place, or injures his health by the violence of his paroxysm. . is anger a graver sin than hatred and envy?--(a) as to its matter, anger is less grave than hatred and envy, for it pursues evil under the guise of spiritual good, pretending at least that the harm it intends is just, whereas hatred and envy pursue evil precisely as it is injurious to another, or as it is a means to one's own temporal and external good or glory. likewise, anger is less grave objectively than concupiscence, for the voluptuous man aims at utility or pleasure, whereas the revengeful man aims at what he makes believe is just. (b) as to its manner, anger surpasses the vices mentioned in certain of its violent manifestations. the infuriated man, when crossed, creates a scene and makes a fool of himself; his blood boils, his face is flushed, his eyes dart fire, he froths at the mouth and trembles, he pounds, stamps and bellows like an enraged bull. . anger as one of the seven capital vices.--(a) it has a certain preeminence in evil. its matter is quite attractive, for revenge is sweet and the cloak of just retaliation makes it seem good; its manner is powerful, for it drives one on to dare even the most shocking crimes. (b) it is the spring of many sins. in the heart anger produces indignation against the object of displeasure, whom the angry man looks upon as base and unworthy, and soreness about the treatment of self, which fills the mind with plans of revenge. sins of the mouth due to anger are incoherent cries of rage, words of contumely and blasphemy (matt., v. ), while its sinful deeds include quarrels and every kind of injury. . sinful indulgence.--sinful indulgence, which is opposed to meekness by excess, is often a mortal sin on account of the grave harm it inflicts upon the common welfare and the protection it affords to crime. thus, heli was seriously reproved and punished because he winked at grave disorders, or at least was too easy-going in his corrections (i kings, ii, iii). . clemency.--clemency is a virtue that inclines one, from a spirit of kindness and moderation, to be as easy in inflicting punishments as the claims of justice will allow. (a) clemency is a virtue, because it is reasonable, does good to others, and makes the doer good. it is beneficial to public as well as private interest: "mercy and truth preserve the king, and his throne is strengthened by clemency" (prov., xx. ). (b) it inclines one to be easy, that is, to temper or relax the severity of the law. thus, it differs from the virtues of legal justice and of charitable forgiveness, the former of which, when necessary, insists on the full rigor of the law (see sqq.), whereas the latter, when permissible, grants an enemy a full pardon (see ). (c) its matter is punishment, that is, the external evil of chastisement visited on wrongdoers. hence, it differs from meekness, which deals with the internal emotion of anger, and from mercy, which deals with external goods bestowed upon the suffering. (d) it is easy only in so far as the claims of justice will allow; that is, it acts from a sense of responsibility to the rights and claims of the common good and of all the interests involved, and decides according to an impartial and enlightened judgment that circumstances of person, deed, cause, etc., call for a departure from the strict requirements of law or custom. clemency is not the same thing, then, as arbitrary laxity or sentimentalism. (e) it is moved in the first place by kindness to the offender, and thus it differs both from the virtue of equity (which acts from the sense of higher justice) and from the vices of favoritism, extortion, and cowardice (which extend forbearance only to friends or to those who offer bribes or who bring pressure to bear). (f) it is moved secondly by a spirit of moderation. many persons are spoiled by authority: feeling their own importance, they desire to exercise their powers to the limit and to keep others down as much as possible. the clement man, on the contrary, keeps his poise and uses his authority with moderation. meekness should be practised by all, but clemency is the proper virtue of superiors. . the vices opposed to clemency.--(a) the extreme of defect is cruelty, which is a hardness of heart, not moved by the sufferings of others, that disposes one to inflict excessive punishments. the worst form of cruelty is savagery, which takes inhuman delight in the sufferings of others and inflicts pain without regard for guilt or innocence. (b) the extreme of excess is undue leniency, which spares the rod when it should be used. there are times when severity is necessary, as when a crime was malicious and cold-blooded, when an offender is stubborn and irreformable, and when mildness will harm the public welfare or invite the sinner to repeat his offense. in such cases it would be unwise and harmful to mitigate the sentence which wise statutes or customs provide for the offense. . humility.--humility is the virtue that makes one modest in the desire of greatness. (a) it is a virtue, that is, a moral excellence and a voluntary disposition. hence, it is not the same as physical humility (e.g., the humble or lowly circumstances in which a person was born) or as involuntary humility (e.g., the humiliation which comes upon those who exalt themselves). (b) it is concerned with greatness, that is, with the higher things that pertain to greatness of soul (see sqq.). there is no opposition between these two virtues, for greatness of soul makes one set such a value upon the gifts one has received from god as to aspire to the betterment for which they prepare one, while humility makes one realize one's own shortcomings so sincerely that it keeps one from the desire of those excellences for which one is unsuited. (c) it is modest; that is, it regulates according to the standard of reason the passion for greatness, so that one may avoid the extremes of pride and of abjectness or littleness of soul (see c). . the three acts of humility.--(a) its regulatory act is in the intellect, and consists in the knowledge and acknowledgment of one's infirmity and inferiority, not only in comparison with god, but also in comparison with men. (b) its essential act is in the appetite and consists in a regulation of the hope for greatness so that, recognizing one's limitations, one does not strive for that for which one is unfitted. higher degrees of humility are those which do not desire honor, or which are pained by it, or which desire dishonor. (c) its expressive act is in the external conduct. st. benedict says that the humble person avoids singularity in deed, is sparing in his words and not given to loudness, and bears himself modestly, not staring about or laughing immoderately. but there is also a false humility, which is only in externals, and this is really proud hypocrisy (ecclus., xix. ). . two requirements of humility.--humility is chiefly an abasement of self before god (gen., xviii. ), and it is not opposed to truth or to good order. hence, the two following rules on the lowering of self before fellow-creatures: (a) in the internal act, humility requires that each one acknowledge his neighbor as his better, if comparison is made between what the former has from himself and what the latter has from god (phil., ii. ; osee, xiii. ). but it is not against humility to believe that one has more of divine grace or less of human imperfection than another, if there are good reasons for the belief (eph., iii. ; gal., ii. ); (b) in the external act, humility requires that one show proper signs of respect to one's betters. but of persons who are in authority st. augustine says that, while before god they should prostrate themselves at the feet of all, before man they should not so demean themselves to inferiors as to detract from their dignity or authority. like the other virtues, humility must be guided in its manifestations by prudence as to place, time, and other circumstances. . the excellence of humility.--(a) humility is inferior to the theological virtues, which tend immediately to the end itself, and also to the intellectual virtues and legal justice, which rightly dispose mind and will about the means to that end. humility and the remaining virtues incline one to follow the direction of mind and will, but with this difference that, while humility makes one ready for submission in all that is right, temperance, fortitude and the rest prepare one for submission only in some one or other particular matter. to these latter virtues, then, humility is superior. (b) humility is the groundwork of the spiritual edifice negatively or indirectly; for, since god resists the proud and gives grace to the humble (james, iv. ), the obstacles to the other virtues are removed by humility. but it is faith which positively and directly places the cornerstone of the spiritual life, for faith is the first approach towards god: "he who would come to god must believe" (heb., xi. ). . pride.--pride is an inordinate desire of one's own personal excellence. (a) it is a desire, for the object of pride is that which is pleasing and yet not easy of attainment. (b) the desire is concerned with excellence, that is, with a high degree of some perfection (such as virtue, knowledge, beauty, fame, honor) or with superiority to others in perfection. (c) the excellence sought is personal; that is, the object of pride is self as exalted on high or raised above others. ambition seeks greatness in honors and dignities, presumption greatness in accomplishment, and vanity greatness in reputation and glory; pride, from which these other vices spring, seeks the greatness of the ego or of those things with which the ego is identified, such as one's own children, one's own family, or one's own race. (d) the desire is inordinate, either as to the matter, when one desires an excellence or superiority of which one is unworthy (e.g., equality with our lord), or as to the manner, when one expressly desires to have excellence or superiority without due subjection (e.g., to possess one's virtue without dependence on god or from one's own unaided merits). in the former case pride is opposed to greatness of soul, in the latter case to humility. the contempt which is proper to pride is a disdain for subjection, and the contempt which belongs to disobedience is a disgust for a precept; but pride naturally leads to contempt for law and for god and the neighbor (see ). . the acts of pride.--(a) in his intellect, the proud man has an exaggerated opinion of his own worth, and this causes his inordinate desire of praise and exaltation. but pride may also be the cause of conceited ideas, for those who are too much in admiration of themselves often come to think that they are really as great as they wish to be. (b) the will of the proud man worships his own greatness, and longs for its recognition and glorification by others. (c) in his external words and works, the proud man betrays himself by boasting, self-glorification, self-justification, by his haughty appearance and gestures and luxurious style, by arrogance, insolence, perfidy, disregard of the rights and feelings of others, etc. . the sinfulness of pride.--(a) complete pride, which turns away from god because it considers subjection detrimental to one's own excellence, is a mortal sin from its nature, since it is a manifest rebellion against the supreme being (ecclus., x. ). such was the pride of lucifer, but it is rare in human beings. complete pride may be venial from the imperfection of the act, when it is only a semideliberate wish. (b) incomplete pride, which turns inordinately to the love of created excellence but without disaffection to superiors, is in itself a venial sin, for there is no serious disorder in the excess of an otherwise indifferent passion. but circumstances may make this pride mortal (e.g., when it is productive of serious harm to others). . pride compared with other sins.--(a) gravity.--complete pride is less than hatred of god, for the former has as its object personal excellence, the latter separation from god. but after hatred of god complete pride is worse disloyalty than any other mortal sin; it separates from god directly, since it abjures allegiance to the supreme being, while other sins separate from god only indirectly, since they offend, not from contempt, but from ignorance, or passion or excessive desire. (b) origin.--pride was the first sin, because by it the angels and our first parents fell, the angels desiring likeness to god in beatitude, adam and eve likeness in knowledge (ecclus., x. ; prov., xviii. ; tob., iv. ). (c) influence.--pride is called the queen and mother of the seven capital vices--namely, vainglory ( ), gluttony ( ), lust ( ), avarice ( ), sloth ( ), envy ( ), and anger ( )--not in the sense that every sin is the result of pride (for many persons sin from ignorance, passion, etc.), but in the sense that the inordinate desire of personal excellence is a motive that can impel one to any kind of sin, just as covetousness offers a means that is useful for every temporal end (i tim., vi. ). pride is also most dangerous, since it steals away the reward of virtue itself (matt., vi. ); and, as humility is the first step towards heaven, pride is the first step towards hell. . abjection.--the other extreme of pride is abjection. (a) as a turning away from these higher things to which one should aspire, this sin is the same as littleness of soul, and it is opposed to greatness of soul (see ). (b) as a turning to lower things or to a submission to others which is unreasonable, this vice is directly opposed to humility. examples are persons of knowledge who waste their time on menial labor when they should be more usefully employed in other pursuits, or who permit themselves to be corrected and guided by the errors and false principles of the ignorant. . studiousness.--studiousness (_studiositas_) is the virtue that makes one modest in the desire of knowledge. (a) its object is the desire of knowledge; for man is gifted with powers of sensation and understanding, and nature inclines him to desire the exercise of these powers to see, hear, picture, apprehend, judge, reason, etc. (b) its function is to make one modest in this desire (see c); that is, it regulates the inclination of nature according to reason, so that one may avoid both excess and defect in the pursuit of knowledge. on the one hand, the soul has the urge to discover and learn, but just as bodily hunger leads to gluttony, if not restrained, so does mental hunger become a vice (curiosity), if it is not moderated. on the other hand, the body has a disinclination for the labor, weariness and hardship which study demands, and, if this reluctance is not overcome, one becomes guilty of the sin of negligence or ignorance (see , , ). (c) its character, therefore, is that of a virtue, since it holds a natural appetite within moderation, avoiding the extremes of excess and defect, and keeping custody over senses and mind. this virtue is praised in prov., xxvii. : "study wisdom, my son, and make my heart joyful"; and in i tim., iv. : "attend to reading." essentially, it is a potential part of temperance, for its chief characteristic is moderation of an eager desire; but secondarily, it belongs to fortitude, for great courage, persistence, and self-sacrifice are necessary for a student. . the vices opposed to studiousness.--(a) the vice of excess is called curiosity. it is a desire of knowledge that is inordinate on account of the motive (e.g., when one is curious about the doings of others because one wishes to injure them, when one gazes about to satisfy impure desire) or on account of its circumstances (e.g., a curiosity about the latest news or rumors that keeps one from duty or more important matters, a curiosity that consults fortune-tellers, a curiosity that tries to peer into the inscrutable mysteries of god, ecclus., iii. ). (b) the vice opposed to studiousness by defect is negligence, which is a voluntary omission of study of those matters one is bound to know, as when a schoolboy wastes his time in play and idleness. curiosity and negligence are usually found in the same person (e.g., those who pry into the affairs of others without reason, do not, as a rule, mind their own business well). . the malice of the sins against studiousness.--(a) curiosity in itself is venial, for it does not seem a serious offense to busy oneself with things superfluous. but circumstances sometimes make it mortal. thus, the subject-matter may make it serious, as when one is curious about obscene books, or has a prurient desire to gaze on unbecoming pictures or plays, or tries to fish out of others sacramental or other confidential secrets; or the purpose may make it serious as when one is inquisitive or spying because one wishes to blacken a neighbor (prov., xxiv. ), or the means may make it mortal as when recourse is had to calumny, fraud, reading private papers, etc., in order to get information. (b) negligence is mortal or venial according to the gravity of the duty of knowledge. thus, if a lawyer gave no study at all to a case and thereby inflicted a grave loss on his client, the negligence would be a mortal sin. . modesty.--modesty should control not only the internal passions for excellence and learning, but also the external movements of the body (modesty of bearing) and the external use of corporal things (modesty of living). (a) thus, modesty of bearing moderates the bodily actions, both in serious things (modest behavior) and in things playful (modest relaxation). (b) modesty of living makes one temperate in the use of the externals that serve life (modesty in style) and of the clothing one wears (modesty in dress). . modest behavior or decorum.--(a) the virtue.--the movements and gestures of the body should be regulated by reason, both because they are indications of one's own character and disposition, and because they express one's disposition towards those with whom one lives. hence, they are not a matter of indifference, but reason demands that they be suitable both to oneself (i.e., to one's sex, age, position, etc.) and to one's neighbor (i.e., to the requirements of good social usage in each business or affair of life). thus, virtuous decorum employs both sincerity, which makes one honestly respectful in act ( ), and affability, which makes one agreeable in the company of others ( ). that this is an important virtue for individuals and society is declared both by sacred and human authority. ecclesiasticus (xix. , ) calls attention to the importance for himself of a man's looks, laughter and gait; st. augustine says that there should be nothing offensive to others in one's movements; and aristotle mentions among the qualities of the high-minded man that he is sedate and dignified in demeanor. (b) the opposite vices.--modest behavior is offended by various vices of excess and defect. thus, sincerity is offended by bluntness and affectation, self-respect by stiffness and servility, and consideration for others by flattery and rudeness. . modest relaxation.--(a) the virtue.--just as the body fatigued by manual labor demands the refreshment of sleep and the recuperation afforded by vacations or by intermissions of work, so also the mind cannot be healthy or active unless from time to time it is relieved by some kind of amusement or diversion. the desire for recreation is, therefore, one of the chief inclinations of man, and there is special need of its temperate management by right reason. the person who prudently provides for pastimes and pleasures as a part of his life has the virtue which aristotle called eutrapelia (good wit, urbanity), and which st. thomas named gaiety or pleasantness. (b) the sin of excess.--relaxation is excessive in various ways. sometimes the entertainment itself is improper (e.g., obscene comedies, scandalous dances, unjust games of chance). sometimes the disposition of the person himself is sinful (e.g., those who make recreation the chief occupation of life, wis., xv. ; those who recreate only for pleasure, or who enjoy themselves uproariously). sometimes the circumstances make an amusement unsuitable, such as the person (e.g., when a man of dignity belittles himself by acting as clown, when a female takes part in sports unsuited to her sex), or the time (e.g., when the hours that should be given to divine services, or to study or other work, are spent in golfing or fishing; when good friday or a day of bereavement or penance is chosen for a ball or picnic), or the place (eg, when a church is used for sports or farces), or the quality (e.g., when the scriptures or other sacred things are caricatured or parodied), or the quantity (e.g., when one spends so much on theatres, automobiles, trips and other enjoyments that one has nothing left for duties of justice, charity or religion; when health is injured by violent games). (b) the sin of defect.--those persons offend here who deprive themselves of necessary relaxation (e.g., misers who fear to take a holiday or go on an outing lest they lose some money), or who interfere with the recreation of others (e.g., killjoys who wish to see others miserable, fanatics who believe that all fun is of the devil). those who have little sense of humor or who suffer much may be excused to some extent if they never laugh, but at least they should try to look pleasant at times, or at least not frown on innocent happiness. . gravity of the sins opposed to moderate enjoyment.--(a) the absolute gravity.--the sins just mentioned are mortal or venial according to the character of what is done and the circumstances. thus, it is a mortal sin to find recreation in wild revelry and debauchery, or to drive one's children to the devil by forbidding them necessary diversion; it is a venial sin to spend a little too much time at the card table or to work rather too hard. (b) the comparative gravity.--it is worse to relax too much than too little, for amusement is not taken for its own sake, but is subordinated to serious things. just as it is more senseless to take too much salt or other relish in food than to take too little, because the salt is secondary, so it is more foolish to play too much than too little. . modesty in style of living and dress.-(a) the virtue.--external goods, such as dwellings and clothing, are necessary for body and soul, as a protection to health and decency; others, such as furnishings, decorations, ornaments, cars, radios, entertainments for guests, etc., are useful for convenience, beauty and the maintenance of one's station. but one may be immoderate in the use of these goods, and hence there is need of a virtue to regulate their use, so that it may truthfully be in keeping with one's position and be not offensive to others. (b) the sin of excess.--this is committed when one's style is extravagant according to the standards of the community, or when like dives, clothed in purple and fine linen, one aims only at display or sensual gratification, or when one is too much preoccupied with externals (e.g., when too much time is spent before the mirror or too much money at the dressmaker's). dignitaries and the ministers of the altar are not guilty of excess in the pomp and splendor which the church sanctions, since the honor is intended for their station and the divine worship they perform. (c) the sin of defect.--this is committed when one's mode of life is not up to the reasonable standard of one's community, especially if this is due to negligence or itch for notoriety or disregard for decency. examples are those who through carelessness go about unwashed or unshaven, who keep their quarters in a filthy and disorderly state, or who wear their clothing untidily; also females who dress in male attire, nudists who appear undressed in public places, and cynics who scorn the conventions of refined society. it is not sinful, however, but a virtuous act of temperance, to wear simpler and poorer garments from the spirit of mortification and humility (heb., xi. ). the clergy and religious, since they should be models of the penitential spirit, are to be praised, therefore, when they give an example of plainness and simplicity in personal style and dress. . morality of self-beautification.--is it wrong to beautify oneself in order to improve one's looks or to win admiration? (a) in itself there is no harm, especially for females, in using means to improve one's looks, such as remedies for deformities, facial paints, powders and cosmetics, hair waves and dyes, and the like. but accidentally there could be sin (e.g., deception). a poor man would be a deceiver if he lived in great style to make a woman believe he was wealthy, and likewise a woman would be a deceiver if she used an artificial beauty to deceive a man about her age (see ). (b) in itself also it is not sinful to desire that others approve one's appearance and dress. thus, a wife should strive to be attractive to her husband (i cor., vii. ), and modest ornamentation may be used to win a suitor (i tim., ii. ). it is mortally sinful, however, to attire oneself with the purpose or in a manner to arouse carnal temptation or to awaken sinful desire in others--for example, if one wishes to capture the sex love of others without marriage (prov., vii. ); it is venially sinful to groom oneself well from mere vanity, that is, from a silly ambition to be regarded as handsome and fashionable. by a decree of the sacred congregation of the council (january , ), parish-priests, parents, and teachers are admonished to oppose indecent female dress; and it is ordered that women and girls improperly dressed shall be excluded from communion or even from church, and special services and sermons on decency are prescribed for december of each year (see , ). . complements of the virtue of temperance.--(a) the gift of the holy ghost that perfects temperance is fear of the lord. the virtue of temperance makes one abstain from unlawful pleasures because to do so is reasonable; fear of the lord inclines one to the same abstinence from reverence. the gift of fear looks first to the greatness of the heavenly father, before whom the nations are as a drop in the bucket and are counted as the smallest grain of the balance and the islands as but a little dust (is., xl. ); and in this respect it represses presumption and serves the virtue of hope (see sqq.). but secondarily it looks to the insignificance of every delight that is apart from god, and sees that these inferior joys are passing, insipid and bitter, like dust blown away by the wind, like a thin froth dispersed by the storm, like smoke scattered by the breeze (wis., v. ), like a sweet poison that turns to gall and destroys (job, xx. sqq.); and in this respect fear of god sustains temperance, which must regulate the cravings of the flesh and lower appetites. fear of god, then, makes one fly from those things which chiefly allure one to offend him, and hence the psalmist (ps. cxviii. ) prays: "pierce thou my flesh with thy fear." (b) the beatitude that corresponds to the present gift is the second: "blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." those who have the fear of god perceive the true nature of illicit joys and the evil end that awaits those who chase after them. they prefer, then, to be sorrowful, that is, to deprive themselves of every wicked pleasure and love for the sake of the love of god in this life and the enjoyment of god in the life to come: "your sorrow shall be changed into joy" (john, xx. ). (c) the fruits of fear of the lord are modesty, continency and chastity. like a good tree that produces a rich harvest of delightful fruits, filial reverence for god brings forth acts of virtue that have in them a delicious savor more enjoyable and more lasting than the fruits of the flesh. these goodly and pleasant fruits of the spirit of fear of god are modesty in words, deeds and external things, continency of the single and chastity of the married in thoughts and desires. . the commandments of temperance.--(a) negative precepts.--in the decalogue the vices of intemperance that are most directly opposed to the love of god and the neighbor (i tim., i. ) are expressly forbidden, namely, adultery in act and adultery in desire. elsewhere other sins are forbidden. thus, drunkenness ("drunkards shall not possess the kingdom," i cor., vi. ), every kind of lust ("the works of the flesh are fornication, uncleanness, immodesty, luxury . . . those who do such things shall not obtain the kingdom," gal., v. , ), anger ("let all bitterness and anger and indignation be put away from you," eph., iv. ), pride ("god resisteth the proud," james, iv. ), etc. (b) affirmative precepts.--the positive modes of observing temperance (i.e., rules on fasting) are not prescribed in the decalogue. for the law confines itself to general principles that, are of universal application, whereas the manner of practising fasts and abstinences has to be suited to conditions of time and place. hence, it pertains to the church to settle by her legislation the details of mortification in eating and drinking, so that they may be suited to the ever-changing conditions of human life ( ). question iii the duties of particular classes of men . the theological and moral virtues treated in the previous question are obligatory upon all states and conditions, for all men have the same supernatural destiny, and all alike are bound to govern their acts and their passions by the rule of reason. but not all have the same calling or office, or consequently the same particular ends to be striven for or the same special means to be used; wherefore, there are moral duties proper to particular classes and particular ways of life. those special obligations, however, do not constitute new virtues, but are applications of the seven general virtues to the states of man diversified in reference to the acts and habits of the soul. the diversities now spoken of may be reduced to the three mentioned by st. paul (i cor., xii. sqq.), namely, diversities of graces (i.e., some are gifted to edify the church in marvellous ways by knowledge, speech or miracles), diversities of operations (i.e., some are called to the life of contemplation, others to active life), and diversities of ministries (i.e., there are various stations, ranks, occupations, both in ecclesiastical and non-ecclesiastical life). the higher graces and ways of the spiritual life of man are treated in works of ascetical and mystical theology, and we shall confine ourselves here to two subjects: (a) the duties of men as members of the church, that is, the general duties of the faithful and the special duties of clerics and religious; (b) the duties of men as members of domestic and civil society. before proceeding any further, a word is in order regarding the role of the laity in the church. "we desire that all who claim the church as their mother should seriously consider that not only the sacred ministers and those who have consecrated themselves to god in religious life, but the other members as well of the mystical body of jesus christ, have the obligation of working hard and constantly for the upbuilding and increase of this body" (pius xii, _mystici corporis_). the catholic layman, long a silent partner in the church's apostolate, has assumed a more active part in recent years. his role, his apostolate, his milieu, his special claims to divine graces, his spiritual prerogatives--all have been made subjects of theological investigation particularly by european writers. controversy, uncertainty, at times even error have characterized their efforts as they grope their way in a new area of theology. their efforts ultimately will lead to the elaboration of a developed theology of the laity, an extremely important and equally necessary body of knowledge, for "the laity are in the front line of the church's life; through them the church is the vital principle of human society. accordingly they especially must have an ever clearer consciousness not only of belonging to the church, but of being the church . . . " (pius xii, _allocution to the sacred college, aas_, - ).[ ] [ ] to detail the advances made in this new area of theology would demand a volume for itself. we shall have to be content with indicating a select bibliography of the outstanding works available. francis m. keating, s.j., "theology of the laity," _proceedings of the catholic theological society of america_, , pp. ff.; ives m. j. congar, o.p., _jalons pour une theologie du laïcat_, (paris, cerf, ); translated as _lay people in the church_, (the newman press, westminster, md., ); g. philips, _le role du laïcat dans l'eglise, (casterman, tournai-paris, ); translated as _the role of the laity in the church_. (mercier, cork, ); karl rahner, "the apostolate of laymen," _theology digest_, (spring ), pp. ff.; jacques leclercq, "can a layman be a saint?" _theology digest_, (winter ), pp. ff. (this same issue contains a select bibliography on spirituality of the laity, p. .); paul dabin, s.j., _le sacerdoce royal des fidéles dans les livres saints_, (blond et gay, ); _le sacerdoce royal des fidéles dans la tradition ancienne et moderne_, (les editions universelles, brussels, ): gustave weigel, s.j., "the body of christ and the city of god," _social order_, (vol. , , p. ff.). art. : the duties of members of the church . the general duties of the faithful.--the church has the power to make laws which will promote the common good of the whole body and the individual good of the members (see ). chief among the laws that bind the faithful in general are the six known as the precepts of the church, namely, the laws on the observance of sundays and holydays, on fasting and abstinence, on yearly confession, on easter communion, on the support of pastors, and on marriage. . the first precept of the church.--this precept commands that on sundays and holydays of obligation mass be heard and servile and other like works be omitted (canons - ) by the subjects of church laws ( sqq.). (a) this precept is of natural and divine law as to its purpose and substance, for reason teaches and the third commandment of the decalogue prescribes that man set aside some time for the external worship of god, and avoid those things that distract him from worship (catechism of the council of trent, pp. sqq,). hence, even non-catholics, though they do not sin by missing mass ( , ), are guilty of sin if they do not from time to time worship god externally. (b) this precept is of ecclesiastical law only as to its details (i.e., the time set apart and the manner of worship and sanctification decreed). the old testament law observed the sabbath or last day of the week in memory of the creation of the world, and it abstained most rigorously from work on the sabbath, because there was a divine prohibition and because this rest was a figure of things to come. but in the new law the ceremonial precepts of judaism no longer have force, and the christian precepts substituted for them were not instituted by christ himself but arose from the custom of the church. during the lifetime of the apostles themselves sunday (or the first day of the week) came to be venerated as the lord's day in memory of the resurrection, which completed the work of redemption (acts, ii. , iii. , v. , xxi. ); and from early times various special holydays were appointed and made days of obligatory worship, as had been the case with certain feasts in the old testament. as early as the third and fourth centuries laws were made confirming the primitive customs of assisting at mass and resting on sundays and holydays. . the affirmative and negative parts of the first precept.--the first precept of the church has two parts, an affirmative (preceptive) part which commands the hearing of mass, and a negative (prohibitive) part which forbids the doing of servile works. the law is therefore most salutary and simple, requiring that one take part in the greatest act of worship, the sacrifice which is a commemoration of christ, and that one rest from the labors and cares of the week and be spiritually refreshed. in reference to the mass, the precept requires that mass itself be heard, and that it be an entire mass and the same mass. (a) thus, mass itself must be heard, and hence one does not satisfy the sunday obligation by attending other services that precede (e.g., the asperges, blessing of palm), accompany (e.g., sermon), or follow (e.g., vespers, benediction) the celebration of mass. neither does this precept oblige one to attend other services on sunday, although it is most suitable to do this, also to make internal acts of faith, hope and charity, and to read pious books and perform works of charity, and it is sometimes necessary as a natural obligation to attend the sermon or catechetical instruction (see sqq.). (b) a whole mass must be heard, that is, all the ceremonies from the prayers at the foot of the altar until the blessing at the end, and it is irreverent to leave church without necessity before the priest has left the altar. he who can assist at only the essential and integral parts of the sacrifice (i.e., from the consecration to the communion), is obliged to so much; but he who arrives after the consecration and cannot hear another mass is not obliged according to one opinion to remain for the present mass, since the consecration, the essential part, is already past. (c) the same mass must be heard, and hence one cannot satisfy the obligation by hearing the first half of one mass being said on one altar and the second half of another mass being said simultaneously on another altar (see denzinger, n. ), nor by hearing the consecration in one mass and the communion in a previous or subsequent mass, thus dividing the sacrifice. but if one may have heard from the consecration to the end in one mass, one may hear the omitted pre-consecration parts, it seems, in another mass that follows, and one should do this if possible. . how mass must be heard.--in reference to the person who hears mass, the positive part of the precept calls for external assistance and internal devotion. (a) thus, the external or bodily assistance must be such that one can be said to take part in the divine worship. this happens when one is physically present, that is, when one is in the same building or place as the celebrant and can either see or hear him, or is morally present, that is, not in the same building but able to see or hear him naturally (e.g., by looking from the window of a neighboring house), or is unable to see or hear him but joined with the congregation (e.g., those who are outside the closed doors of the church but who can follow the bells and choir to some extent, those who are inside with the congregation but behind a pillar that shuts off the view). in a field mass amplifiers can carry the voice far out to the edge of a vast crowd. but there does not seem to be a sufficient moral presence when mass is "seen" by television or "heard" over the radio, since in these cases one is not present to the consecrated species or united to the worshippers. (b) internal or mental assistance requires the actual or virtual intention of the will to perform what the church requires (see ), and the attention of the mind, external according to some, internal according to others (see sqq.). thus, he who goes to church merely to hear the music or look at the pictures does not hear mass for lack of intention; he who sleeps soundly all through the service does not hear mass for lack of attention. one who knows what is going on before him, but whose thoughts are not on any religious matter, complies with the precept of the church according to some, but he sins by irreverence and voluntary distraction. it suffices during mass to think either on the mass itself (which is the best attention), or to think on other pious subjects (e.g., to make an examination of conscience, to say the rosary). certain actions (e.g., those that are related to the mass, such as ringing the bell, taking up the collection, playing the organ) do not exclude external attention, but others certainly exclude it (e.g., writing a letter), and others are doubtful (e.g., going to confession). . time and place of mass.--in reference to circumstances, the precept requires that mass be heard at the proper place and the proper time. (a) place.--the precept may be complied with by attending mass in any catholic rite (latin, greek, etc.), and it makes no difference whether mass is celebrated in the open air, in a church, or in a public or semi-public oratory (canon ). but private chapels are for the benefit of the grantee alone. (b) time.--the precept must be complied with on the feast itself, that is, during the period of twenty-four hours from midnight to midnight. sunday mass cannot be anticipated on saturday or put off till monday. likewise servile works are unlawful from midnight to midnight. . servile works.--the prohibitory part of the precept is concerned with servile works, that is, labor of a kind that tends to make one unfit for devotion or that shows disrespect for the sacredness of the day, even though the labor be done gratis, or for recreation, or out of devotion. hence, the law forbids: (a) works given to the service of the devil, that is, sins that deprive one of holiness, such as riotous recreations, gambling, drunkenness, reading improper matter, and attendance at evil movie performances. but these works are opposed to the end, not to the text, of the law; and hence the circumstance of time aggravates their malice but does not give them a new species (see ); (b) works given to the service of the body (servile works properly so called) or to the service of external goods (forensic and commercial works). servile works in the strict sense cause bodily fatigue and are taken up with material things, and hence they distract the mind from religious thoughts. such are manual labors (e.g., plowing, digging, housecleaning) and mechanical or industrial labors (e.g., printing, building, plastering, shoemaking). forensic and commercial labors (e.g., arguing in court, auctioneering) are also of a very worldly kind and unsuitable for the quiet and recollection of sundays and holydays. . the prohibitory part of the sunday precept does not affect works which are no impediment to devotion and which cast no dishonor on the day. such are: (a) works devoted immediately to the service of god. the purpose of the law is to allow leisure for these works, and hence manifestly their performance is not forbidden. such works are saying mass, preaching, administering the sacraments, singing in church, and visiting the poor and sick (john, vii. ; matt., xii. ). but works that are only remotely related to divine worship (e.g., cleaning the church, painting the altar, repairing the vestments, decorating the shrines) should not be done on sunday without necessity; (b) works devoted to the service of the mind (liberal works). these works are of a more elevated kind, do not require great bodily exertion, and are not looked upon as unsuitable to the sabbath. such are intellectual works (e.g., teaching, reading, writing, studying), artistic works (e.g., playing the organ, singing, drawing, painting a picture, embroidering), and works of recreation (moderate sports or diversions such as baseball, tennis, and chess). . other kinds of works and sunday observance.--(a) common works are those that stand between the liberal and the servile, since they are exercised equally by mind and body, such as walking, riding, hunting, and fishing that is not very laborious. these are lawful. (b) doubtful works are those that are now non-servile, now servile, according to the manner in which they are conducted, such as the work of painters, sculptors, typists, seamstresses, and photographers. thus, it is a liberal work to paint a portrait, a servile work to paint the walls of a house. in settling the character of various kinds of work, one must be guided by the prudent opinion of one's locality, and in case of doubt and need must seek a dispensation. (for a history of the theology of servile works see franz x. pettirsch, s.j., "a theology of sunday rest," _theology digest_, vol. vi, no. , spring , pp. ff.; for a survey of modern studies on the problem see _proceedings of the catholic theological society of america_, ). . is it lawful without necessity to hire the servile work of non-catholics on sunday, if these persons are not thereby impeded from the natural duty of worshipping god and no scandal is given? (a) if the non-catholics are infidels and not bound by church laws, this is lawful. the same would be true of those who lack the use of reason (see sqq.). (b) if the non-catholics are heretics, it is not lawful in the case given to make them work on sunday. . obligation of first precept.--the first precept of the church obliges under pain of grave sin, because it determines a necessary act of religion ( ), and experience shows that where the sabbath is neglected the social, spiritual and physical interests of man are seriously harmed (see denzinger, n. ). there is always hope for catholics who attend mass, whereas those who miss mass soon become catholics only in name. but since neglect of worship may be only slightly disrespectful, and since the end of the precept may be substantially obtained without complete fulfillment, a transgression may be only venial by reason of lightness of matter. (a) preceptive part.--grave matter is a part of the mass that is notable on account of dignity (i.e., the essential and integral parts of the mass, for example, the consecration and communion), or on account of its duration (i.e., a third of the whole mass, e.g., from the beginning to the offertory inclusively, from the beginning to the gospel and from the communion to the end, from the preface to the consecration, from the consecration to the agnus dei, etc.). hence, he who is culpably absent or asleep during a notable part of the mass sins gravely, but he who is absent or asleep during an inconsiderable part of the mass (e.g., one who arrives just at the offertory or who leaves after the communion) sins venially, unless he is so disposed that he does not care how much he misses. (b) prohibitive part.--grave matter is labor that is notable on account of its quality (e.g., forensic proceedings even for a brief space on sunday would be a serious distraction and scandal), or its quantity (e.g., two and a half hours given to very exhausting manual work, such as digging a ditch, three hours given to less arduous labor, such as sowing). he who commands ten laborers to work an hour each on sunday coöperates in ten venial sins (see ), but he may be guilty of mortal sin on account of scandal. . excuses from observance of first precept.--these reasons may be reduced to two classes, namely, external reasons (i.e., a dispensation or a lawful custom) and internal reasons (i.e., one's own inability or necessity). (a) external reasons.--dispensations may be given under certain conditions by local ordinaries, by parish-priests, and by superiors of exempt clerical institutes (canon ). custom in certain places excuses from mass for a month women who have just given birth to a child or who have lost their husband by death, and also--from the mass in which their banns are to be proclaimed--those women who are about to marry. custom further permits necessary labors, such as cooking, ordinary housecleaning, barbering, the work of railroad and garage men, etc. (b) internal reasons.--impossibility or serious inconvenience excuses from hearing mass (e.g., those who have to walk an hour's journey to church or ride a two hours' journey, regarding which, in terms of distance travelled, it has been suggested that the figures should be more than three miles each way if one must walk, more than thirty miles if a car is available and the roads are good; those who will suffer great detriment to health, honor, fortune, etc., if they go; those who are kept away by duties of charity or employment or office that cannot be omitted). necessity or duty to others permits one to work on sunday at least to some extent (e.g., those who must labor on a sunday in order to live, or to keep out of serious trouble, or to perform services or works of charity that cannot easily be done at another time). to avoid self-deception the faithful should consult their pastor or other prudent person if there is doubt about the sufficiency of the excuse. . though the church does not impose excessive sabbatarianism, neither does she admit laxity in the important matter of the lord's day. (a) hence, not every reason excuses from the church precept. thus, those are guilty who unnecessarily place themselves in the impossibility of observing the law (e.g., by moving to a place where there is no church, by taking a position that requires work all sunday morning, by starting on a vacation or auto trip to a churchless region), or whose excuses are frivolous (e.g., those who stay away from mass because they dislike the priest, or who work on sunday merely to keep busy). (b) reasons that excuse from part of the ecclesiastical precept do not excuse from all of it. thus, those who are unable to hear mass are not thereby justified in doing servile work, those who can hear the essential part of mass (consecration and communion), but not the other parts, should hear the essential part; those who can hear mass only on one sunday a year are not excused on that sunday. (c) reasons that excuse from the ecclesiastical precept do not excuse from the divine precept (see ) of worshipping god. hence, those who are really obliged to work every sunday should sanctify the lord's day by whatever private prayer or devotion they can substitute. some authors very rightly believe that those who can never go to mass on sunday are held by divine law to hear mass on weekdays three or four times a year at least, when this is possible (see , ). . the second precept of the church.--this precept commands that on all fridays of the year and certain other specified days (unless they fall on a holyday outside of lent) every baptized person who has completed the age of seven and has attained the use of reason shall abstain from eating flesh meat and from drinking the broth or soup made from flesh meat (canons - ). (a) under the name flesh are included all land and warm-blooded animals (i.e., mammals and birds). the law does not include aquatic animals (i.e., fishes, clams, oysters and other shellfish, lobsters, shrimps, crabs and other crustaceans), nor cold-blooded animals (i.e., reptiles, snails and amphibians, such as frogs, tortoises). some authors include under aquatic animals otters, beavers, seals, walruses, loons, and coots, though generally the birds are regarded as flesh. in doubt whether a food is fish or flesh, it may be judged to be fish, for in doubts laws are to be interpreted benignly. (b) under the name meat are included all the parts of an animal (i.e., its flesh, blood, marrow, brains, lard, meat extracts, mince-pie, pepsin) but not its fruit (e.g., eggs, milk, and things made from milk, such as butter, cheese). (c) under the name broth is included any liquid made from the juice of meat, such as beef tea, chicken broth, mutton soup, gravy, etc. but the law does not forbid condiments made from animal fats (e.g., margarin). . obligation of the second precept of the church.--(a) origin of the obligation.--in substance this precept is of the natural law, but in details (time, manner, etc.) it is of ecclesiastical law ( b) and has come down from customs that began in the first ages of christianity. the church regulation on abstinence is most wise and moderate: the foods forbidden are those whose deprivation is a mortification to most persons, and at the same time a great benefit to spiritual and bodily health; the times appointed are few but appropriate (viz., days of sorrow, special prayer, penance, preparation, such as fridays, ember days, lent, vigils), and they are so distributed as to sanctify by mortification each week and each season of the year. true, no food is evil in itself (matt., xv. ; i cor., viii, ; i tim., iv. ; col., ii. ), but just as the physician can forbid certain foods to his patient for the sake of temporal good, so for the sake of spiritual good god forbade to adam the fruit of one tree and to the jews the flesh of certain animals; and the church from the days of the apostles (acts, xv. ) has exercised the same right. (b) gravity of the obligation.--the abstinence required by the second precept is a grave duty, because the church makes it the necessary act of the necessary virtue of abstemiousness and a serious duty of obedience. but not every transgression is a serious injury to the spirit of this law, and hence some sins against it are venial. grave matter is such a quantity of forbidden food as gives considerable nourishment, and hence for practical purposes the rule may be given that flesh meat which weighs two ounces (or, according to others, what would be the size of a walnut or of a small hen's egg) is grave matter. some hold for a more liberal interpretation when the food is not strictly flesh meat, and believe that liquid from meat is not grave matter at any time, or at least when it weighs less than four ounces. vegetables cooked or seasoned with meat or meat juice are also considered light matter. he who eats meat twice on a friday or other abstinence day commits two sins, just as he who works twice on a sunday or holyday commits two sins. it is commonly held that many venial sins against abstinence committed on the same day coalesce to form grave matter, but on account of the separation between the eatings a larger amount is necessary for grave matter. (c) exceptions to the obligation.--those are not bound to observe a day of abstinence who have been exempted by indult (canon ), who have been dispensed by the ordinary, pastor or superior (canon ), or who are excused on account of real impossibility (e.g., the poor, the sick, those obliged to perform very hard work, those who are morally forced to eat meat but not as a sign of contempt of the law). persons dispensed from abstinence may not eat meat oftener than once a day on fast days, unless they have a special grant. the faithful should be guided by the lenten regulations of their dioceses, and in doubt they should consult their pastors. . the obligation of fasting.--the second precept also commands that on the weekdays of lent and certain other specified days (holydays outside lent excepted) every baptized person between the ages of twenty-one years completed and sixty years begun shall eat not more than one full meal a day (canon ). (a) the law speaks of eating, that is, of solid food, and hence the lenten and other similar fasts are not broken by liquids which are beverages rather than foods, or which are used to allay thirst, or carry food or assist digestion, and not chiefly to nourish (e.g., water, teas, coffee, light cocoa, wine, beer, lemonade, fruit juice). likewise, sirups taken as medicines are not considered foods, even though they contain nourishment, unless one drinks a large quantity for its food content. light ices may be considered drink, but ice-cream is food. on the contrary, liquids that are chiefly nourishing are regarded as food (e.g., soup, oil, honey). finally, some liquors vary between food and drink, according to their richness or weakness, their great or small quantity. thus, hot chocolate as made in the united states contains only a small amount of solid and may be considered as a drink, but as made in europe it is stronger and rather food than drink. (b) the law admits as an indulgence on fast days, in addition to the one meal, a small breakfast in the morning and a light collation to be taken either around noon (lunch) or in the evening (supper). the quality and quantity of these two repasts are left to local custom. the uniform norm for fast and abstinence in the united states adopted by the hierarchy, nov. , , establishes the following norm for these two meatless meals. they are to be "sufficient to maintain strength, may be taken according to each one's needs; but together they should not equal another full meal." this norm, called the relative standard, was adopted by many bishops of the united states, beginning with lent of . thus, the amount of food is dependent to some degree on a person's own needs and appetite. the relative standard is distinguished from the absolute norm which allows about two ounces for the morning collation and eight ounces for the evening. (c) the law permits one to eat but once in the day (exception being made for breakfast and collation), but it places no limits as to the quality of the food at the principal meal (unless the day be also a day of abstinence, when meat is forbidden), or as to its quantity, though temperance bids one to eat at all times in moderation. on fast days, therefore, one may not eat between meals, nor so divide or prolong the dinner that it really becomes several meals. a notable interruption (two or three hours) made without good reason divides a dinner into two meals, and over two hours of uninterrupted eating, under ordinary circumstances, seems to be more than the one full meal which the law allows. . the obligation of the precept of fasting.--(a) origin.--the natural law commands fasting in general, since without some kind of austerity above common temperance certain desirable ends (such as atonement for past transgressions, conquest of unruly passions, and elevation of the soul) cannot be attained; and as these ends are necessary it is also necessary to use the means as far as one needs them. the particularization of this natural law has been made by the positive law of the church, and with such wisdom as to promote the good of both soul and body. the times appointed are most appropriate (e.g., the season when the passion is commemorated, luke, v. ); the duration of the long fast is modelled on that of christ (matt., iv. ); the curtailment of food required is not only beneficial (as an exercise of self-control and a rest and change to the metabolism), but is moderate, since it permits sufficient food for the day, and even in the fast of lent the sundays occur to give a respite. (b) gravity.--the precept of fasting is grave, both from the purpose of the law (see ), and from the express declaration of the lawgiver (denzinger, n. ). but the spirit of the precept is not notably deviated from by every transgression, and hence even in reference to matter there are minor or venial violations; and moreover the precept is probably (unlike that of abstinence) an indivisible one, since it consists in the limitation to one meal, and hence it cannot be violated more than once a day. grave matter, when the absolute norm is used, seems to be about four ounces added to the collations or taken between meals, either all at once or at different times during the day (denzinger, n. ), but if the relative norm is used, a greater quantity is needed to establish grave matter, e.g., one fourth of a full meal. but he who has broken his fast (e.g., by a second full meal) does not break it again by a third or fourth full meal on the same day, for after the second full meal the fast has become impossible for that day. he who accidentally takes too much at breakfast can still keep the fast by proportionately diminishing his evening repast. (c) exceptions.--physical or moral impossibility excuses from the fast, and gives the right to eat meat as often as moderation allows on days that are not meatless days. the chief persons who labor under impossibility are those who are too weak to fast (e.g., the sick, the convalescent, pregnant and nursing mothers, the nervous), those who are too poor to get one square meal a day (e.g., street beggars who have nothing may eat as often as they are given an alms, if it does not buy them a dinner), and those who cannot do their necessary or customary hard work if they fast. hard work is such as is exercised for many hours continuously, or for a less time if it is very intense, and which is greatly fatiguing to the mind (e.g., daily teaching, lecturing, studying, hearing confessions, preaching, etc.) or to the body (e.g., heavy manual labor, the difficult jobs in offices or stores, work that requires one to be on one's feet for hours at a time, necessary journeys made under hardship). the confessor or physician can decide about cases of impossibility that are not manifest, but dispensation should be had from the pastor (canon ). those who are dispensed from the ecclesiastical fast or abstinence should remember that they are not dispensed from the natural law of temperance, and they should practise some abstemiousness according to their ability (e.g., by self-denial in alcoholic beverages, tobacco, sweets, etc., or mortification in the quantity or quality of food). . the third precept of the church.--this precept commands that all the faithful, male and female, who have reached the age of discretion go to confession at least once a year (canon ). (a) the subject of this precept is every baptized person who has entered the church through valid baptism and who has the use of reason, which begins usually at the age of seven. infants are incapable of committing sin, and the unbaptized are incapable of receiving the sacrament of penance. (b) the matter of the precept is a good sacramental confession of the grave sins not yet confessed, made with the purpose of obtaining absolution to any duly authorized priest. hence, those who have only venial sins on their conscience are not bound according to the common opinion by this precept, and, on the other hand, those who make a sacrilegious or voluntarily null confession do not fulfill the law (denzinger, n. ; code, canon ). it seems that one who, after a confession of venial sins at easter, falls into grave sin is not bound from this precept to confess again before the end of the year. (c) the time for fulfillment of the precept is once during the year. the law leaves one free to confess on any day during the twelvemonth, and to count the year either civilly (i.e., from january to december ), or ecclesiastically (e.g., from easter time to easter time, as is commonly done), or from the date of the last confession. the limit is set, however, not to terminate but to insist upon obligation, and hence it seems that he who has not made his confession must make it as soon as possible in , but the confession made in will satisfy for the obligation also (see sqq.). . the obligation of the third precept.--(a) origin.--from divine law sacramental confession is necessary for all who have fallen into serious sin after baptism, since christ has given his church the keys of heaven and appointed his bishops and priests the physicians and judges to cure and pardon (matt., xviii. ; john, xx. ). but our lord did not fix the frequency of confession, and it is this which the present precept determines. the law of annual confession goes back to the fourth lateran council ( ). (b) gravity.--the precept of annual confession obliges under pain of mortal sin, for its purpose is of vital importance and the church has always regarded it as a grave obligation. the purpose of the law is to ensure the use of the sacrament instituted by christ for forgiveness and to keep sinners from delaying their repentance too long. if a good business man takes stock of his assets and liabilities at least once a year, and those who are careful of their health have medical attention or examination at least yearly, it is most reasonable that the faithful should settle their spiritual accounts and attend to the well-being of their souls within an equal period of time. in the early centuries when fervor was greater and conditions different, no general church law on the frequency of confession was needed; but there is no doubt that the lateran decree met well the need that began after the change from the early penitential discipline, the penalties for violation of this precept were excommunication and exclusion from ecclesiastical burial, and, though they are not enforced today, they show the intention of the church to impose a grave duty. . the fourth precept of the church.--this precept commands that all the faithful, male and female, who have attained the use of reason, go to holy communion at least once a year, and that during easter time (canon ). (a) the subjects of this precept are the same as those of the previous precept, and consequently children of seven years or thereabout, who are able to understand, must make the easter duty. (b) the matter of the precept is a worthy communion (viaticum or ordinary communion) received in any parish, but preferably in one's own parish. persons living in community (e.g., religious, soldiers, college boarders) may make the easter duty in their own chapels, strangers and vagi in any church or chapel, and priests in the place where they say mass. (c) the time of the precept is the paschal season (i.e., from palm sunday to low sunday, but in the united states, by privilege, from the first sunday of lent to trinity sunday). the easter time may be prolonged for an individual by his pastor or confessor for a just reason. the year within which the easter duty is to be made begins, it seems, with the opening of one paschal season and ends with the opening of the paschal season of the following calendar year. since the law requires that the easter duty be made, not only within the paschal season, but also once a year, it follows that he who neglects communion during the easter period is still bound by the law to go to communion before the opening of the next paschal season, but probably he is not bound to go at the first opportunity. as a rule, we believe those who do not make their easter duty during a year are guilty of but one sin, since they do not think of distinct violations. . the obligation of the fourth precept.--(a) origin.--there is a divine precept of receiving communion some time during life, since our lord willed the eucharist to be the necessary nourishment of the soul's journey (john, vi. ) and the perpetual memorial of himself (i cor., xi. ). the church in the present precept has prescribed both the frequency and the time for complying with the will of christ. since the eucharist is a daily bread, the law does not permit it to be abstained from by anyone beyond a year; and, since the paschal season brings the anniversary of christ's sacrifice and of the institution of the blessed sacrament, it is the time most fitly chosen for the obligatory communion. (b) gravity.--the precept obliges under pain of grave sin, for it determines a law given by our lord himself and regulates the minimum in the use of the eucharist, the greatest of the sacraments and the end of all the others. the doctrine of theologians is that it is a grave sin to delay culpably the easter communion for even a day beyond the paschal season as prescribed. . the fifth and sixth precepts of the church.--the fifth precept commands the proper maintenance of the clergy by the laity. the manner of giving the support is left to the special statutes and customs of each country (canons , ). this ecclesiastical law is but a determination of the natural law of justice and religion, and also of the divine law; for even in the old testament the levites were supported by the people. the duty is, therefore, grave (see sqq.). respect and obedience in spiritual matters are owed the clergy, and it is sinful to usurp their functions (see , sqq., and canons , , , ). the sixth precept commands the proper solemnization of marriage and prohibits the solemn blessing of marriages at stated times. canon , § specifies these times as "from the first sunday of advent until the day of the nativity of our lord inclusive, and from ash wednesday until easter sunday inclusive." it is to be noted that the forbidden time excludes only the solemn blessing, and even this may be permitted by the ordinary for just cause, subject to liturgical laws (canon , § ). . two other important general laws of the church.--(a) the prohibition of wicked and dangerous writings (canons sqq.) is based on the natural law, which requires one to avoid what is proximately dangerous to faith or morals. this subject is treated above in , sqq., . (b) the prohibition of the cremation of corpses (canon ) is not based on natural law or on any dogma, as though the burning of dead bodies were intrinsically evil or repugnant to our faith in immortality and resurrection. on the contrary, in exceptional cases (e.g., in time of war or epidemic) cremation is permitted, if a real public necessity requires it. the reasons for the anti-cremation law are: the tradition of the old and new testaments (gen., iii, ; i cor., xv. ), and especially the example of christ whose body was consigned to the tomb; the association of burial throughout the history of the church with sacred rites and the doctrine of the future life, and the contrary association of cremation both in times past and today with paganism and despair; the sacred dignity of the human body (gen., i. ; i cor., iii. , vi. ), and the feeling of affection for parents, relatives, friends, which is outraged when their bodies are consigned to the furnace. the practical arguments offered for cremation are chiefly hygienic and economic; but it is certain that proper burial at sea or in the grave is no menace to public health, and is not more expensive or difficult than cremation. a most serious objection to cremation is that it makes exhumation impossible, and is therefore a means of concealing murder by poison. it is not lawful for a catholic to coöperate (except materially in case of necessity) with cremation, or to belong to any society that promotes the incineration of corpses; it is not lawful for a priest to give the last sacraments or funeral rites to those who ordered the cremation of their bodies. . the special duties of clerics.--from the duties of catholics in general we pass now to the special duties of clerics; for the clergy, on account of their position as the salt of the earth and the light of the world (matt., v. ), are bound to a greater internal and external holiness and edification than the laity. the word "cleric" is understood in a wide or in a strict sense. in the wide sense, a cleric is any christian specially set apart for the service of god, whether by ordination or religious profession (e.g., lay brothers, nuns); in the strict sense, a cleric (clergyman) is one who has been admitted to orders, or at least to their preparation through tonsure (canon ). (a) duties before entering the clerical state.--the person who would enter the clerical state must have a vocation and a right intention. as to the latter, since the clerical state has for its ends the glory of god and the salvation of souls, it would be a serious sin to choose it principally for temporal ends, such as wealth, dignity or pleasure; but it is not a sin to desire secondarily and moderately the necessary support of the clerical state (i cor., ix, ). (b) duties after entering the clerical state.--the privileges of clerics are treated in canonical works. here we speak only of duties. the obligations of a cleric are of two kinds--the positive, such as celibacy, and the negative, such as the avoidance of unbecoming amusements or occupations. . vocation to the clerical state.--(a) internal vocation.--no one should enter the religious or clerical state unless called thereto by god (john, xv. ; acts, xiii. ; heb., v. , ; i cor., xii. sqq.). the foundation of the entire religious, priestly and apostolic life, namely divine vocation, consists of two essential elements, the one divine, the other ecclesiastical. as to the first element, god's call to embrace the priestly or religious life must be considered so necessary that in its absence the foundation upon which the whole structure is to rest is absent (pius xii, _sedes sapientiae_). the signs of a divine call do not necessarily or even ordinarily include a feeling of inspiration or invitation from the holy spirit, but it suffices that one may have a liking, a right intention, and fitness (physical, mental, moral) for the life; for, where god gives a call, he gives the means to fulfill the duties. thus, those who will not be able to say mass, or who cannot master latin or theology, or who cannot observe celibacy, or who are vicious (e.g., mischief-makers, drunkards) or unspiritual (e.g., the lazy, those who dislike exercises of piety), do not show the signs of a priestly vocation. (b) external vocation.--no one should be admitted to the religious life or to orders unless he has given sufficient signs of a call from god. thus, a bishop would sin most gravely and be a sharer in the sins of others if he conferred major orders on anyone about whose unworthiness he was morally certain on positive grounds (canon ); nor may a religious superior receive to profession any novice about whom he is doubtful (canon ). scarcity of vocations is no excuse for laxity, since it is better to have a few creditable clerics than a multitude of unworthy ones (benedict xiv). what st. paul said of deacons ("let these first be proved, and so let them minister, having no crime," i tim., iii. ), is therefore to be applied to all candidates for the clerical life. a vocation is tested by the years of probation which the church law provides for seminarians, novices and other aspirants to the ecclesiastical state. no cleric has a right to ordination before he receives the free call from a bishop, but on the other hand it is criminal to prevent a suitable candidate from embracing the clerical state (canon ). "by a divine vocation to the religious and clerical state a person undertakes publicly to lead a life of holiness in the church, a visible and hierarchical society, and to exercise this hierarchical ministry. such a person, therefore, ought to be authoritatively tested, approved and directed by the hierarchical rulers to whom god has entrusted the administration of the church" (pius xii, _sedes sapientiae_). . sinfulness of disregarding vocation.--(a) he who enters the clerical state, not knowing that he has a vocation, is guilty of sin, as is clear from the previous paragraph. according to some, anyone who receives major orders, even with serious doubt about his vocation, commits a mortal sin, since he inflicts a serious injury on the rights of god, the church, himself and his neighbor. according to others, the sin is only venial when one enters the clerical state conscious of the absence of vocation, but determined with the help of god to live up to all the duties; for, though the act is rash, there is good will and good intention, and grace will not be wanting. (b) he who refuses to enter the clerical state, though knowing for certain that he has a vocation, is also guilty of sin, for only negligence or improper motives such as laziness, sensuality, or too great love of liberty can produce such reluctance. the sin is grave or light according to the circumstances. there is grave sin, if the resistance to the call constitutes serious disobedience, pride or uncharitableness (e.g., if there were a great scarcity of priests and the bishop commanded a worthy layman to take orders); there is venial sin in other cases when the rejection is only dissent to an invitation and exposes neither self nor other to grave peril of losing salvation. finally, if the signs of vocation do not produce certainty, there may be no sin at all, but rather virtue, in refusal to ascend to the clerical state, for no one is bound to take up grave obligations when uncertain of his duties, and many holy persons from humility or fear of unworthiness have decided, against the advice or invitation of others, not to become clerics. . the positive duties of clerics.--(a) duties to god.--all clerics are held to frequent reception of the sacrament of penance, to daily devotions (i.e., mental prayer, visit to the blessed sacrament, a third part of the rosary, examen), and to triennial spiritual retreats (canons , ). moreover, clerics in sacred orders, benefice holders, and solemnly professed religious bound to the choir are obliged to the daily recitation of the canonical hours, each one according to his own rite and calendar (canons , sqq., , ). this obligation is grave, because its purpose is the important one of consecrating each hour of the day by the public prayer of the church according to the usage that goes back to the earliest centuries. but the choral obligation of simply professed religious is light, unless the choir is impossible without their presence. (b) duties to superiors.--clerics are especially obliged to show respect to their ordinaries and to give them the obedience promised in ordination (canon ). (c) duties to the clerical state.--clerics are required to cultivate their minds by sacred and sound studies, and to this end examinations and conferences are also prescribed (canons - ); to keep themselves pure in soul and body by the observance of celibate chastity (canons , ); to conduct themselves in externals (dwelling, dress, etc.) in a manner befitting their position (canons , ). the clerical garb in this country is the cassock or habit in the house and church, and dark clothes and the roman collar, or other distinctive sign for priests and brothers elsewhere. the dress of the clergy should avoid the extremes of dudishness and slovenliness (second council of baltimore, ; third council, ). the duty of wearing clerical dress at least away from home and regularly is of serious importance, since its purpose is the honor of the clerical state and the protection of its members. it is also forbidden to clerics to cultivate their hair (e.g., to grow long locks, to use curling irons, to oil or perfume their head in dandyish fashion), since this is unbecoming in the followers of a thorn-crowned leader. the use of the beard is a thing indifferent in itself, and hence it is forbidden in some places (generally in the latin church) and required in others (as in the orient), according to tradition and local usage. . the obligation of the divine office.--(a) matter.--a cleric is gravely obliged to recite the office according to his own rite and in the language of his rite, and not to make any notable change in the office prescribed by the ordo, either as to quantity (e.g., by omission of a little hour or of parts equally long) or as to quality (e.g., by substitution of a minor office for that of one of the great solemnities.) the omission of the vespers of holy saturday, of pretiosa, or of the rogation litanies seems to be only a venial sin, because in the first two cases the prayer is short, while in the third case the precept seems to be _sub levi_. there is also lightness of matter in the omission of an inconsiderable part of the day's office, or in the substitution without good reason of an equal part for a prescribed part. (b) manner.--since the office is a prayer, of a public and daily kind, it must be said: mentally, that is, there must be at least virtual intention (which is present from the fact that one takes up the breviary to fulfill the obligation) and at least external attention (see sqq.); vocally, that is, the words must be consciously formed by the lips, mouth, or tongue, but it is not necessary that they be audible, unless two or more are saying the office together; within the limits of the day, that is, matins and lauds may be anticipated from p.m. of the previous day, but the whole office must be finished before midnight of the current day. these are substantial requisites and bind _sub gravi_, but there may be only venial sin when they are deviated from inconsiderably. next, since the office has a continuity of thought, an order of precedence among its hours and their subdivisions, and a special dignity, it must be said uninterruptedly (i.e., without break between the parts of an hour), in order (i.e., according to the succession of matins, lauds, prime, etc.), with external respect as to place and posture (i.e., he who is bound to choral office should say it in choir and with the rubrical postures, while he who is bound only to private office should say it in church or some other becoming place, and should observe the rubrical or at least a respectful posture). these are accidental requisites and bind _sub levi_. for a good reason one may interrupt the office even for a notable part of the day (e.g., one may discontinue in the midst of a psalm to pay a duty of politeness or to attend to business), and for convenience one may invert the order of hours or of parts of hours, or may say the evening hours in the morning. . excuses from the obligation of the divine office.--(a) for substitution.--a sufficient reason makes it permissible to substitute another office not notably different in quantity or quality, as when one lacks a new office, or has greater devotion for another office. when substitution has been made unintentionally, the following rules may be observed, though the last two are not admitted by all: office counts for office, (e.g., he who through mistake has said the office of another day may let that office stand for today's office, but should add enough to make up for any notable shortness in the office said); hour does not count for hour (e.g., he who through mistake said tierce twice cannot count the second tierce for sext); an error should be corrected when noticed (e.g., he who notices at sext that he is not saying the right office should change from sext); an error is not corrected by another error (e.g., he who said today's office yesterday should not say yesterday's office today). (b) for omission.--the causes that excuse, in whole or in part, from recitation of the office are physical inability (e.g., loss of the breviary, blindness of one who does not know the hours by heart, sickness or convalescence which makes the recitation a grave hardship), moral impossibility (e.g., when an urgent duty of charity or justice so takes up one's time that one cannot get in all the office), just dispensation or commutation given by the pope or, for temporary release, by the ordinary. . the precept of clerical celibacy.--(a) origin.--this law is not divine but ecclesiastical, since it arose, not from any command of christ, but from a custom of the church that goes back to the first centuries. nevertheless, celibacy of the clergy is an imitation of christ and the apostles, a following of the counsel given by the lord, an honor to the sacrifice of the altar, and an example that single chastity is possible. moreover, by means of it the priest is freed from domestic relations and better enabled to minister as the father, pastor, confessor and counsellor of his people. the celibate is unencumbered by family responsibilities and expenses, and is therefore better able to respond to difficult and dangerous tasks, such as mission work in pagan lands and ministrations to the dying in fire, wreck, or plague, the church does not denounce or condemn the married clergy of non-catholic bodies; on the contrary, she permits to some extent a married clergy among the oriental catholics, who for many centuries have been accustomed to a married priesthood. but the law of celibacy for the catholic clergy has not only proved itself more suitable for their work, but it has also justified itself by the general fidelity with which it has been observed and the attachment to it of clergy and laity alike. (b) obligation.--the law commands chastity as a grave duty of religion (canon ); it forbids the contract or use of marriage (canon ). it forbids, where there is danger to chastity or scandal, cohabitation and companionship with women (canon ). cohabitation refers to dwelling in the same house, even though it be only during the day, and the woman be a servant; companionship refers to visits, conversations, signs of friendship, and the like. the danger to good name or virtue depends on circumstances, such as age, beauty, levity, and privacy of association; and the law presumes that a relationship is suspicious unless a woman is a near relative by blood or by marriage (i.e., in the first or second degree), or is mature in age (about forty years old) and proved in virtue and of good repute. . negative duties of clerics.--the negative duties of clerics are the avoidance of certain acts, occupations, or amusements forbidden as worldly, undignified, dangerous, distracting or scandalous (i thess., v. ; ii tim., ii. ). (a) forbidden acts.--a cleric may not go surety without permission, lest he or his church be involved in scandalous embarrassments (canon ); nor engage in trade, lest he be distracted from his spiritual duties and exposed to the danger or suspicion of injustice or greed (canon ; for penalty attached see decree of the sacred congregation of the council, aas, - d). (b) forbidden occupations.--these include, first, employments and pursuits unbecoming to clerics (such as those of butcher, actor, innkeeper); next, those that are incompatible with the ministry (such as the practice for profit of the medical profession, public magistracies, government jobs, civil court functions, legislative offices, canon ); finally, those that are contrary to the mildness that should distinguish clerics (viz, the occupation of fighting man or soldier, canon ; see also canon on executioners). but exceptions may be made for a just cause. (c) forbidden amusements.--clerics should not take part in undignified diversions or cruel sports, such as the hunting of big game with great uproar of dogs and guns (canon ) or in gambling, and they should not enter saloons or similar places (canon ). clerics are also forbidden to assist at unbecoming shows, performances, dances, or at any theatrical entertainment where their presence gives scandal (canon ). to gamble much (say, several times a week and for a considerable time at each game) is considered a serious matter; but it is not sinful to indulge in a game of chance now and then, if the stakes are moderate and there is no scandal. . the prohibition against trading.--(a) meaning.--trading as here understood is purely gainful merchandizing (i.e., buying an article at a lower price in order to sell it unchanged at a higher price) or industrial merchandizing (i.e., buying an article in order to sell it at a profit after it has been changed by hired labor). hence, there is no canonical trading in commerce which lacks one of the conditions mentioned, for example, if one buys goods for one's household or community and, on discovering that a superfluity has been purchased, sells at a profit what is left over (see , ). trading includes not only a business conducted personally or for personal profit, but also one conducted through agents or for the benefit of others, such as the poor or pious causes. (b) obligation.--the violation of this law is grave in itself, but a serious sin demands on the part of the subject that there be real trading (i.e., a number of acts morally united and proceeding from a purpose to continue in lucrative merchandizing), and on the side of the object that there be a large amount involved. hence, it would be venial to engage in lucrative trading with a large profit once, and with a small profit twice or thrice. (c) excuses.--necessity (e.g., if a cleric needs the money to live or to maintain his state, or if a business has fallen to him by inheritance and cannot be given up without loss) justifies trading, if there is permission. . is it lawful for clerics to purchase and sell stocks and bonds?--(a) if this conduct has the character of gambling or trading for profit, it is forbidden by canon or , as the case may be, and is gravely or venially sinful according to the circumstances. thus, pure speculation or mere betting on the market is a game of chance, and the frequent purchase of stocks with the thought of quick sales and huge profits from sudden changes of the market is lucrative trading. (b) if the gambling or trading element is absent, the conduct in question is not forbidden by canon law. it is generally admitted that bond investments are permissible, since they are only a loan of one's money at interest. there are two views about stock dealings: the stricter view regards them as always containing the character of forbidden trading (since all the notes of strict negotiation are found in them), or at least as being a game of chance; the milder view, which is common, holds that they are no more an affair of chance than many other business undertakings, and that there is no strict negotiation, if the stockholder is not a member or director of the corporation, since the buying and selling is done neither directly nor indirectly by him. buying of stocks, then, may be nothing more than a prudent investment of money in a deserving enterprise with the hope of a reasonable return, and selling out the stocks at a large profit may be nothing more than the disposal of superfluous goods which it would be inconvenient to retain. it must be remembered, though, that it is unlawful to coöperate with a company whose purpose is evil or suspect, or to have part in frauds, or to give disedification. . special duties of clerical superiors from divine law.--(a) as individuals, they should strive to be personally more perfect than their subjects, for they are supposed to give an example in faith, religion, zeal, labor, and self-denial, "being made a pattern of the flock from the heart" (i peter, v. ). (b) as rulers, they must have the virtues of good superiors, such as legal justice or firm devotion to the common good, distributive justice or avoidance of partiality and prejudice, prudence or knowledge of how to direct men and means successfully to the glory of god and the salvation of souls, and commutative justice or respect for the rights of subjects. (c) as pastors, they must avoid the qualities of the wolf and of the hireling, and cultivate those of the good shepherd, being kind and amiable to catholic and non-catholic, and practising the spiritual and corporal works of mercy. . special duties from canon law of those who have care of souls.--(a) bishops have grave obligations of residing in their see or diocese (canon ), of attending to the instruction of their flock (canons , ), of applying the mass _pro populo_ (canon ), of making a diocesan report (canon ), of confirming and of ordaining worthy candidates (canon ), of visiting their dioceses (canon ), of making the _ad limina_ visit (canons , ), and of calling a diocesan synod at least every tenth year (canon ). (b) pastors must reside generally in their parish (canon ), and, if lawfully absent, they must make provision for the sick calls and other spiritual necessities of their flocks. they must preach the word of god on sundays and holydays, and it would be a serious matter to neglect this duty for a considerable time (e.g., a whole month) without good reason (canon ). it is also a serious obligation to attend to the necessary catechetical instruction of young and old (canons , ), to apply the mass _pro populo_ (canon ), and to administer the sacraments (at least baptism, penance, extreme unction) to those in grave spiritual need (see ). pastors are also obliged to know their flock, to visit the sick and dying, to correct abuses, to see that the customary administration of the sacraments and the usual church functions are attended to, to watch over the schooling of the children, and to direct the temporalities and attend to the reports and records of the parish. the duties of chaplains of hospitals, institutions, soldiers, etc., are similar to those of pastors, but in particular cases the former are subject to special prescriptions or to local usage or to rules made by the ordinary. (c) assistant pastors are subject in the care of souls to the instruction and direction of the parish-priest. their particular duties are known from the diocesan statutes, the letters of the ordinary, and the commission of the pastor. regularly, they are bound to reside in the parish rectory and to assist the pastor or supply for him in all the parish work, the mass _pro populo_ excepted (canon ). . the duty of charity to the poor.--(a) according to canon law all beneficed clergy (cardinals excepted) must give all the superfluous fruits of their benefice to charitable or pious causes (canon ). but it is an extremely strict view which holds that all the secular clergy are beneficed. (b) according to the divine law of charity (see , ) even the unbeneficed clergy have the duty of giving alms from their surplus wealth. thus, it would be unmerciful if a clergyman spent on himself all the fortune he had inherited from his relatives without thought of the poor; it would be often a source of scandal if a priest enriched his relatives with money received in ministerial ways, but left nothing to pious causes. . canon on the disposition of superfluous wealth by beneficed clergy.--(a) the money to be spent.--the canon does not refer to the property of the church (i.e., the foundation or endowment of the benefice), for of this the beneficed clergyman is only the administrator, and he would be unjust if he alienated its funds to other purposes; nor does it refer to the clergyman's own property, such as goods received by inheritance or other profane title (_patrimonialia_), or by title of personal ministerial service, such as stipends and fees (_quasi-patrimonialia_). it refers, then, to the revenues of the benefice (e.g., the bishop's or pastor's salary) and to the amount that is left over after the deduction of all reasonable and customary expenses that have been made, or could have been made for decent personal support. (b) the use of surplus money.--the alms should be given to any pious or charitable cause, such as the promotion of divine worship, the assistance of needy missions, the spiritual or corporal works of mercy. the cleric is free to bestow his gift either during his lifetime (which is better) or to leave it in his will. . the obligation of canon .--(a) the obligation is most probably not one of justice, since the holder of the benefice owns the superfluous fruits, but one of obedience to the church. some authors also consider this precept as binding in virtue of religion and charity, and regard its violation as a sacrilege or sin against charity. the holder of the benefice is not held to restitution, however, since neglect of the precept is not an injustice. as to his successors through gift inter vivos or testament, they are not bound to give the superfluities as an alms, since the church precept was for the cleric himself. successors to an intestate should observe the wishes of the deceased, but, if the character of the goods they inherit is doubtful, they may usually be left in good faith. (b) the obligation is grave, since it is commanded as an act of religion, or at least as an act of obedience in a very important matter. from the time of the apostles it was customary to distribute to the poor what was left over of the goods of the church, and the clergy were regarded as the fathers and protectors of the needy. again, since the goods of a benefice originated in gifts offered to god himself, it is most becoming that their superfluities be devoted to the causes most pleasing to god. grave matter would be three times the amount required in theft, because a violation of this precept is not the taking of what is not one's own, but the using in a forbidden way of what is one's own. . the special duties of religious.--the particular obligations of religious are declared in the proper rules of the various institutes, just as the particular obligations of the secular clergy are set forth in the statutes of local synods and councils. we shall outline here only the general obligations of religious, to which they are held by the common law of the church. (a) by reason of his profession, a religious is obliged to strive after the perfection of charity (see , ) through the religious life, that is, by means of the rules and constitutions of his own institute (canon ). all religious, superiors and subjects, are bound to observe their laws, but _per se_ these laws oblige under penalty, not under sin (see ). _per accidens_, however, the transgression of rule or constitutions may be sinful, as when the matter belongs also to divine or church law or to the observance of a vow, or when the transgression includes contempt, scandal, or demoralization of discipline. (b) by reason of the vows, a religious is obliged to follow the three evangelical counsels (see sqq.) and any other vows of his institute according to his rule (e.g., poverty is a renunciation of even community possession in some rules and of individual possession in others). the vows oblige _per se_ under grave sin, on account of the duty of religion (see ) and the intention of the religious to bind himself gravely; but there may be venial sin on account of imperfection of act or lightness of matter. . the obligation of the three principal vows.--(a) poverty is a renunciation of the independent use of external corporal goods, such as money and lands and chattels (simple vow), or also of the radical dominion (see ) or right of ownership of such goods (solemn vow). grave matter in the unjust violation of poverty seems to be the same as in other acts of unjust damage or acquisition, and hence in thefts from outsiders a less amount is grave matter, in domestic thefts from the monastery a greater sum is required (see , ). grave matter in the violation of poverty that is not unjust (e.g., in use of money without permission) seems to be the same as absolutely grave matter for thefts, unless the constitutions rule otherwise; but grave matter here does not coalesce from many small violations. the virtue, but not the vow, of poverty is offended by purely internal acts (e.g., attachment to wealth), and there is no offense at all in dominion over spirituals (such as fame, good reputation) which are not renounced by the vow of poverty, and in certain acts of disposition (e.,g., acceptance of deposit, distribution of alms) or proprietorship (e.g., of manuscripts) permitted by rule. (b) chastity is a renunciation of all venereal pleasure, internal and external, lawful and unlawful. grave matter is the same as for the virtue of chastity, but the vow could be violated without the violation of the virtue (e.g., in the use of marriage by one simply professed). for the protection of this vow the church has made the law of cloister, which forbids under certain conditions the entrance of outsiders into a religious house or the egress of the religious (canons , , - , , ). (c) obedience is the renunciation of one's own will with the duty of submission to commands of a superior given according to the rules and constitutions. there is grave matter against the vow if one disobeys in an important matter imposed by the superior in the name of obedience and according to the rite prescribed by the rule or constitutions (see ). the virtue, but not the vow, is offended by internal insubordination (see ); neither virtue nor vow is offended when a superior commands what is above the rule (e.g., the accomplishment of the impossible, heroic acts that do not pertain to the nature of the institute), or against the rule, unless he has power to dispense, or probably what is beneath the rule (such as things manifestly ridiculous and useless). since obedience is vowed to the precepts of the superior, the vow is not broken by transgression of points of the rule not expressly included under the vow, nor by transgressions of the general precepts of god and the church. art. : the duties of members of domestic and civil society . the duties of husbands and wives.--conjugal obligations may be classed under three heads according to the three ends of marriage. (a) thus, the first blessing of marriage is offspring, and this imposes upon parents the obligation of providing for their children and of training them in mind and will (see sqq.). (b) the second blessing of marriage is fidelity to the engagement made by husband and wife to deliver to each other exclusive power over their bodies for procreation (conjugal debt) and to love each other with a special but pure affection: "the wife hath not power of her own body, but the husband; and in like manner the husband hath not power of his own body but the wife" (i cor., vii. ); "husbands, love your wives as christ also loved the church" (eph., v. ). conjugal love admits no rivals; the husband must prefer his wife to every other woman, and the wife likewise must think more of her husband than of any other man (see ). (c) the third blessing of marriage is the sacrament or the unbreakable bond of marriage: "the lord commanded that the wife depart not from the husband, and if she depart that she remain unmarried, or be reconciled to her husband. and let not the husband put away his wife" (i cor., vii. ). this imposes the duties of a permanent domestic society in which the spouses dwell together permanently and each has certain special functions of assistance to the other. . the obligation of paying the conjugal debt.--(a) the duty is one of justice, since it arises from the contract of marriage, in which the parties freely and solemnly bind themselves to it as the subject-matter of their pact. (b) the obligation is grave, since the marriage contract is one of the most momentous of human agreements, its direct end being the propagation of the race, while the denial of its essential right is productive of most serious evils, such as incontinence, scandals and the disruption of families. there is light matter, however, as when the request is not imperative, or the denial is infrequent and without danger of incontinence. . absence of obligation.--the obligation of paying the conjugal debt does not exist, however, when the right to make the request has been lost or when the request is unreasonable. (a) thus, the right to make the request is lost when one party has broken faith by committing adultery and has not been forgiven by the innocent party, and also when one party is incapable (e.g., on account of insanity or drunkenness) of asking in a rational manner. (b) the request is unreasonable, first, when it is immoderate (e.g., when it cannot be granted without serious and unusual detriment to health, or without danger of death, or without likelihood of abortion or other great harm to a child conceived or to be conceived); secondly, when it is seductive (e.g., when it is an invitation to commit onanism). . suspension of obligation.--the obligation of granting and the right of requesting conjugal relations are suspended when the marriage is discovered to be null or uncertain. (a) thus, if the marriage is certainly null, abstinence is necessary until the marriage is made valid; otherwise the parties are guilty of fornication. but if nullity is due to a merely ecclesiastical impediment, the impediment probably ceases in cases of most grave inconvenience when the nullity is known to only one spouse and the dispensation cannot be obtained at once. (b) if the marriage is only doubtfully null, abstinence is not necessary unless both parties have a serious doubt and no examination has yet been made. light doubts should not be considered, nor doubts that have not been corroborated by investigation; while, if only one party doubts, he or she cannot refuse the debt lest injustice be done the other. . is there an obligation of requesting conjugal intercourse?--(a) _per se_, there is no obligation, since one may lawfully decide not to enjoy one's right, and not to use what belongs to one. as man and wife were free to marry or not to marry, so are they free to agree either to consummate or not consummate marriage. it is even lawful for married people to contract together to abstain temporarily or permanently from marriage relations (e.g., for the sake of health, or of economy, or of mortification). by mutual consent one or both may make a vow of chastity, as was done by st. joseph and the blessed virgin, or the husband may enter the priesthood and the wife become a nun. (b) _per accidens_, there is often an obligation of requesting intercourse, for experience shows that continual non-use of marriage often leads to incontinence or to loss of affection (see ). . the morality of venereal acts of marriage.--(a) non-consummated acts.--these acts, whether internal or external, are lawful _per se_ when they are used only as accessories to the act of marriage or as means to foster or preserve conjugal love, for the acts are meant by god to serve the purposes mentioned ( ). but _per accidens_ there may be venial sin, on account of inordinateness in the motive (i.e., when only pleasure is intended), or in the manner (i.e., when due decency is not observed). there is mortal sin when these acts are not referred to the lawful conjugal act, but either directly or indirectly to pollution, namely, when there is foreseen proximate danger of pollution and the acts are either solitary or coöperative but performed without sufficient reason (such as expressions of special affection), for pollution is gravely sinful in the married, as well as in the single state (see sqq.). (b) natural consummated act.--this act in itself is not only lawful, but meritorious, because it exercises such virtues as obedience (gen., i. ), justice (i cor., vii. sqq.), and love of the common good and religion (tob., viii. ). since marriage intercourse has for its ends not only reproduction, but also the expression of mutual love and the allaying of concupiscence, it is lawful even when conception is impossible or less probable, as when the parties are sterile, or the woman is pregnant, or during the so-called agenesic period, or at the time of lactation. it is a venial sin to exercise the conjugal act when one excludes every motive except that of pleasure (denziger, n. ); and there may be even mortal sin on account of circumstances, such as place (e.g., scandal to others present), manner (e.g., external immoderation, internal desire of another person), evil consequences (e.g., when one of the parties has a contagious or veneral disease, when abortion will likely result, etc.). (c) unnatural consummated acts.--pollution is mortally sinful ( sqq.), and is worse in married than in single persons, as being an injury to the faith pledged in marriage; and hence it is not lawful to practise it even for the purpose of artificial fecundation. rectal copulation is also gravely sinful, being unnatural lust (see ) and a violation of conjugal faith. the usual forms of unnatural vaginal coition, which are very much practised today, are contraceptive in purpose, and are of two general kinds in the procedure--the physiological or preventive, which uses instruments to keep the semen from the uterus (such as sponges or pessaries for the female, condoms or protectors for the male), or which employs douches or syringes to remove semen from the vagina, or uses chemicals to devitalize it. . nota.--(a) non habetur onanismus, nec peccatum, si copula abrumpitur, ex necessitate (v.g., ad vitandum scandalum persona inopinate supervenientis), vel ex utilitate, mutuo dato consensu et periculo pollutionis excluso; nam seminatio extra vas, aut involuntaria est, aut nulla. (b) non habetur contraceptio nec peccatum, sed potius actus honestus, si, ob defectum physicum viri vel mulieris, naturæ adjuvetur mediis artificialibus ut copula fiat, vel ut semen introducatur in uterum; nam fini matrimonii non obstat, sed obsecundat iste modus agendi. (c) artificial insemination. the subject-matter of the latter part of the preceding paragraph is distinguished from several unlawful practices considered by moralists under the heading of artificial insemination. pope pius xii on several occasions has given a clear, accurate and complete statement of catholic teaching on the subject. we append here his texts: ) the practice of artificial insemination, when it refers to man, cannot be considered, either exclusively or principally, from the biological and medical point of view, ignoring the moral and legal one. artificial insemination, outside of marriage, must be condemned as essentially and strictly immoral. natural law and divine positive law establish, in fact, that the procreation of a new life cannot but be the fruit of marriage. only marriage safeguards the dignity of the spouses (principally of the wife in the present case) and their personal good. it alone provides for the well-being and education of the child. it follows that no divergence of opinion among catholics is admitted on the condemnation of artificial insemination outside of marriage. the child conceived in those conditions would be, by that very fact, illegitimate. artificial insemination produced in a marriage by the active element of a third party is equally immoral and consequently to be condemned without appeal. only the spouses have a reciprocal right upon each other's body to generate a new life: an exclusive, inalienable right, which cannot be ceded. and so it must be, even out of consideration for the child. on whoever gives life to a small being, nature imposes, by the very strength of that tie, the duty to keep and educate it. but no ties of origin, no moral or legal bonds of conjugal procreation, exist between the legitimate husband and the child who is the fruit of the active element of a third party (even if the husband has given his consent). as far as the legitimacy of artificial insemination in marriage is concerned, it suffices, for the moment, to recall these principles of natural law: the simple fact that the result desired is obtained by this means does not justify the use of the means itself; nor does the desire of the husband and wife, in itself perfectly legitimate, to have a child, suffice to establish the legitimacy of resorting to the artificial insemination which would satisfy this desire. it would be erroneous, therefore, to think that the possibility of resorting to this means might render valid a marriage between persons unable to contract it because of the _impedimentum impotentiae_. on the other hand, it is superfluous to mention that the active element can never be obtained legitimately by means of acts against nature. although new methods cannot be ruled out a priori for the sole reason of their novelty, nonetheless, as far as artificial impregnation is concerned, extreme caution is not enough; it must be absolutely excluded. saying this does not necessarily proscribe the use of certain artificial means destined only to facilitate the natural act, or to assure the accomplishment of the end of the natural act regularly performed. let it never be forgotten that only the procreation of a new life according to the will and the designs of the creator brings with it, to a marvelous degree of perfection, the accomplishment of the proposed ends. it is at the same time in conformity with corporeal and spiritual nature and the dignity of the married couple, as well as with the healthy, normal development of the child (address to physicians, sept. , , _discorsi e radiomessaggi_, vol. xi, pp. ff). ) we also believe that it is of capital importance for you, gentlemen, not to neglect this perspective when you consider the methods of artificial fecundation. the means by which one tends toward the production of a new life take on an essential human significance inseparable from the desired end and susceptible of causing grave harm to this very end if these means are not conformable to reality and to the laws inscribed in the nature of beings. we have been asked to give some directives on this point also. on the subject of the experiments in artificial human fecundation "in vitro," let it suffice for us to observe that they must be rejected as immoral and absolutely illicit. with regard to the various moral problems which are posed by artificial fecundation, in the ordinary meaning of the expression, or "artificial insemination," we have already expressed our thought in a discourse addressed to physicians on september , (_discorsi e radiomessaggi_, vol. xi. pp. ff.). for the details we refer you to what we said then and we confine ourself here to repeating the concluding judgment given there: "with regard to artificial fecundation, not only is there reason to be extremely reserved, but it must be absolutely rejected. in speaking thus, one is not necessarily forbidding the use of certain artificial means destined solely to facilitate the natural act or to achieve the attainment of the natural act normally performed." but since artificial fecundation is being more and more widely used, and in order to correct some erroneous opinions which are being spread concerning what we have taught, we have the following to add: artificial fecundation exceeds the limits of the right which spouses have acquired by the matrimonial contract, namely, that of fully exercising their natural sexual capacity in the natural accomplishment of the marital act. the contract in question does not confer on them a right to artificial fecundation, for such a right is not in any way expressed in the right to the natural conjugal act and cannot be deduced from it. still less can one derive it from the right to the "child," the primary "end" of marriage. the matrimonial contract does not give this right, because it has for its object not the "child," but the "natural acts" which are capable of engendering a new life and are destined to this end. it must likewise be said that artificial fecundation violates the natural law and is contrary to justice and morality [ ] (_marriage and parenthood_, may , ). see _the pope speaks_, vol, iii, no. , autumn of , pp. ff. [ ] the holy father here spoke for several minutes in latin as follows: alia nunc occurrit quaestio, ad quam pertractandam magis addecet latinam linguam adhibere. quemadmodum rationalis animus noster artificiali inseminationi adversatur, ita eadem ethica ratio, a qua agendi normo sumenda est, pariter vetat, quominus humanum semen, peritorum examini subiciendum, masturbatiouis ope procuretur. hanc agendi rationem attigimus nostra quoque allocutione coram urologiae doctoribus coetum participantibus, die viii mensis octobris anno mdccccliii prolata, in qua haec habuimus, verba: "du reste le st-office a décidé déjà le août (_acta ap. sedis_, vol. xxi a. , p. , ii) qu'une "'masturbatio directe procurata ut obtineatur sperma' n'est pas licite, ceci quel que soit le but de l'examen" (_discorsi e radiomessaggi_ vol. xv, pag. ). cum vero nobis allatum sit, pravam huiusmodi consuetudinem pluribus in locis invalescere, opportunum ducimus nunc etiam, quae tunc monuimus, commemorare atque iterum inculcare. si actus huiusmodi ad explendam libidinem ponantur, eos vel ipse naturalis hominis sensus sua sponte respuit, ac multo magis mentis iudicium, quotiescumque rem mature recteque considerat. iidem actus tamen tunc quoque respuendi sunt, cum graves rationes eos a culpa eximere videntur, uti sunt: remedia iis praestanda qui nimia nervorum intentione vel abnormibus animi spasmis laborant; medicis peragenda, ope microscopii, spermatis inspectio, quod venerei vel alius generis morbi bacteriis infectum sit; diversarum partium examen, ex quibus semen ordinarie constat, ut vitalium spermatis elementorum praesentia, numerus, quantitus, forma, vis, habitus aliaque id genus dignoscuntur. eiusmodi procuratio humani seminis, per masturbationem effecta, ad nihil aliud directe spectat, nisi ad naturalem in homine generandi facultatem plene exercendam; quod quidem plenum exercitium, extra conjugalem copulam peractum, secum fert directum et indebite usurpatum eiusdem facultatis usum. in hoc eiusmodi indebito facultatis usu proprie sita est intrinseca regulae morum violatio. haudquaquam enim homo ius ullum exercendi facultatem sexualem iam inde habet, quod facultatem eandem a natura recepit. homini nempe (secus ac in ceteris animantibus rationis expertibus contingit) ius et potestas utendi atque exercendi eandem facultatem tantummodo in nuptiis valide initis tribuitut, atque in iure matrimoniali continetur, quod ipsis nuptiis traditur et acceptatur. inde elucet hominem, ob solam hanc causam quod facultatem sexualem a natura recepit, non habere nisi potentiam et ius ad matrimonium ineundum. hoc ius tamen, ad objectum et ambitum quod attinet, naturae lege, non hominum voluntate discribitur; vi huius legis naturae, homini non competit ius et potestas ad plenum facultatis sexualis exercitium, directe intentum, nisi cum coniugalem copulam exercet ad normam a natura ipsa imperatam atque definitam. extra hunc naturalem actum, ne in ipso quidem matrimonio ius datur ad sexuali hac facultate plene fruendum. hi sunt limites, quibus ius, de quo diximus, eiusque exercitium a natura circumscribuntur. ex eo quod plenum sexualis facultatis exercitium hoc absolute copulae coniugalis limite circumscribitur, eadem facultas intrinsece apta efficitur ad plenum matrimonii naturalem finem assequendum (qui non modo est generatio, sed etiam prolis educatio), atque eius exercitum cum dicto fine colligatur. quae cum ita sint, masturbatio omnino est extra memoratam pleni facultatis sexualis exercitii naturalem habilitatem, ideoque etiam extra eius colligationem cum fine a natura ordinato; quamobrem eadem omni iuris titulo caret atque naturae et ethices legibus contraria est, etiamsi inservire intendat utilitati per se iustae nec improbandae. quae hactenus dicta sunt de intrinseca malitia cuiuslibet pleni usus potentiae generandi extra naturalem coniugalem copulam, valent eodem modo cum agitur de matrimonio iunctis vel de matrimonio solutis, sive plenum exercitium apparatus genitalis fit a viro sive a muliere, sive ab utraque parte simul agente; sive fit tactibus manualibus sive coniugalis copulae interruptione; haec enim semper est actus naturae contrarius atque intrinsece malus. . contraception.--contraception in all its forms (onanism, condonism, vaginal irrigation, spermatocide) is a grave crime. (a) it is an injury to god.--marriage was instituted by god to propagate the human race (gen., i. , ) and to bless homes with children (ps., cxxvi, cxxvii), and he has made it a sacred institution and a sacrament. contraception defeats the ends of marriage and degrades it to the level of a mere instrument of carnal gratification. the hatred of god for this sin appears in general from the horror with which scripture speaks of unnatural lust, and in particular from the case of onan, whose sin is called detestable and whom god slew in punishment (gen., xxxviii. ). (b) it is an injury to society.--the perpetuation of the human race is endangered as soon as marriage is abused as to its natural end. hence, after the crime of homicide which destroys human life already in existence, contraception seems to rank next in enormity, since it prevents human life from coming into existence. this vice spreads moral degeneracy and decay from the home itself, and is rightly called race-suicide, since it depopulates and destroys the nation by the act of its own people. (c) it is an injury to the family.--the happiness and success of the home depend chiefly on the respect which its members have one for the other and on the cultivation of the sturdy virtues that strengthen character. the husband and wife who practise onanism or other similar carnal vices cannot have the mutual respect they should have; the wife is deprived of the treasure of her modesty and is treated as a prostitute rather than as an honored wife and mother, and the husband is brutalized by the removal of the natural restraint to his sex passion. such self-indulgent persons will either selfishly neglect the one or two children they may have, or will spoil them for life by the luxury and laziness in which they are reared. (d) it is an injury to the individual.--as concerns the body, there is a perversion of the sex act from its definite use and specific end, and hence contraception has been described as "reciprocal masturbation." as regards the soul, its higher goods of will and intellect are subordinated by the contraceptionist to the delight of passion, the lower impulses are greatly strengthened and self-control made more and more difficult, and the spiritual objectives that should prompt a rational creature are sacrificed for the passing gratification that moves the beasts. . some arguments of neo-malthusians and other advocates of contraception.--(a) necessity for the individual.--"this practice is demanded by comfort (e.g., in order to have a good and easy time, to have more opportunity for pleasures and occupations outside the home, to preserve form and beauty, to escape the troubles of child-bearing and child-rearing), or by utility (e.g., in order that suffering wives be freed from the slavery of excessive child-bearing, in order that children receive more attention and care than is possible in large families)." this argument from comfort is unworthy of any but a pagan or materialist, for the end of existence is something higher than pleasure or escape from all hardship. but even if happiness alone be considered, the childless home is not the most cheerful, and it often happens that parents who have sinfully limited their parenthood will lose an only child and be left sterile and desolate. the argument from utility proves only that sometimes (not often) it is inadvisable for a couple to have any or many children, but it does not prove that family limitation through means forbidden by the laws of god and of nature is permissible. the normal woman is not harmed but helped by child-bearing, whereas onanism and other unnatural vices are fearfully damaging both to mental and physical health. experience too shows that mothers of five or more children live longer, and that children from large families are very often superior in qualities and achievements and stand a better chance in life. exceptions only emphasize the rule. (b) necessity for the family.--"large families are impossible to many persons because the high cost of children today (expenses for clothing, food, medical care, schooling, etc.) is beyond their means." the inability to support many children is often due to extravagance or to insufficient wages, and the remedy lies in prudent economy or in improvement of the economic condition of workers, not in the abuse of marriage. the weakness of the objection is shown from the fact that race-suicide is more common among the well-to-do than among the poorer classes. however, in a genuine case of inability to maintain a large family, limitation of children is a duty, but not by means of the sin of contraception or onanism. (c) necessity for the community.--"the cause of unemployment, destitution, famine and war is the overpopulation of the world. moreover, if the poorer classes would practise contraception and the better-to-do classes have larger families, the standard of living of the former would be raised, the culture of the latter would be preserved, and the quality of the whole race be greatly improved." the resources of the earth are easily adequate to support many times the present population, and the misfortunes referred to are due, not to the number of people who inhabit the earth, but to accident or to human greed or imprudence. the eugenic argument is a vain dream, for the history of nations and modern facts show that the ideal of race improvement makes little appeal when the easier way of indulgence has been learned. as said above, it is the wealthy and educated classes who have the fewest children. (d) necessity of a moral kind.--"contraception is a useful control of nature similar to that employed by physicians, surgeons and other scientists; it is not a contradiction of nature, since it preserves the end of the sexual faculty in expressing physical love. the motives of those who use it are not necessarily carnal, but may be of a very christian kind (e.g., the need of limitation of family in order the better to practise one's vocation, or in order to spare one's wife, or to keep her from abortion), and they may sincerely believe it to be lawful." contraception does not control, but defeats nature, by voluntarily frustrating the primary end which nature has in view, and, if permitted, it logically leads to every kind of sensual indulgence. the motives or conscience of those who use it cannot change its character, for the end does not justify the means and a wrong conscience does not change the law. those who have not been spoiled or misled by contraceptive propaganda or advice, instinctively regard artificial birth-control as well as onanism with disgust. . is birth-control ever lawful?--(a) if this refers to an end (viz., the limitation of the number of children or the spacing of their arrival), it is not unlawful in itself (see ); and it is sometimes a duty, as when the wife is in very poor health or the family is unable to take care of more. but in view of the decline and deterioration in populations today, it seems that couples who are able to bring up children well should consider it a duty to the common welfare to have at least four children, and it should be easy for many to have at least a dozen children. the example of those married persons of means who are unable to have a number of children of their own, but who adopt or raise orphaned little ones, is very commendable. (b) if birth control refers to a means of family limitation, it is lawful when that means is continence or abstinence from marital relations, not if it is onanism or the use of mechanical or chemical means to prevent conception. the objection that husbands cannot restrain themselves is really an insult to god`s grace and is contradicted by numerous facts. a man of manly character should be ashamed to admit that he is the slave of passion, and the fact that god commands chastity and that millions obey him both in the wedded and single state is sufficient proof that, even though hard, sexual abstinence is not impossible, if there is a real resolve and the right means are employed, such as rooming apart and concentration on other and higher things. continence or abstinence is counselled by the church should conditions make the conception of children inadvisable. it is counselled, not commanded, since it involves heroic sacrifice which makes it all the more meritorious and praiseworthy: "it is wronging men and women of our times to deem them incapable of continuous heroism. today, for many reasons--perhaps with the goad of hard necessity and even sometimes in the service of injustice--heroism is exercised to a degree and to an extent which would have been thought impossible in days gone by. why. then, should this heroism, if the circumstances really demand it, stop at the borders established by the passions and inclinations of nature? the answer is clear. the man who does not want to dominate himself is incapable of so doing. he who believes he can do so, counting merely on his own strength without seeking sincerely and perseveringly help from god, will remain miserably disillusioned" (pope pius xii, _allocution to the italian catholic union of midwives_, oct. , ). another lawful means of family limitation is "periodic continence" or "rhythm," the deliberate avoidance of conception by restricting intercourse, temporarily or permanently, to the days of natural sterility on the part of the wife. many of the faithful are under the impression that the system has received the unqualified approval of the church, that it constitutes a form of "catholic birth-control." this is not completely true. all theologians agree that the use of marriage during the sterile period is not _per se_ illicit. the act is performed in the natural way; nothing has been done positively to avoid conception; and the secondary ends of matrimony, mutual love and the quieting of temptation, have been fostered. "if the carrying out of this theory means nothing more than that the couple can make use of their matrimonial rights on the days of natural sterility, too, there is nothing against it, for by so doing they neither hinder nor injure in any way the consummation of the natural act and its further natural consequences" (pope pius xii, ibid.). "if, however, there is further question--that is, of permitting the conjugal act on those days exclusively--then the conduct of the married couple must be examined more closely" (ibid). the following points summarize papal teaching on this aspect: ) a premarital agreement to restrict the marital right and not merely the use to sterile periods, implies an essential defect in matrimonial consent and renders the marriage invalid. ) the practice is not morally justified simply because the nature of the marital act is not violated and the couple are prepared to accept and rear children born despite their precautions. ) serious motives, (medical, eugenic, economic and social), must be present to justify this practice. when present, they can exempt for a long time, perhaps even for the duration of the marriage, from the positive obligations of the married state. ) the married state imposes on those who perform the marital act the positive obligation of helping to conserve the human race. accordingly, to make use of the marital act continuously and without serious reason to withdraw from its primary obligation would be a sin against the very meaning of conjugal life (ibid.). pope pius explicitly confirmed the common teaching of theologians: ) rhythm, by mutual consent, for proportionate reasons, and with due safeguards against dangers would be licit. ) without a good reason, the practice would involve some degree of culpability. not expressly confirmed, but simply an expression of common moral principles is the common agreement: ) that the sin could be mortal by reason of injustice, grave danger of incontinence, serious family discord, etc. since the allocution, the more common opinion in this country asserts that the holy father taught: ) that married people who use their marital right have a duty to procreate; ) that this duty is binding under pain of sin; ) there are, however, reasons that excuse the couples from this obligation and, should they exist for the whole of married life, the obligation does not bind them at all; ) the sin does not consist in the exercise of marital rights during the sterile periods; but in abstention from intercourse during the fertile periods precisely to avoid conception, when the couple could have and should have made its positive contribution to society. sin is present when the practice is unjustifiedly undertaken; ) the formal malice of illicit periodic continence is not against the sixth commandment; i.e., against the procreation of children or the use of the generative faculty, but against the seventh commandment, i.e., against social justice. the couple is not making its contribution to the common good of society; ) from and above, it follows that the individual acts of intercourse during a period of unjust practice of rhythm do not constitute numerically distinct sins. rather, granting the continuance of a single will act to practice rhythm, there is one sin for the whole period of illicit abstention during the fertile periods. since the pope abstained from an explicit statement on the gravity of the sin, the controversy of whether the practice intrinsically is a mortal sin or not continued. the opinion in this country which holds the greatest authority states that mortal sin is involved in the case of continued practice with a total exclusion of children and frequent use of marital rights during the sterile period. diversity of opinion has arisen as to the means of estimating when a serious sin has been committed. some have used a temporal norm, e.g., unjustified use of rhythm for five or six years would constitute a serious matter. undoubtedly most of the proponents of this norm would not accuse a couple of certain mortal sin if they already have one or more children; after that, indefinite use of the practice without excusing causes would not be a mortal sin. (this is admitted by most theologians.) others have proposed a numerical norm as a basis to determine whether or not a couple has made its contribution to the conservation of the race. concretely the proponents of this theory regard four or five children as sufficient to satisfy the obligation in such a way; a) that the use of rhythm to limit the family to this number is licit provided the couple is willing and morally able to practice it; b) that the limitation through rhythm to less than four requires a serious justifying cause. the intention involved to prevent conception would be seriously sinful in itself, since it causes great harm to the common good and involves in practice subordination of the primary to the secondary end or ends of matrimony. at the present time this opinion seems to be more favored in america than the first which places the gravity of the sin in the unjustified practice of rhythm for five years. (for a survey of recent opinion, see the _conference bulletin of the archdiocese of new york_, vol. xxxiv, no. , pp. ff.) on the other hand, some european theologians have denied that the practice constitutes a mortal sin in itself, independently of circumstances such as injustice and danger of incontinence. the present state of opinion, then, is definitely undecided and calls for caution both in dealing too severely with penitents or too readily recommending the practice. the response of the sacred penitentiary of june , , affords a safe guide in practice: "married couples who use their marriage rights in the aforesaid manner are not to be disturbed, and the confessor may suggest the opinion in question, cautiously, however, to those married people whom he has tried in vain to dissuade from the detestable crime of onanism." as to the theological censure to be attached to "rhythm," it is not approved, nor recommended, but seems to be tolerated for sufficiently grave reasons. "instead of being freely taught and commended, it is rather to be tolerated as an extreme remedy or means of preventing sin" (official monitum, patrick cardinal hayes, sept. , , _conference bulletin of archdiocese of new york_, volume xiv, no. , p. ). . coöperatio uxoris ad onanismum vel contraceptionem.--(a) coöperatio formalis graviter illicita est, quum includat approbationem ipsius peccati. unde graviter peccat uxor quæ suis quæremoniis de molestiis graviditatis virum cogit ad congressum onanisticum, vel quae nec interdum conatur eum avertere ab iniquo consilio onanistice congrediendi, vel quæ active adjuvat abruptionem copulæ, vel quae interne gaudet de ipso peccato ( ). (b) coöperatio materialis ad onanismum ex gravi causa (e.g., ex metu fundato rixarum, molestæ cohabitationis, adulterii viri) licet; nam actio mulieris, scil. copulam habere naturalem, honesta est, atque causa sufficiens adest permittendi abusum factum a comparte ( sqq.). imo uxor debitum petere potest a suo viro onanistico, si secus diu abstinere cogeretur ab omni usu conjugii cum periculo incontinentiæ, quia caritas erga virum non obligat ad abstinentiam cum tanto incommodo. (c) coöperatio mere materialis ad contraceptionem, non videtur possibilis; nam copula contraceptiva est intrinsece et ab initio mala ( , ). unde uxori nec petere debitum licet, nec passive se habere. sed qualibet vice tenetur positive pro viribus resistere. sin autem gravissima causa sit actum permittendi, ut puta periculum mortis, eam tantum resistentiam opponere debet ad quam obligatur virgo oppressa ( ), consensu ut patet denegato (see _irish ecclesiastical record_, june, , pp. ff., and march, , pp. ff.) . recapitulatio de licitis et illicitis in conjugio.--(a) illicita graviter sunt extra matrimonium facta, v.g., moechia, mollities solitaria, alienæ conjugis concupiscentia; sed probabiliter actus imperfecti et solitarii in proprium corpus exerciti leve non excedunt, citra periculum pollutionis, siquidem in delectationem veneream quæ in conjugio licita est natura sua ordinentur, sicque minus indecentes fiant. (b) illicita graviter sunt intra matrimonium facta sed contra finem, i.e., naturæ matrimonii seu generationi prolis repugnantia, ut sunt pollutio mutua, onanismus, impudicitia quæ non in copulam sed in pollutionem tendit. (c) illicita leviter sunt intra matrimonium facta sed præter finem, i.e., qum generationi nec prosunt, nec obsunt, sed in circumstantiis aliquam prae se ferunt inordinationem (e.g., copula ob solam voluptatem habita), imprudentiam (e.g., copula tempore parum apto habita), immoderantiam (e.g., impudicitia pudori nociva, situs innaturalis, ut si stent vel vir succubet, ex levitate electus). (d) licita sunt intra matrimonium facta, quæ tum ex parte objecti (scil., quia actus ordinatur ad finem matrimonii), tum ex parte circumstantiarum (scil., quia debito tempore, loco, modo, etc., ut prudentia exigit, exercentur) rationi rectae concordant. unde non peccant conjuges sibi licita concupiscendo vel de iis gaudendo. immo mulier onanistæ licite coöperata non est peccati arguenda si gavisa sit de ipsa copula vel de bonis ejus effectibus, vel (saltem quando probabile videtur se semen excipisse) si ad completam voluptatem se excitaverit. . regulae pro confessariis.--(a) interrogationes.--si nulla ratio est suspicandi copulam modo innaturali exerceri, præstat ut plurimum de circumstantiis (v.g., de motivo copulæ) non quærere, ne conjuges tædio afficiantur vel bona fide inutiliter priventur. si tamen fundata suspicio est abusum matrimonii celari, hac de re confessarius inquirere debet, sed prudenter, ne scandalo sit poenitentibus verbis indiscretis. (b) monitiones.--si deprehenditur poenitentem onanistam esse, per se severe reprehendendus est (quod de viro praesertim dicitur) nec absolvendus nisi signa contritionis prius dederit; per accidens autem, si datur ignorantia invincibilis et monitio nullatenus profutura prævidetur, poenitens in bona fide relinquatur. . marriage as a sacrament.--the third benefit of marriage is that of the sacrament. the union of man and wife is not merely a physical union, but also a social one, and it should be modelled on the union of christ and the church: "this is a great sacrament; but i speak in christ and the church" (eph., v. ). (a) christ abides with the church, and so the husband should dwell with his wife (matt., xix. ). the cohabitation of the parties is demanded by the very nature of the promises made in marriage, and hence it is wrong for the husband to be absent from the home for notable periods of time, or, what is worse, to drive his wife from home--or vice versa. grave reasons and mutual consent justify long absences, as when the husband is called away on distant business; but, if he goes away for a considerable part of the year, he should, if possible, take his wife with him, or visit or write to her frequently. very grave reasons suffice for obtaining a separation, either permanent, on account of adultery, or during the continuance of the reason, as when there is serious unhappiness (canons sqq.). (b) christ is the head of the church, and so also the husband is superior to the wife in authority (eph., v. ). ordinarily man excels in the qualities suited for rule of the home (such as physical strength, decision, courage), and hence as every society, no matter how small, must have a head, the husband is the natural head of the home. but obedience is due a husband in domestic matters in which he is head of the house--for example, the choice of the place of residence, the management of the family income, the discipline of the children, but not in the wife's personal affairs (e.g., her conscience, her politics, her property)--and only in commands that do not exceed his authority, for he has no power to command if he is irrational, and he has no claim to obedience if he orders something sinful or foolish. moreover, since the wife is a partner and not a servant, and since she usually excels as sympathetic and wise adviser and careful household manager and is naturally more virtuous, the husband should consult with her on important family questions and decide them as far as possible by mutual consent, and should gladly leave to her sole control and direction the many things in which she is more competent than himself. (c) christ gave himself for the church (eph., v. ), and so also the husband has the duty of providing for his wife, spiritually and temporally. usually the man should attend to the external affairs of the family (such as its support and protection), while the wife should take care of the internal affairs (such as the housekeeping and the training of the children). it is to be regretted that the smallness of the husband's salary often compels the wife to work outside her home. women should not be compelled to take up occupations unsuited to their sex, much less those that interfere with the supreme duty of motherhood. injury done the common personal goods of husband and wife by one of them is unjust, if due to illegal action; it is at least uncharitable, if due to carelessness. the family goods are usually under the control of the head of the family. the wife has no right to use the earnings of her husband without his consent, unless he fails to provide suitably for his family, or uses his money extravagantly. . the duties of persons engaged to marry.--we shall speak first of the duty of entering into a nuptial engagement, and next of the duties which engagement imposes. (a) _per se_, there is no obligation for an individual to marry, for the need of marriage is not a personal but a social one, and social duties do not all fall upon each particular person. each person must take necessary food, for without it the individual perishes, and eating is thus an individual duty; but each person need not be a soldier, or farmer, or builder, or merchant, or married; for it suffices that these offices be fulfilled, one by one individual, another by another. indeed, if marriage is an impediment to a more urgent good of the common welfare (e.g., perilous public service incompatible with married life), or of private good (e.g., the duty of maintaining parents, the wish to remain single because one feels oneself unsuited for marriage or called to continence), marriage should not be chosen. (b) _per accidens_, there is sometimes a duty of marrying on account of public or private necessity. thus, if the community is depopulated by race-suicide, the public good should move suitable persons to marry in order to assist the birth rate; for, if those are considered slackers who refuse their service or money in war time when the nation is threatened with death from without, are not those also culpable who will not assist a community threatened with extinction from within? marriage is also obligatory on those who feel that they are unable to live continently, and will be lost unless they marry (i cor., vii. ). in case of seduction, marriage is a form of restitution to the injured girl, but since forced marriages are usually unhappy, the injury should be atoned for in some other way if the seducer does not care for the girl or is not desirable himself (see ). . the duties imposed by engagement to marry.--(a) before engagement.--courtship is lawful for those who intend to marry, for without it the mutual knowledge which is requisite for a prudent choice is impossible. but courtship should be employed, not as a period of pleasure and extravagance, but as an opportunity for learning the suitability of the parties, one for the other, and their desirability in virtue, religion, sanity, intelligence, health, wealth, position, love of children, sobriety, steadiness, etc. visits are lawful during courtship, but not the same familiarity as is permissible after engagement. the time of wooing should not be protracted, and as a rule after a year the parties should either become engaged or decide they are not well matched. (b) at the time of the engagement.--the parties are gravely bound to make known to each other all personal defects which cannot be concealed without serious injustice, such as the lack of virginity or other quality which one party makes a _conditio sine qua non_, or the presence of a diriment impediment or of a very harmful or displeasing characteristic (such as venereal disease, sterility, disgrace, race, the fact that one is a widow, etc.). there is no duty of justice to manifest defects whose concealment will not be detrimental (such as poverty, lowly origin), but there may be a duty of charity to reveal them, as when their concealment now will lead to an unhappy marriage. as to fornication, the man is not obliged to confess it, unless perhaps when he has an illegitimate child; nor the woman, unless she is actually pregnant, or cannot keep the matter hidden afterwards and can make it known without serious harm to herself (see self-defamation, ; cfr. , ). but those who have been guilty of these mistakes should undergo a test on the question of physical health. (c) during the engagement.--fidelity requires that an engaged person be true to the other party, avoid paying court to a third person (see ), and give the signs of affection that are usual between engaged persons. the relationship between the engaged parties does not give them the right to what is intrinsically evil (e.g., voluntary pollution, proximate danger of consent to sin, continuance in a familiarity which is a proximate occasion of sin), or to what is lawful only to married persons (e.g., intercourse and the liberties pertinent to it). but it does give them the right to manifest their affection by acts indifferent in themselves (e.g., visits which are not private, too frequent, or too prolonged; the decent kisses usual between betrothed lovers on meeting and parting), even though unintentionally pollution may follow ( ). persons who intend to marry soon should acquaint themselves before marriage and from reliable sources with the fundamental physiological facts of sex, so as to avoid the mistakes which often wreck conjugal happiness, beginning with the honeymoon itself; they should have some money or the prospect of being able to support themselves, and the woman should know how to take care of a home. (d) at the end of the engagement.--a formal promise to marry (canon ) imposes the duty of marriage within a reasonable time (i.e., at the appointed date, or, if no date was fixed, at the time when one of the parties reasonably requests it), unless the engagement be broken (e.g., by mutual consent, by a circumstance that makes marriage impossible, such as marriage to a third party or choice of the clerical state; or unnecessary, such as the fulfillment of a resolutory condition, supervening impediment, papal dispensation given for a just cause); or unless one of the parties has a right not to keep the engagement on account of a notable change in the circumstances, or a breach of faith, or opposition of parents that will make the marriage inadvisable, etc. the obligation to marry is one of justice, and is grave when the contract was bilateral; it is one of fidelity or justice, and grave or light according to the intention of the promisor, when the contract was unilateral (see ). there is no action to enforce an engagement, for forced marriages are unwise (canon , n. ); and in practice confessors and pastors should not insist on fulfillment of the promise. but damages can be sued for, and the confessor should deny absolution to one who refuses to make just restitution in a case of breach of promise (see ). an informal promise to marry (i.e., one invalid naturally or positively) produces no obligation to marry in either forum (see ); but it does produce a duty of restitution in breach of promise, if there was force, fraud, or deceit. . conditions for the signs of affection between engaged persons.--(a) objectively, these signs must be suited to the condition of merely engaged, not of married persons. brief and modest kisses are proper for lovers, but greater intimacy, such as long and lone conversations in secluded spots, are wrong. the chaster the relations between the betrothed, the less occasion for future regrets and recriminations. "petting" purchases a cheap physical thrill or excitement at the cost of present moral danger for two persons, of the degradation of love to its lowest expression, and of loss of self-respect, with the probable risk of a future ill-fated marital career ending speedily in disillusionment and divorce. it is essentially selfish and unwise. (b) subjectively, the signs of affection must not be a proximate occasion of sin; nor may they be accompanied by consent to sin, or be used for the sake of venereal pleasure. joy at the thought of future marriage intercourse and sensual pleasure in present kisses ( ) are in themselves not sinful, but in practice they are as a rule gravely dangerous. _motiones carnales, quales sunt erectiones, signa sunt delectationis venereae quando conjuguntur eum pollutione vel proxime præviis ad eam; sunt signa delectationis mere sensualis, quando amorem sensibilem sequuntur ex motu sanguinis, quin in resolutionem seminis ex se tendant_ ( b). . the duties of parents and children.--in addition to the duties that belong to all superiors and subjects (see sqq.) there are special obligations incumbent on parents and children by reason of the special relationship between them. the duties of the parents are of two kinds. (a) duties of charity.--parents should give their children special love and special signs of affection, as the order of charity requires (see sqq.). hence, those parents sin grievously who hate or curse their children, even the illegitimate or wayward, or who drive the children from home by unkindness. (b) duties of piety.--parents should, as far as they are able, give their children the honor and help that belongs to members of the family (see sqq.), though illegitimate children have not the right to dwell in the home of the legitimate children or to share in the family inheritance (see b). the help owed to children is spiritual and material, and the obligation, which is natural and divine, is most grave (canon ). spiritual help includes religious and moral training and example (see sqq.); material help includes food, clothing, lodging, medical care, means to learn a necessary trade, art or profession or to enter marriage or take up a suitable state in life, protection and defense. parents are bound to help their children, at least in necessities, as long as the latter are in need. sins are committed also against the unborn (e.g., when the pregnant mother does not take care of her health, or when she is ill-treated by her husband) and young infants (e.g., when the child is unnecessarily suckled by strangers and thus exposed to danger, or is placed in a foundling asylum or other institution because the parents are unwilling to be bothered). on the other hand, those parents sin through excess who spoil or "sissify" their children by luxury and idleness, or who are too indulgent to give needed correction and even moderate chastisement. . compensation of children.--a child, even though subject to parental authority, seems to have a right to compensation for extraordinary services given his parents, and also to at least a fair commission for gains made in the course of extraordinary services for which he is receiving no compensation. in their wills, after satisfying just debts and expenses, parents should leave their offspring who need it enough to maintain their state in life. . sex education of children.--(a) necessity.--some moralists believe that sex education of the young should be indirect. they hold that it is dangerous to speak of venereal matters to the young; that silence itself is to them a lesson of modesty; that the practice of piety and mortification, along with parental watchfulness, will keep them pure; that sufficient knowledge will come at the proper time as god will provide. others reject this theory as opposed to the tradition of the church as well as to experience. the defenders of direct sexual education point to the evil of silence: the bad habits contracted and grown strong before their sinfulness is understood, or the scruples and misery into which ignorance will plunge young people entering the crisis of puberty, the false and corrupt ideas with which unavoidably the minds of the innocent will be indoctrinated by immoral companions or physicians, the loss of confidence in parents who have refused important knowledge and advice, and the ruin of innocent lives by seducers which a timely word of warning would have prevented. hence, there is an invincible ignorance which cannot be removed without direct education, and which is more harmful at least to well-reared children than any evil that may be caused by the education. (b) preparation for direct education.--training for purity should be directed both to will and intellect, for knowledge without character is powerless against temptation. children should be trained from the beginning morally (i.e., they should be kept as far as possible from sources of contamination; should be taught to have implicit confidence in parents and to bring to them their questions and difficulties; should be trained to practise continual mortification and restraint and to struggle against evil tendencies until the habit of self-control becomes a second nature) and religiously (i.e., to use prayer, the sacraments and other means of grace until they are well formed in piety). this previous moral education and religious conviction will stand on guard as a protection against the suggestions of indulgence which initiation into sex matters may suggest. (c) the subject-matter of sex education.--the fundamentals of sex instruction include such points as the diversity of sex, its origin from god and its dignity, the beginning of life in plants and animals, the organs of reproduction, the functions of maternity and paternity, the grave reasons that demand sexual morality, respect for womankind, the great sinfulness of masturbation and fornication, the meaning of puberty and its accompaniments in male and female, the possibility and healthfulness of continence, the moral dangers of the world and the social diseases to be guarded against, and the hygienic aids to chastity. (d) the method of instruction.--it is clear that not all the details just mentioned can be imparted at one time, for young children would not understand or there would be scandal of little ones; but, while fiction and exaggeration should be avoided, a strictly scientific and technical instruction is not necessary or generally advisable. it is clear also that parents, and especially mothers, are naturally suited for the delicate task of early guardians of chastity, though the later instruction should be supplemented in catechism class, sermon, school, and an individual advice given in confession. it would be impossible in brief space to outline sufficiently a program of sex instruction, but parents and persons who are about to marry should read, study and apply some of the excellent books prepared for their guidance. . duties of children.--the duties of children to their parents can also be classed under those of charity and piety. (a) duties of charity.--children owe their parents a special internal and external love (see sqq.). those children sin gravely who hate their parents or wish them serious evil, or who treat them with great unkindness or neglect, or bring them great sorrow or worry, or who never visit or write to them. (b) duties of piety.--children must respect and assist their parents (see , ). it is a serious sin to have contempt for one's parents, or to show them serious dishonor in words (e.g., by injurious or mocking names), in signs (e.g., by laughing at them, mimicking them), in deeds (e.g., by striking them, speaking against them), in omission (e.g., by refusing to acknowledge them or show them the usual marks of courtesy). it is not disrespect, however, for a child to dislike or protest against evils done by his parents. the assistance owed to parents is both spiritual and corporal, and children sin when they neglect the religious welfare of their parents (e.g., by not respectfully admonishing them when the parents do not lead a good life, by not obtaining for them the sacraments, prayers and suffrages they need), or deny them bodily aid (e.g., by refusing them help or comfort when they are poor, persecuted, or suffering). children who live at home with their parents should contribute from their earnings or individual property to the maintenance of the home, unless the parents do not need this pay and do not wish it. see catechism of the council of trent, on the fourth commandment (pages sqq.). . duties of near relatives.--there are similar duties of charity and piety between other near relatives, for example, between brothers and sisters, grandparents and grandchildren uncles and aunts and their nephews and nieces, and between first cousins. the obligation seems, to some authors, to be a grave one as far as the second degree of kinship, but is light in the other degrees. the relationship and duty to kin by marriage is not so strong. . the duties of superiors and subjects: duties of superiors.--superiors both in domestic and civil society need especially prudence and justice in order to fulfill well their special duties of ruling successfully and lawfully (jerem., xxiii. ). (a) prudence.--if every individual must use wise deliberation, decision and direction to guide himself aright, much more does a ruler, whether of the home or of the state, need these qualities; and hence it is the prudent servant who is placed over his master's household (matt., xxiv. ), whereas the imprudent ruler brings confusion upon his community (is., iii. sqq). parents, guardians, executives, lawmakers and magistrates are, therefore, bound to fit themselves by competent knowledge of their duties. at the minimum, they must know what constitutes the welfare of their circle or community, and how it should be promoted. for this, in positions of subordinate importance, common sense with good will often suffices, but from those who are heads of large organizations much more is expected. a chief who has to direct a great multitude must have unusual ability and unusual knowledge or unusual quickness to learn from study and conference what measures will safeguard the interests of his body and promote the happiness and prosperity of its members (see sqq.). (b) justice.--in their rule superiors must be lovers of the common good; they must decree, judge and govern according to natural justice and the law; in distributions of burdens and favors they must be guided by fairness to all, avoiding partiality, bribery, peculation and every form of political corruption; in discipline they must conscientiously enforce the right; in personal life they must be a model to their subjects, showing themselves moral, religious, truthful, dignified but approachable and patient (not arrogant, stubborn, sensitive, ill-humored or revengeful), given to work and duty rather than to pleasure and display. . duties of subjects.--the general duties of subjects to superiors are chiefly honor and obedience (see sqq.). (a) honor.--honor is owed to superiors on account of their position of authority, which is derived from god, not on account of their personal character, for personally they may be wicked. it is disrespectful even in a democracy to deny them the honorable address, salutation or courtesy which is customary, or to treat them insultingly by word, manner or writing. but it is not disrespectful to disagree with the personal views of a superior or to seek legitimately his removal from office if he is unfit or less fit. (b) obedience.--obedience is owed to superiors and their laws when they strictly command what is not sinful or illegal or outside their authority (see sqq.). unemancipated children are obliged to obey their parents in all that falls under the parental authority, namely, in what pertains to good morals (e.g., attendance at religious duties, avoidance of bad companions) or the good order of the home (e.g., the hours for meals, the time of retiring, the visitors to be received). but parents have no authority to command fraud or other sin; nor are children under subjection in the matter of taking up a state of life, for this demands liking and fitness, and the command of a superior cannot give liking and fitness. it is a serious sin for parents to force a child to take up religious life or the priesthood, or to marry a certain individual; but a child should yield when his parents are reasonably opposed to his choice of a vocation, as when they need his support, or wish him to test his vocation a little, or know that the person selected for wife will disgrace the family. . taxes.--citizens owe the government particularly the tribute of taxation, and in war that of military service. taxes are contributions exacted by the public authority from subjects for the purpose of defraying public expenses or promoting the public welfare. (a) thus, they are contributions, and hence a tax is not to be confused with a payment (e.g., fares for passage on government railroads), or with a fine (e.g., pecuniary penalty for evasion of customs). (b) they are exacted from subjects (i.e., from citizens), who are subject on account of their persons as being members of the state, and from aliens, who are subject on account of their goods, as receiving privileges of residence, commerce, passage, etc. . kinds of taxes.--there are many kinds of taxes, but they can all be reduced to two general categories. (a) direct taxes are those collected from the person on whom the burden is ultimately to fall. examples are poll or personal taxes and property taxes (such as those on general property, incomes or inheritances), for these charges remain an expense of the taxpayer himself. (b) indirect taxes are those collected from a person other than the one on whom the burden is ultimately to fall. examples are duties imposed on outsiders (such as customs or tariffs, duties raised for revenues, protection, etc.), external revenue taxes imposed on certain acts (such as the manufacture or sale of commodities) or occupations (e.g., licenses for trades, sports, etc.). in these the charge falls immediately on the taxpayer, but ultimately on a consumer. . just taxes.--tax laws, like other laws, must be just; that is, they must be made by lawful authority and must promote the common good (see ). the common good requires that taxes be not imposed except for just reasons, and that there be a fair distribution of the burden. (a) just reasons are those of public utility or necessity. a tax would be unjust, if it were levied for unjust or unnecessary purposes. (b) fair distribution requires that citizens be assessed according to their ability to pay (sacrifices for the public good, special benefits from the use of a tax fund, etc.). . obligation to pay taxes.--the obligation in conscience of just tax laws is admitted by all catholic authorities. (a) the teaching of scripture is quite clear, since our lord, in answer to the question whether it were lawful to pay tribute to caesar, replied: "render to caesar the things that are caesar's" (matt., xxii. - ); and st. paul teaches: "be subject of necessity, not only for wrath, but also for conscience' sake. render therefore to all men their due, tribute to whom tribute is due, custom to whom custom" (rom., xiii. , ). (b) reason too shows the need of obligation in conscience, for, unless these laws oblige thus, the common good will suffer through lack of money needed for public purposes, and some individuals will be unjustly burdened and others unjustly favored. . quality of the obligation.--there are various opinions about the quality of the obligation in conscience of taxation laws. (a) thus, according to one opinion they oblige in conscience and under sin, that is, as preceptive laws (see sqq.). for the natural law and justice require that the members of society contribute the necessaries to the social body organized for their benefit, or that the people live up to their implicit contract with their government by giving compensation for the services they receive. (b) according to another opinion tax laws oblige in conscience only under penalty, that is, as penal laws. the arguments for this view are, first, the sufficiency of the penal obligation (i.e., the heavy fines imposed) for the attainment of the laws' purpose, and, secondly, the common opinion of citizens that they commit no sin by merely evading payment of taxes. furthermore, it is added that, if these laws were preceptive, conscientious citizens would be under a great disadvantage, for they would be placed in the dilemma of either acting against their conscience and committing sin or of paying more than their due on account of the neglect of tax dues by citizens who are not conscientious. (c) according to a third opinion distinction has to be made between different cases. thus, some held that laws on direct taxes are preceptive and laws on indirect taxes merely penal, while others say that the kind of obligation depends on the will of the lawgiver, and that tax laws that are preceptive in one country may be only penal in another. if tax laws are merely penal, there is no obligation of restitution, but there is an obligation of payment and of penalty after sentence. . obedience to tax laws.--obedience to just laws is owed either from legal justice alone, or also from commutative justice with the burden of restitution. there are various opinions about the case of tax laws. (a) according to the traditional opinion, the obligation is one of commutative justice, because there is an implicit contract between the government and the people, in virtue of which the former is bound to provide for the safety of the people at home and abroad and to secure those things that are necessary for the common welfare (such as roads, postal service, etc.), while the latter are bound in return to pay the expenses of the government. (b) according to a recent opinion, the obligation is one of legal justice only, because the imposition of taxes is an exercise of authority by the government, and taxes themselves have the character of a tribute from the part to the whole rather than of a wage or payment. hence, though he who evades taxes is not held to restitution, he sins against justice, and sins gravely if the matter is considerable. (c) according to other opinions, tax laws oblige sometimes from legal, sometimes from commutative justice. thus, some admit that in feudal times there was a contract between the governed and the ruler, and therefore an obligation of commutative justice to give services and taxes; but in modern times they say there is no such contract, and the duties of ruler and subjects rest on natural law and legal justice, not on any compact. others again distinguish between the obligation before the quota has been determined, which is the duty of legal justice to declare properly the value of one's property, and the obligation after assessment, which is a duty of commutative justice to pay just tax bills. . the duty of exercising the electoral franchise.--(a) there is a grave duty of using the privilege granted to citizens of voting in public elections, and especially primaries; for the welfare of the community and the moral, intellectual and physical good of individuals depend on the kind of men who are nominated or chosen to rule, and on the ticket platforms voted for. hence, those who neglect to vote coöperate negatively with a serious harm (viz., evil in power), or at least with public unconcern about public matters--for example, those who neglect through laziness or indifference to condemn by their vote. a grave inconvenience (e.g., sickness, ostracism, exile, persecution), but not a slight inconvenience (such as loss of time, trouble, ridicule), excuses from the duty; for an affirmative law has exceptions. neither is there an obligation to vote when an election is a mere formality, as when there is but one candidate or party. (b) the duty is not one of commutative justice, as the ballot is either a privilege, or a thing commanded by authority, but not a service to which the citizen has bound himself by contract or office. the obligation is, therefore, one of legal justice, arising from the fact that the common weal is everybody's business and responsibility, especially in a republic. hence, representatives of the people who by abstention from voting cause a serious damage which they were bound _ex officio_ to prevent, are guilty of commutative injustice and are held to restitution; but a citizen who stays away from the polls sins, and perhaps gravely, against legal justice, though there is no duty of restitution for the damages that result. moreover, in a general election the vote of one citizen is usually not of decisive influence, and citizens do not make themselves responsible for all the acts of their representatives. . manner of voting.--(a) object.--it is not necessary to vote for the best candidate, provided one votes for a person who is fitted by character, ability, record, experience, etc. for the office, and gives indications, not merely promises, that he will serve the community well. but in certain ecclesiastical elections the voters must take oath beforehand to vote, not only for a worthy candidate, but also for the person whom they honestly think, all things considered, most worthy. in minor offices (such as constable or town clerk) it suffices that the candidate be known as conscientious; but in major offices (such as president, governor, congressman, legislator, or judge) the party principles for which he stands have to be considered chiefly. _per accidens_, it is lawful to vote for an unworthy candidate when this is necessary to prevent a greater evil, as when the opposing candidate is much worse, or a good ticket cannot be elected unless some less worthy candidates are included. (b) purpose.--the end which the voter should have in mind is the good of the public, and hence it is not right to vote for candidates solely or chiefly because they are personal friends, members of one's own race, organization or religion, or because one wishes to gain favor or escape enmity. (c) circumstances.--the voter must avoid all that is contrary to natural law (e.g., selling of votes, repeating, stuffing ballot boxes) or positive law (e.g., state laws require not only citizenship and a period of previous residence, but also other conditions such as registration and freedom from bribery and other election crimes). the opinion that politics is necessarily corrupt, and that all is fair that helps to win, is a false and pernicious doctrine. the conditions for ecclesiastical elections are given in canons sqq. . obligation to seek office.--a worthy man should run for office in the following case: (a) when the public good calls for his candidacy (e.g., when his election or candidacy will avert serious evils, and there is no one else so available); and (b) there is no grave impediment to his candidacy (such as supremely important private affairs or ill-health that makes it impossible to run). . duties of employers and employees.--between employers and their domestic servants or workingmen there are general mutual duties as between superiors and subjects, and special mutual duties as between parties to an explicit and implicit contract. of these latter duties we shall now speak. . duties of employers.--(a) justice.--the labor assigned must not be excessive (e.g., unduly perilous, exhausting, protracted) or injurious (e.g., harmful to religion or morals, an unreasonable impediment to marriage, to cultural opportunity or amusement); the wage paid must be just (i.e., one that will enable the worker to support himself and his family in reasonable comfort) and equitable (i.e., one that rewards special merit and service by pensions or additional compensation); the terms of the contract must be observed (e.g., arbitrary lowering of wages or dismissal are unjust). (b) charity.--liberality should be shown by preference to employees, since they have a special claim on the employ good will. the employer should consider that he is responsible for the spiritual betterment and material improvement of his workers, and should have them in mind when making contributions to religious, educational or special causes, so that his own employees will benefit in particular by his gifts to these worthy causes. trade schools and insurance against sickness and unemployment are especially deserving of his assistance. . duties of employees.--(a) justice.--workers are bound to give a fair return in quantity and quality of labor for the pay they receive, and to be loyal to their employer as regards his person, reputation, and property. hence, it is unjust to loaf or come late or leave early, to turn out work too slowly or of an inferior grade, to damage machinery or property, to waste food or provisions, to act as a household spy or informer, to try to extort what is not due. (for a consideration of the worker's obligation to join unions see "catholics in labor unions" by francis j. connell, c.ss.r., _american ecclesiastical review_, vol. cxvi, no. june, , pp. ff.) (b) charity.--workers should be willing even at the expense of some right or of some slight loss to help an employer who is in grave necessity; for example, it would be uncharitable for farm hands to stop work promptly on time when this will cause a serious damage to the farmer's crop, or for a cook to leave on her free day when her mistress is very sick and will be left alone. . labor disputes between employers and employees.--(a) in themselves these disputes are indifferent, as they are a species of industrial war (see sqq.) or of industrial self-defense ( sqq.). if the end, the means and the circumstances are not against right reason, the disputes are lawful or even laudable. (b) in the concrete, the strike is labor's chief means for enforcing demands. since organized labor seeks to equalize the bargaining power between employer and employee, the way to counteract refusal to pay fairly is by a concerted refusal to work, i.e., a strike. a strike may be defined as an organized cessation from work by a group of workers to obtain advantages from an employer. since an organized strike is a kind of war, moral theologians apply the principles of a just war to determine concretely the morality of a strike. ) there must be a just reason for the strike. too little pay, too long hours, brutal treatment, unsafe or unsanitary conditions constitute genuine grievances for what may be called a defensive strike, which presupposes injustice in the part of the employer. on the other hand an ameliorative strike does not presuppose an employer's injustice, but consists essentially in the worker's attempt to better conditions, e.g., a better salary, shorter working hours, etc. such a strike seems to be unlawful if it violates a just work contract in effect at the time of the strike. if no such contract has been made, the ameliorative strike can be lawful, granting a proportionately grave cause; but it is never given unqualified approval owing to the fact that such a strike involves many and grave losses both material and moral to the workers, employer, and community. (see merkelbach, _summa theologiæ moralis_ ii, n. .) ) the strike must be the last means. owing to the fact that a strike is a kind of warfare, all other peaceful means should be tried, e.g., arbitration, governmental inquiry boards, injunctions, fact-finding boards etc. the moral principle involved is; if an evil is avoidable but not avoided, it cannot be considered as merely incidental to a good end. ) the strike would be called by proper authority. the decision to strike should be made by the men themselves freely and without intimidation. organized labor must have the backing of a responsible union in its strike, for this is the channel of bargaining or arbitration that the employer must use, and it should be used by the workers also. accordingly, "wildcat" strikes are unlawful unless the unions have ceased to represent the men and have been repudiated by them. ) the benefits expected from the strike must compensate for the evils inseparable from it. in this matter not only the worker's personal gains are to be considered, but also the welfare of others, namely the employers and the public. thus, in a long-drawn-out strike the economic advantage gained in a small salary increase for the worker can never be proportionate to the financial losses inflicted on the workers themselves in loss of income, on the employers, and particularly on a community which suffers the loss of purchasing power of a number of its members. many strikes in which the products or services of the workers are necessary to the public (transportation, food distribution, etc.) seem to be more a strike against the community than against an employer; and the harm inflicted on the innocent public is not incidental as it must be in order to be justified. only extraordinarily grave reasons can justify such strikes. ) the means employed must be just. the common means are work stoppage, persuasion of other workers to keep the work stopped until the demands are met, and picketing in a peaceful manner. sabotage and violence against an employer's person or property constitute unjust means. "scabs," or professional strike-breakers, may be prevented from depriving the workers of their jobs to which the workers keep their rights; but violence in defense of this right seems illicit, unless violence is begun by the strike-breakers and the workers are forced to defend themselves. (c) kinds of strike. thus far the analysis has been concerned with a direct strike. other kinds of strike demand special consideration. ) slow-down strike. since it does not involve cessation from work, but simply a reduction in production or services while the worker is receiving full pay under contract, the strike seems to be immoral. the striker is not giving the work paid for. ) sit-down strikes. some authors justify these strikes by analogy with an act of self-defense in which the person attacked seizes the weapon from the attacker. the analogy seems defective since the place of work is hardly a weapon. this strike seems to be immoral since it involves an unjust invasion of property rights by way of excluding an owner from the use of his property. ) sympathy strikes. there is a great diversity of opinion in this kind of strike. a moderate view distinguishes between strikes of several groups against the same employer and one or several groups against different and unassociated employers. the first kind seems justified, for it is directed against the same unjust employer, and the workers are coöperators to defend the rights of one group against him. in the second case of striking against different employers, the "sympathizers" are striking against a just employer and are violating their work contract which binds in commutative justice. hence this type of strike seems to be essentially unjust. (d) the lockout is the employer's strike. unwilling to grant the worker's demand, the employer shuts down his plant, thus terminating employment of both strikers and non-strikers. the same conditions and restrictions that apply to the strike are applicable to lockouts. that the lockout itself is not unjust, but at least morally indifferent, appears to be evident in this, that as workers are not bound to submit to injustice, neither is the employer. he cannot be expected to pay wages when essential employers have quit or stalled production. (e) a boycott is a mass refusal to patronize a certain business with the effort to persuade others to join in the refusal. historically it has been used by labor to gain support from the public against an employer or by elements of the public itself to protest some evil practice of a business establishment, e.g., legion of decency boycotts of indecent pictures, nodl boycotts of literature, etc. in itself, a boycott is not immoral, since no one is obliged to trade in one place in preference to another and may refuse to trade with persons who are unjust or otherwise immoral. there seems to be no reason also to prevent a person from lawfully persuading others to follow his cause. the principles of a just strike are applicable to the justification of boycotts, and the conditions of a sympathy strike are to be applied to secondary boycotts, i.e., against other firms doing business with a boycotted firm. these other firms are not themselves unjust and should not be made to suffer for the injustice of another. hence, a very grave cause, co-operation in injustice, for example would be necessary to bring pressure against them. . is there any obligation of giving employment?--(a) the state certainly has an obligation in legal justice of offering opportunities of work to those who cannot find it, if the public welfare is compromised by widespread unemployment. even if only one worker were without work through no fault of his own, the duty of helping him would seem to devolve on the state, since the laborer has a right to work and the state has the duty of promoting the temporal welfare of its subjects when they are unable to provide for themselves. (b) employers have a duty of commutative justice to give work to men with whom they have made a contract of labor and not to keep work from men unfairly; hence, arbitrary dismissal or blacklisting is a crime against justice. they should also try to secure other employment for good workers whom they are unable to keep, so as to tide over for the men the slack seasons when some have to be laid off. industry, organized labor and individuals should interest themselves practically in private movements and plans to remedy unemployment situations, for these are matters that should not be left entirely to the state and charity. employment and honest wages are in the long run to the advantage of employers as well as of employees, and are therefore good business as well as good morals. . duties of certain professions.--(a) judges and lawyers.--the duties of men of the law were discussed already in sqq. clients on their part owe their lawyers fair treatment and just compensation for services, while those who have part in a judicial process must give respect to the judge and other officials of the court and due obedience to their directions. (b) teachers and students.--teachers must make themselves proficient in their matter and in the art of pedagogy; must take care that their teaching is accurate and beneficial; must be steady, punctual, orderly; must give no example or advice but what is good; must be neither too lenient nor too exacting; must preserve discipline in their classes by correcting, punishing, or expelling as need requires; must be just, neither petting nor bullying, and must award honors and averages according to merit. there may be grave harm and sin in denying important academic degrees (such as s.t.m., s.t.d., j.d.c., m.d.) to the worthy or in conferring them on the unworthy. students on their part owe to their teachers respect and obedience in class matters, to their parents and themselves diligence in study, and to their school avoidance of cheating and of disorderly conduct. in athletics they should not aim at winning for winning's sake, or playing for playing's sake, but at the true goal of a sound mind in a sound body. in the selection of preferred studies they should remember that nothing worth while is won without hard work, and that the true objectives of learning are not mere utility, or gain or diversion, but the culture of mind and of spirit. (c) physicians, surgeons, nurses, and druggists.--these persons must have sufficient knowledge and skill, and must keep up with the progress of medical science; they must not deny their services or delay to come when there is urgent need; they must give a case diligence proportionate to its seriousness; they must consult in case of doubt, follow the safer opinions, and use the more likely remedies. in his relations with his patient a doctor must be chaste (e.g., avoiding immoral advice or operations, unnecessary psychoanalytic conversations, or bodily exposures); loyal to the confidences received; honest and charitable, not prescribing useless remedies, or overcharging, or refusing service to the poor; mindful of the religious needs of his patients, being not too ready to exempt them from church duties nor slow to remind them when they should send for the priest. patients on their part should honor the physician, call him in need, obey his directions, and properly compensate him for his services. what is here said of physicians and surgeons is true also of nurses in their duties and capacities. pharmacists are bound to exercise great care in filling prescriptions; they should not cooperate with abortion or contraception by selling medicines, instruments or appliances to be used for those purposes; they should not sell drugs, dopes, poisons, liquors, etc., forbidden by law. question iv the sacraments . in the three questions that preceded we spoke of the means by which man is sanctified and is enabled to secure supernatural rewards through the merits of his own works; for the virtues make their possessor as well as his acts morally righteous, while through god's grace the good deeds done for his sake entitle the doer to the crown of eternal life. in the present question we pass on to consider certain means by which god is honored by man and man is sanctified through the application to his soul of the merits and passion of christ; for the sacraments were instituted by christ both as external acts of religion ( , ) and as most powerful agencies to begin, restore, and increase the life of holiness. . it should be observed, first, that the present work is concerned with moral theology; and, secondly, that it must be confined within the limited number of pages which a two-volume production of convenient size necessitates. hence the reader will understand why in the question now beginning we speak only of man's duties in reference to the sacraments, and omit other points that do not so strictly pertain to moral. (a) thus, the nature, institution, number and effects of the sacraments belong to dogma, which the authors hope to treat later in a similar work. (b) the administration of the sacraments, their rites, rubrics, ceremonies are set forth in ritual books and works on liturgy. (c) the legal rights of ministers, canonical requirements on registration, penal and processual legislation in reference to the sacraments, and like juridical questions are treated fully in commentaries on pertinent sections of the code. art. : the sacraments in general; the sacramentals (_summa theologica_, iii, qq. - .) . nature of a sacrament.--in the new law a sacrament is an outward sign instituted permanently by christ to signify and convey grace. (a) the internal cause or essence of a sacrament is the outward sign, which has two parts. the indeterminate part or matter is a visible object (e.g., the water of baptism, the chrism of confirmation, the bread and wine of the eucharist, the oil of extreme unction, the imposition of hands in orders) or a perceptible act that looks to another act for its perfectionment (e.g., the confession, etc., of the penitent in penance; the giving of oneself as spouse in matrimony). the determining part, or form, is either the sacred formula spoken over the material element (e.g., in baptism the words "i baptize thee, etc.") or an act that completes another act (e.g., the acceptance of another as spouse in matrimony). as the matter must be visible or otherwise sense-perceptible, so the form must be audible or at least (in matrimony) equivalently audible; for a sacrament is a sensible sign. the words are audible when they are heard or are capable of being heard at least by the minister. (b) the external efficient cause or instituter of the sacraments is christ, the founder of the new testament religion and the productive and meritorious author of grace as our god and saviour. (c) the external final cause or purpose of the sacraments is to symbolize outwardly by their rite and to work inwardly by their instrumental virtue the application of christ's redemption in the soul of properly disposed recipients. it is the nature of baptism and penance (sacraments of the dead) to produce first grace or forgiveness, of the others to produce second grace or increase of holiness (sacraments of the living). furthermore, three of the sacraments (baptism, confirmation, orders) have a second effect, since they sign the soul with the indelible character of member or soldier or minister of christ, and hence these sacraments cannot be repeated. . rules on the invalid use of the matter and form of the sacraments.--(a) since the matter and form are essential constituents without which the sacraments are not had, it is sacrilegious to invalidate a sacrament by substantial changes in either of these parts. the matter is changed substantially when it is so modified as currently to be considered and called something different from the element appointed by christ. thus, wine is unfit for the eucharist if corrupted into vinegar, or made unsuitable as a drink (e.g., probably as long as it remains frozen), or notably adulterated (e.g., when it is mixed half and half with water). the form is changed substantially when it is so modified that to a listener it no longer conveys the sense intended by christ. this happens when the changed form does not express the chief ideas of the correct form, as when it does not determine who is the minister of penance (e.g., "you are absolved"), or who is the subject of baptism (e.g., "ego baptizo in nomine, etc."), or what is the effect of the eucharist (e.g., "hoc non est corpus meum," "hoc est corpus," "hic meum est corpus"), or the action of the minister of penance (e.g., "ego abluo te a peccatis"), or the profession in baptism of faith in the trinity (e.g., "ego te baptizo, amen"). (b) since the matter and form are parts of a single composite sign, it is sacrilegious to invalidate a sacrament by substantial separations, which destroy the continuity or unity of signification. there is a substantial separation within the form when such long intervals occur between the pronunciation of its syllables or words that it is not in common estimation a united sentence or proposition; for example, if the celebrant says, "hoc est cor-," then sneezes two or three times, and (instead of repeating the words) concludes "-pus meum," or says "hoc est corpus" and after an interruption of several minutes (instead of repeating) finishes with: "meum." there is substantial separation between the matter and form, if the former is applied by one minister and the latter is spoken by another, although the form declares that the matter is applied by the speaker of the form: for example, if titus pours the water while claudius says: "i baptize thee, etc." even when the same minister applies both matter and form, there is a substantial separation between these parts when the form is not spoken at the same time or for the same time that the matter is posited, and thereby, from the special character of the sacrament, leaves the signification of the sacramental matter unsettled. this happens when the form is spoken too long before or too long after the presence or application of the matter, or when the form is limited by a future condition which will not be verified during the continuance of the matter (see ). . simultaneity of matter and form.--the simultaneity of matter and form which validity requires must be either moral or physical according to the character of the sacrament. (a) there is physical simultaneity when matter and form are present in the same instants of time. this kind of union is demanded in the eucharist, for it has the character of a transubstantiation of bread and wine present at the moments the words of consecration are said over them. there would be no sacrament if the bread were absent even during a part of the consecration. (b) there is a moral simultaneity like to the physical contemporaneousness when the matter and form are partly present in the same instants of time, and perhaps also (as some hold) when one follows the other with such close succession that not more than a pater or ave could be said between them. this kind of union is the maximum in penance and matrimony, for absolution must follow after confession, and conjugal acceptance must follow after conjugal offer. it suffices in baptism, confirmation, extreme unction, and orders; for these four sacraments do not consecrate the matter (and hence some little separation is allowed), but they do signify in the present tense the bestowal of grace through the application of the matter (and hence any separation must be of the slightest). (c) there is a purely moral simultaneity when the form follows the matter after a somewhat considerable interval of time has elapsed, but with a connection between the two based on human usage which carries the matter on in human estimation over to the time the form is employed. this suffices in penance and matrimony. penance has the character of a judicial process, whose unity is not destroyed by some little delay between the discussion and the sentence; and hence it seems that absolution could be given validly an hour after confession. matrimony has the character of a contract, whose unity is preserved even in spite of a long interval between the date of consent of the first party and the date of consent of the second party. . lawfulness of moral simultaneity in the sacraments other than the eucharist.--(a) in baptism, confirmation, extreme unction, and orders, it would seem on account of the danger of nullity to be a serious sin to exclude all physical simultaneity between matter and form (e.g., to pour all the water and then to begin the words: "i baptize thee, etc.," or vice versa). in practice the rubrics should be followed. (b) in penance and matrimony it is more or less sinful to make needless, though not invalidating, delays. in ordinary practice the confessor should absolve as soon as the confession has been heard and the penance accepted, and the bride should express her consent immediately after the bridegroom has expressed his. . accidental changes or separations as to matter and form.--(a) these administrations are not invalid, for they preserve the essence of the elements or the sense of the words appointed by christ. examples of accidental change of matter are baptismal water to which a relatively very small quantity of wine has been added, or wine for the eucharist to which a relatively trifling amount of water has been added. the form is accidentally modified if translated into the vernacular or rendered by synonymous words (e.g., "ego abluo te, etc."), or if an unimportant word (e.g., "enim") is added or subtracted, or if the words are transposed or partially repeated or unintentionally mispronounced without detriment to sense (e.g., "hoc est meum corpus," "hoc, hoc, est, est, etc.," "hoc est copus meum"). there is accidental separation when slight pauses are made between words, or when an interval not destructive of the sense falls between the use of the matter and the use of the form (see , ). (b) these administrations are unlawful and from their nature mortally sinful, since they are transgressions of a precept of the church meant to safeguard respect for the sacraments of christ, and they are therefore opposed to the virtue of religion ( ). but the sin may be venial by reason of lightness of matter (e.g., omission of the word "enim"), or of imperfection of the act. scandal, danger of invalidity, contempt, and bad intention would make even a small change a serious sin. in practice the rule to follow is to observe exactly the prescribed matter and form and entire rite, to pronounce the words clearly and slowly, to repeat the form when any involuntary interruption happens between its essential parts, and to unite the matter and form as closely as possible. . substantial changes or separations.--substantial changes or separations _a fortiori_ are grave sins. they offend against religion (since they make a mockery of the sacred signs appointed by christ), against obedience (since they disregard a most serious precept of the church), against charity (since they deprive the recipient of sacramental grace), and against justice (at least when the minister is bound _ex officio_ to confer the sacrament, since there is then a quasi-contract with the recipient to administer the sacrament correctly). . doubtful matter.--it is sometimes probable but not certain that an element suffices for the matter of a sacrament (e.g., coffee or tea for baptism, chrism for extreme unction). hence the question: "is it lawful to use probable matter in the administration of a sacrament?" (a) if certain matter cannot be had and the sacrament is urgently necessary or very useful, probable matter may be used. for the sacraments were instituted by christ to benefit man ("the sacraments are for men"), and hence it is not irreverent to give to one in need a probably valid sacrament when a certainly valid sacrament is impossible. thus, a dying infant may and should be baptized with coffee, if no pure water can be procured in time; the last anointing may be conferred with chrism, if the oil of the sick cannot be had before a dying man will have expired. (b) if certain matter can be had, or if the sacrament is not urgently necessary or useful, probable matter may not be used without grave sin; for there is then no reason of necessity to justify the risk to which the sacrament and perhaps also the recipient are exposed, thus, it is not lawful to baptize with coffee when pure water can be secured, or to confirm with chrism not blessed by a bishop a dying man who had just received the last sacraments, even though other chrism is unobtainable (see , , , and denziger, n. ). . what sacraments have a necessity of means (see , , )?--(a) those sacraments have a necessity of means without which sanctifying grace and salvation cannot be had. hence the necessity for individuals of baptism (without which there is no regeneration), of penance (without which there is no reconciliation), of the eucharist's effect (without which there is no incorporation with christ), and for the church the necessity of orders (without which there are no ministers and dispensers of grace, prov., xi, ). (b) those sacraments have no necessity of means without which sanctifying grace and salvation can be had; but they have a necessity of convenience, inasmuch as they perfect grace already had and make salvation more easy. in this sense, then, confirmation and extreme unction may be called necessary for the individual, since the former perfects the grace of baptism and the latter the grace of penance; and matrimony may be called necessary for the church, since it perfects with a sacramental grace the propagation of the children of the church. . reception of sacraments _in re_ or _in voto_.--the sacraments that have a necessity of means must be received either in themselves (_in re_) or in desire (_in voto_). (a) thus, baptism _in re_ is necessary for all infants (john, iii. ), baptism _in re_ or _in voto_ for all adults (john, xiv. - ). baptism of desire consists in an act of perfect charity or contrition made by an unbaptized person, which includes the will to do all that god has commanded, and consequently at least an implicit or virtual desire of baptism of water. as is proved in dogmatic theology, baptism may be supplied for, as regards grace, by martyrdom in an infant and by martyrdom joined with attrition in an adult. (b) penance _in re_ or _in voto_ is necessary for all who have committed grave sin after baptism. the desire of the sacrament is an act of perfect charity or contrition, which includes at least implicitly the wish to receive absolution. martyrdom joined with attrition also suffices. (c) the sacrament of the eucharist is not a necessary means for anyone, either _in re_ or _in voto_; for the essential grace of justification can be obtained through baptism and penance. but the proper result (_res_) of the eucharist, which consists in incorporation with christ, perseverance, and life eternal, is a necessary means _in voto_, tacitly or interpretatively; for baptism, as was said, is absolutely necessary for salvation, and baptism itself is a tacit or interpretative desire of the result of the eucharist, inasmuch as baptism is but a means to that result and the beginning of its accomplishment. . what sacraments have a necessity of precept?--an act is said to fall under precept _per se_, when it is directly commanded in a law that mentions it specifically; it is said to fall under precept _per accidens_, when it becomes obligatory in virtue of a law that does not command it directly or specifically (cfr. , , ). (a) there is a divine precept obliging _per se_ and _sub gravi_ in reference to baptism ("preach the gospel to all nations, baptizing them, etc.," matt., xxviii. ), penance ("whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them, etc.", john, xx. ), and the eucharist ("unless you eat the flesh of the son of man, you shall not have life in you," john, vi. ). according to some authorities there is also a divine precept obliging at least _sub levi_ to receive confirmation ("he commanded them to await the promise of the father," acts, i. ) and extreme unction ("is there any man sick among you? let him bring in the priests of the church," james, v. ). (b) there is a divine precept obliging _per accidens_ and _sub gravi_ in reference to confirmation and extreme unction, when they cannot be omitted without peril to salvation, scandal to neighbors, or other such inconvenience which one is seriously bound to prevent. similarly, there might be a _per accidens_ obligation of receiving matrimony or orders (see ). (c) there are ecclesiastical precepts determining the circumstances of the reception of penance and the eucharist (see - ) and prescribing confirmation for candidates to orders (canon ). moreover, the code reminds us that no one may lawfully neglect confirmation when he has an opportunity to receive it (canon ), and likewise that it is not lawful to neglect extreme unction (canon ). . twofold ministry of the sacraments.--(a) the ministry of production (_confectio_) is the application of form to matter that makes the sacrament (e.g., the consecration of bread and wine); (b) the ministry of bestowal (_administratio_) is the application of the sacrament to the human recipient (e.g., the communion). the eucharist is a permanent object, whereas baptism and the rest are transitory actions. hence it is that in the eucharist, but not in the other sacraments, the two ministries are separated, and hence it is also that the eucharist may be validly given or validly received by those who cannot validly consecrate. . requirements in the minister for valid performance of a sacrament.--(a) the person of the minister.--as the minister represents christ, only those may perform a sacrament to whom christ has given authority. hence, ordinarily only mortals and human beings--not the angels or departed saints--can administer a sacrament. further, as the ministry of a sacrament may include an act of power and authority, there are various ranks of ministers. thus, the ministry of matrimony supposes no power or orders or spiritual authority, and the ministers are the parties themselves; that of solemn baptism, eucharist, penance, and extreme unction supposes orders and lower authority, and the minister is the priest; that of confirmation and orders supposes higher authority, and the minister is the bishop. (b) the acts of the minister.--as the minister acts as christ's responsible agent to whose wise discretion the dispensation of the sacraments is committed, he must have at least the external attention of mind sufficient to perform all that the rite demands and the internal intention of will sufficient to make his ministry an act that is human, sacred, and definitely symbolical of the sacramental effects. . the necessary intention.--the intention or purpose of the minister therefore must have the following qualities: (a) objectively, there must be an intention of doing what the church does (i.e., of performing a sacred rite instituted by christ, for the minister acts in the name and authority of christ). hence a mock sacrament--or even, more probably, a purely external performance with no purpose to enact a sacred rite--does not suffice. but, on the other hand, an unbeliever can administer validly if he really intends to do what christians do or what christ commanded to be done. the intention not to do what the church does was the chief cause of the nullity of anglican orders; (b) subjectively, the intention must be at least virtual, so as to ensure a deliberate act. an actual intention is not necessary, because it is often impossible on account of its difficulty; while an habitual intention is not sufficient, because it does not influence the act so as to make it human (see ). the interpretative intention (i.e., a purpose that never existed, but that would presumably have existed, had attention been given the matter) is with greater reason insufficient; (c) modally, the intention must be such as to make precise the character of the action as a special sacred rite; for just as the matter awaits the form or word to receive the imprint of a sacred significance, so do the ceremonial words themselves look to the internal purpose of the minister for their fixed meaning. hence, the sacrament is invalid if the minister's purpose is indeterminate (e.g., if a priest wills to consecrate ten undesignated hosts out of the hundred contained in a ciborium, or to absolve one undesignated person of a multitude); or if the purpose is self-exclusive (e.g., if a bridegroom has two mutually incompatible intentions, namely, to marry the bride and also to marry her only for a time); or if the purpose is left in suspense (e.g., if a priest makes his absolution depend on future restitution or any other non-existent condition, and most probably also if the minister makes the sacrament depend on the recipient's predestination or other such condition known only to god). . rules on plurality of intentions.--(a) when opposite intentions are simultaneous, if one of them is predominant in the minister's will and not insociable with the sacrament, that one prevails and the sacrament is valid; otherwise the sacrament is null. (b) when opposite intentions are successive, the later prevails over the earlier, unless the earlier was stronger and meant to endure in spite of other intentions, and it has not been recalled expressly by the will. . requisites for use of conditional intention.--(a) the use must be valid or non-suspensive ( e), and hence (matrimony excepted on account of its special character as a contract) the minister may not confer a sacrament under a condition _de futuro_. but conditions _de præsenti_ (e.g., "i absolve you, if you are repentant") or _de præterito_ (e.g., "i baptize you, if you have not received baptism") are valid. (b) the use of a conditional intention must be lawful, or justified by a sufficient reason. normally the minister should intend absolutely to give a sacrament, as the forms of the sacraments are unconditional. but if the absolute intention would be disrespectful, because there is doubt whether all the requisites for the sacrament are present, while on the other hand denial of the sacrament would be harmful because the subject needs it, both disrespect to the sacrament and harm to the subject are avoided by conditional administration. the doubt spoken of may refer to the recipient (e.g., whether he is living or otherwise capable, whether he is contrite or otherwise disposed) or to the sacrament (e.g., whether it has been received or received validly, whether the form has been rightly spoken, whether the present matter is valid). (c) the use of the conditional intention must be legal according to the rules prescribed by the church. thus, according to the ritual the conditional intention in baptism and extreme unction ("_si non es baptizatus_," "_si vivis_") must be expressed vocally. moreover, conditional marriages are not permitted as a rule except there be a grave reason and the bishop consents. . lawful administration of sacraments.--lawful administration of a sacrament demands, in addition to the conditions for validity ( - ), that the minister and his ministry be worthy, for even in the old law it was strictly commanded that holy things be treated in a holy manner (isa., lii. ; lev., xxi. xxii). hence, a person who fulfilled the conditions for validity but who lacked one or other of the qualities mentioned below would perform and confer a true sacrament, but he would sin more or less seriously on account of the unworthy administration, unless good faith excused him. (a) the minister's worthiness before god.--the state of grace is required in consecrated ministers when they minister solemnly and _ex officio_ in performing a sacrament; for they act then as representatives of christ, who is holy, and exercise most sacred functions which he appointed as means of holiness and which they were ordained to perform holily. the sin of unworthiness is a grave sacrilege. it seems there is _per se_ no grave sin, if the minister is not consecrated (e.g., in lay baptism), or if the ministry is not _ex officio_ (e.g., in a baptism of necessity given by a priest but without the solemn ceremonies), or if a sacrament is not made or performed (e.g., when confession is heard but absolution not given, when communion is administered, when the blessed sacrament is carried). it is generally admitted that there is no grave sin even in a solemn and official performance of a sacrament, if the sacrament is urgently necessary and the state of grace cannot be recovered in time; also in the exercise of a function which is not itself a sacrament (e.g., to be official witness at a marriage or deacon at mass, to preach, bless, give minor orders, chant or say the office). when the state of grace is necessary for his ministry, one who is in sin must to the best of his ability recover that state by going to confession or at least by making an act of contrition. (b) the minister's worthiness before the church.--since the church is the custodian of the sacraments, these cannot be lawfully performed or administered by those who are under her censure or who have not received her license. the excommunicated and the irregular sin gravely if they administer sacraments, unless the faithful lawfully request administration from them (see ). only priests are licensed to act as ministers of baptism, penance, extreme unction and the eucharist, and the pastor of a place is the authorized minister for that territory; but in case of need even the laity may administer baptism, a priest other than the pastor may give the last sacraments, and the sick may confess to any confessor with due faculties. (c) worthiness of the ministration.--internally the ministry should be devout and attentive; for, if private worship should be religiously made, much more the worship contained in the sacraments (see , ). voluntary distractions, however, do not seem to be gravely sinful, unless the validity of the rite is imperilled by them. externally the ministry should be dignified and rubrical. canon requires that each one observe the accidental ceremonies of his own rite and liturgical books. since ceremonies were instituted by the church from the earliest ages and are prescribed in virtue of religion (catechism of the council of trent, page ), it is sinful to neglect them unless a rubric is merely directive or optional, such as the rules before and after mass. the preceptive rubrics oblige _sub gravi_ as to notable matter (e.g., the anointing in baptism), _sub levi_ as to inconsiderable matter (e.g., words, bows, crosses, etc. of minor importance); but one may be excused from guilt, or grave guilt, on account of imperfection of act (e.g., inadvertence caused by external distractions) or impossibility (e.g., ceremonies curtailed because of approaching death, scandal or wonder of the people). the roman ritual (title i, n. ) advises the explanation of the ceremonies for the benefit of those who assist at the administration of the sacraments, and recommends the catechism of the council of trent for this purpose. . multiplication of sins of unworthy administration.--how many sins are committed by the minister when sacraments are unworthily administered to many recipients at one time, as when several children are baptized together, or a large gathering of penitents are heard one after the other, etc.? (a) according to the strict view, there are as many distinct sins as there are distinct administrations, for each sacrament is separate from the other. but in case of communion, since the separate communions are parts of the one eucharistic banquet, there is but one sin, mortal or venial, according to the view taken of an administration that is not also performance of a sacrament. (b) according to the mild view, there is but one sin, since sins are not multiplied numerically when they form morally but one act on account of the unity given them by the purpose of the agent and the circumstances. . requirements for a valid sacrament in reference to the recipient.--(a) the person of the recipient.--since the sacraments were instituted as means of salvation, they can be given only to those who are still wayfarers in the present mortal existence, and hence a sacrament administered to a brute animal or a corpse would be invalid, or, in the case of communion, would not be received sacramentally. as baptism is the preparation for the other sacraments, but need not presuppose personal sinfulness, its subject is any and every unbaptized person, infant or adult, male or female. the other six sacraments presuppose baptism, and only those who have been initiated into the church by baptism can receive them validly. as to these six sacraments only males are capable of orders, which is for the rulers of the church; only adults are capable of penance, extreme unction and matrimony, which suppose personal sin or personal contract. further, the impotent and impeded are incapable of matrimony, and those who are not in danger of death from sickness are incapable of extreme unction. finally, those who have been baptized, confirmed, or ordained, cannot be rebaptized, reconfirmed, or reordained, since these three sacraments can be given but once; he who is married cannot marry again while his wife lives and the bond endures; he who has been anointed cannot be reanointed during the same danger. (b) the acts of the recipient.--if the recipient is an infant, no disposition on his part is necessary, since he does not understand. if the recipient is an adult, it is necessary in the performance of every sacrament (on the eucharist see ) that he have some intention or willingness to receive the sacrament, since christ does not wish to confer benefits or impose certain grave burdens on those who are unwilling. a forced sacrament to which the subject yielded no internal consent would be a null sacrament. further, since an essential part (namely, the matter, or according to others a _conditio sine qua non_) of penance is the faith and repentance of the recipient, these dispositions are necessary in that sacrament. . qualities of the recipient's intention.--(a) objectively, the recipient should intend to receive what the church confers, and hence intentions that are not serious, or are mistaken or external (e.g., baptism received for the sake of rehearsal, or in the belief that it is a profane ablution, or accepted as a pure formality), do not seem sufficient (see ). (b) subjectively.--the recipient must positively will the sacrament, for it seems that the so-called neutral intention--in which the subject neither consents nor dissents internally, but is passive and indifferent, and acquiesces externally only to please another--is not a true desire. but the strength or influence of the recipient's intention need not be so great as the minister's, since the role of the minister is to perform the rite, that of the subject only to receive the rite (see ). . when a virtual intention is necessary.--it is generally agreed, therefore, that while the interpretative intention does not suffice, the actual intention and even, for the most part, the virtual intention are not necessary. but about the virtual intention the following should be noted; (a) a virtual and explicit intention is necessary in matrimony if a party be considered, not precisely as recipient, but as minister of the sacrament (see ) and as maker of the contract (see ); (b) a virtual and at least implicit intention is necessary in penance, if a penitent is considered precisely as positing the requisite matter or condition of the sacrament, since this consists in repentance, and repentance includes either an express or an implied desire of sacramental absolution. . when an habitual intention suffices.--the habitual intention is found in those who are not conscious (see ), but it suffices for the reception of a sacrament, since the recipient does not affect the sacrament, and it is enough that he had the good will to accept it and has not retracted that will. (a) an habitual and explicit intention suffices for the three sacraments that impose special obligations, namely, baptism, orders, and matrimony. hence, he who has asked for baptism is validly baptized after he becomes delirious; he who has asked for orders is validly ordained even when unconscious; he who has sent his consent to a marriage by proxy receives the sacrament during his sleep, if the other party's consent closing the contract is given at that time. (b) an habitual and implicit intention included in a particular will to do a good act on which the sacrament follows in natural course, suffices for the other three sacraments which do not impose special obligations. hence, a person who purposed to live as a catholic is validly confirmed while unconscious; a person who intended to die as a catholic is validly absolved and anointed, as far as intention is concerned, at the moment of death, even though he be out of his mind. further, if an unbaptized person has resolved to become a catholic but has no knowledge of baptism itself, he is validly baptized in virtue of his implicit desire, even though he be unconscious. (c) an habitual and implicit intention included in a general will to do all that is necessary for salvation or a good life is taught by some authors, and is by them considered sufficient for baptism, since it is the most necessary sacrament, and the sacraments are for men. an unbaptized person of good will who has supernatural contrition or charity is justified through baptism of desire, but if he has only supernatural attrition the sacrament itself is necessary for him. hence, in case of urgent need conditional baptism should be given a dying and unconscious infidel who was well disposed; but, as the intention is not certain, the baptism should be repeated in case of recovery. the same principle is extended by some moralists to the administration of penance and extreme unction to schismatics and heretics who are in danger of death. . requirements for lawful or fruitful reception of a sacrament by an adult.--(a) worthiness of the recipient from divine law.--the two sacraments of the dead, baptism and penance, were intended by christ to be means of forgiveness to the repentant, and hence they require at least that the recipient believe himself attrite. the five sacraments of the living were meant by christ to strengthen grace and life already had, and consequently he who approaches them must have no serious fault on his conscience. conscious unworthiness is a sacrilege, and only extreme necessity can excuse reception in such a state (e.g., when a sinner takes communion to save the host from profanation). (b) worthiness from church law.--the recipient must be free from church censures (canon ) or impediments, and must possess the preparation or qualification which the church law prescribes (e.g., a certain age is required for confirmation; the eucharist must be received fasting; the candidate for orders must be approved, etc.). (c) worthiness of reception.--the sacraments should be received devoutly, with proper preparation, attention, and thanksgiving. in the case of the eucharist, though intention is not necessary for validity, it is required for a sacramental or fruitful communion; an habitual and implicit intention suffices for the viaticum (and easter communion), an habitual explicit intention for communion of devotion. . when is the minister of the sacraments bound to give them?--(a) a pastor is obliged to give a sacrament to one of his own subjects who reasonably requests it, and to do so willingly, freely (canon ), and, if he has no substitute, in person; for a spiritual shepherd has a grave duty of justice and charity to feed his flock. a request is not reasonable, however, if compliance will put the pastor to an inconvenience greater than that which the parishioner will suffer from a refusal, for example, when baptisms, confessions, or communions are needlessly asked for outside the appointed hours, or when sick calls that can be attended during the day are sent in at night. the sacraments necessary for salvation (baptism and penance) should be given even at the risk of life, if the subject is in grave need and there is assured hope of success (see ), and doubtless this should be applied also to extreme unction or even the viaticum. (b) one who is not a pastor is obliged from charity to give the sacraments to those who reasonably ask. he would be obliged even to risk his life to save a soul, if there were no one else to administer a necessary sacrament to a person in extreme spiritual peril who could be saved by his ministry. . when is the minister of the sacraments bound to deny them?--(a) he must always deny them to those who are incapable, for otherwise he insults the sacrament. under no circumstances, then, may a priest baptize one who is already baptized, or absolve one who is unrepentant; and he may not assist at the attempted marriage of a divorcee. likewise, as is manifest, he must always deny the sacraments to those who ask for them out of hatred or contempt for religion, for to grant them in such circumstances would be an act intrinsically evil. (b) he must deny them, as a rule, to those who to his knowledge are certainly unworthy (e.g., on account of lack of requisite instruction or moral disposition); otherwise, he casts pearls before swine, coöperates in the sacrilege of others, and scandalizes the people. hence, a public sinner--that is, one whose unworthiness is notorious (see )--should not be given the sacraments publicly, until he has repaired the scandal he gave; and no unworthy person, even though he be a hidden sinner whose guilt is known only to the minister, should be given a sacrament in private until he has shown signs of repentance. generally the minister is bound to assure himself beforehand of the good disposition of the one who asks for a sacrament, though in case of communion this is often impossible, and it suffices to presume that all who approach the altar becomingly are in the state of grace. . administration to unworthy persons.--since material coöperation with sin is lawful for a sufficient reason (see sqq.), one may administer a sacrament to an unworthy person when refusal would cause a greater evil than ministration. this happens in the following cases: (a) when refusal will necessitate a more wicked sacrilege (viz., injury to a sacrament by the minister himself). this case occurs when the minister knows the subject's unworthiness only from the latter's sacramental confession, and hence cannot exclude him without violation of the seal; (b) when the refusal will bring on more widespread evils (viz., discouragement of the use of the sacraments). this happens when the subject who asks the sacrament is not publicly known as a sinner, but his request is public, so that a refusal will amount to a defamation of him by the minister. if priests had the right to inflict public disgrace on those who approached the sacraments, it is easily seen what grave scandals and disorders would follow, and that a ready excuse would present itself for personal spite and neglect of religion. our lord administered communion to judas rather than betray his secret guilt to the other apostles. . is the fear of bodily harm or of death a sufficient reason for administering a sacrament to an unworthy person? (a) if a greater evil will be caused by bestowal of the sacrament, it should not be bestowed. this happens when the sacrament is asked out of hatred or contempt of religion, and when great scandal will result if the priest yields. (b) if a greater evil will be caused by refusal of the sacrament, it should not be refused. examples are those of the previous paragraph. the mere private good of the minister is not preferable to the good of the sacrament. . simulation and dissimulation of a sacrament?--is it lawful in case of difficulty to give a sacrament only in appearance? (a) if this means simulation of a sacrament, or the use of its externals in such a way as to make it null (i.e., by withholding internal intention or using invalid matter or form), the answer is in the negative; for simulation is always an acted lie (see , ), and when applied to sacraments it produces a sacrilegious mutilation and also, in the case of the eucharist (e.g., when an unconsecrated host is given to a communicant), an occasion of idolatry. (b) if this means dissimulation of a sacrament, or the use of some nonsacramental act to conceal the denial of a sacrament, the answer is in the affirmative, for it is lawful to keep from others knowledge to which they have no right. thus, a priest who wishes to conceal from onlookers that he has refused absolution to a penitent, can lawfully say a prayer and make a sign of the cross over this person. . administration of penance and extreme unction to heretics and schismatics.--(a) regularly this is unlawful, even though these persons are in good faith and ask for the sacraments. they must first renounce their errors and become reconciled with the church (canon ). (b) exceptionally, according to some moralists, this is lawful when there is extreme need. hence, according to this view a priest may secretly give conditional absolution to an unconscious heretic or schismatic in danger of death who has given signs of repentance; he may absolve and anoint a dying heretic or schismatic, even though conscious, if this person appears to be in good faith and repentant and willing to do all that god requires of him. but the priest should first try to convert the dying person, if this is possible and the latter's good faith will not be disturbed; and he must also avoid giving scandal. . repetition of a sacrament on account of invalid administration.--(a) this is unlawful when the fear of invalidity is groundless and foolish; for it is seriously disrespectful to a sacrament and disedifying to others to repeat the rite without reason. but scrupulous persons are sometimes free of grave sin, since they mean well in repeating and are not accountable for their fears. (b) this is lawful but not obligatory when there is a prudent misgiving about a useful sacrament (confirmation, matrimony, anointing of one who is conscious); also when there is a slight reason of law or fact for fear about a necessary or more important sacrament (baptism, orders, absolution of a dying person, anointing of an unconscious person, consecration of the eucharist). for the sacraments are for men. but if only a small loss or an unlikely loss will be caused by their non-repetition, the duty of repeating them cannot be insisted on. (c) this is gravely obligatory when there is a prudent fear about a necessary or more important sacrament; it is gravely or lightly obligatory (to be determined in each case) when there is a well-founded fear about a useful sacrament, if charity, justice or religion calls for repetition and the inconvenience will not be too great. in matrimony the alternate methods of convalidation or sanation may be used as the case demands. again, the sacraments are for men, and hence, if man will likely be subjected to a notable loss by the minister's neglect of repetition, the duty of repetition is clear. . reception of a sacrament from an unworthy minister.--may a sacrament be received from a minister who, to one's certain knowledge, cannot give it without sin on account of unworthiness (such as a state of sin or censure)? (a) _per se_, this is unlawful, for it is coöperation with sacrilege and is often attended by scandal and danger of perversion to self. (b) _per accidens_, this is lawful, for material coöperation is justified when a proportionately grave reason exists ( sqq.). moreover, often the minister can put himself in the state of grace before he gives the sacrament, or can be excused from sacrilege on account of the necessity. the less the irreverence or danger of scandal, the less need be the reason for asking or taking a sacrament from an unworthy person. if the minister is a sinner or is under ordinary suspension or other censure, a serious reason of spiritual advantage suffices (e.g., the opportunity to make the easter duty); if the minister is under sentence (canon n. ), only danger of death suffices; if the minister is a heretic or schismatic, only extreme need suffices, and the danger of scandal and perversion must be avoided. . sacramentals.--the sacramentals are the sacred things (e.g., rosaries, scapulars, agnus deis) and actions (e.g., consecrations, blessings, exorcisms) used by the church in imitation of the sacraments to obtain through her intercession blessings chiefly of a spiritual sort (canon ). (a) necessity.--our lord gave to the church the power of instituting sacramentals, and certain of those used by the church are but developments of the blessings and exorcisms that he used. some of the sacramentals are commanded by the church (viz, those that are used in the administration of the sacraments or in other sacred services); others are recommended, but not commanded. (b) use.--the virtue of religion requires that the sacramentals be administered, received and treated with devotion and respect, the extremes of irreligion and superstition being avoided (see ). the laws of the church on the ministers, recipients, and rites of the sacramentals are treated in works on canon law and liturgy. art. : baptism; confirmation; the eucharist; the sacrifice of the mass (_summa theologica_, iii, qq. - .) . the general duties of the ministers and recipients of the sacraments have been outlined in the previous article. the principles therein given are the basis of the special duties that pertain to each of the seven sacraments. in this and the remaining articles, therefore, it will suffice to apply without explaining anew the rules already given and to add the special details proper to each sacrament. . the sacrament of baptism.--the first and most essential sacrament is baptism (greek, washing), which may be defined: "the sacrament of regeneration by water in the word" (catechism of the council of trent, page ). the internal grace of the sacrament is expressed by regeneration, the external sign by water and the word. (a) the effect of baptism is regeneration, for it cleanses from sin and penalty, and makes him who was a child of wrath to be a child of god and a co-heir of christ. baptism also christens, since it seals one with the indelible character of christian, or member of the church. as all are under the original curse by birth from adam, so all who would inherit blessing are in need of this new birth through christ (see ): "unless a man be born again of water and the holy ghost, he cannot enter into the kingdom of god" (john, iii. ). (b) the material element (remote matter) of baptism is water, that is, any and every form of liquid which in common estimation is pure and unchanged water (e.g., water taken from the ocean, from streams, fountains, or wells; water melted from snow, ice or hail; water gathered from steam, dew, or mist; chemical and mineral water). but animal and plant fluids, though they contain water, are looked upon as distinct substances, and hence baptism cannot be administered with milk, blood, spittle, sweat, oil, flower or fruit juices (e.g., wine, cider), or extracts of barks or roots. doubtful matter are liquids that, while in large part composed of water, seem to be generally regarded as not water (e.g., thin soup, tea or coffee, light beer); and hence only in necessity can these be lawfully used for baptism. (c) the formal element of baptism is the word or the formula appointed by christ. in the latin church the words are: "i baptize thee in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost," almost every word in this form is necessary for the sense given by christ, and hence almost any omission makes it necessary, or at least lawful, to repeat baptism (see , ). the declaration of the form demands that the application of the water (proximate matter) be made in the manner of an ablution (i.e., by sprinkling, pouring or immersion). if sprinkling or pouring is used, the body of the recipient (i.e., the skin of his head) must be washed (i.e., the water must touch the head and flow thereon) by the baptizer (i.e., the person who pronounces the words must pour or sprinkle the water). but in case of necessity one may use the opinion that baptism is valid when the water touches only the hair or some part distinct from the head, or even the afterbirth of a fetus. . solemn and private baptism.--though in essentials baptism is but one, it is distinguished in reference to accidental ceremony into solemn and private. (a) solemn baptism is that which is administered with all the rites prescribed by the liturgy. it requires consecrated water, sponsors and special ceremonies; its minister is a clergyman (ordinarily the parish-priest or ordinary, extraordinarily a delegated deacon); its place is the baptistery or church. in the baptism of adults even greater solemnity may be used, for there is a special rite of administration, and the church recommends that this baptism be performed when possible by the ordinary, or at least in cathedral churches, and on the vigil of easter or pentecost. (b) private baptism is given in danger of death, or when an adult convert is rebaptized conditionally (canon ). it requires only true and natural water, though the water should be as clean and decent as possible, and baptismal or blessed water is preferable; generally the simple form without other rite suffices; sponsors are not necessary, unless they can be had without difficulty, but if possible at least one or two witnesses should be present; the baptism may be given in the private home or the hospital or other place where the candidate is staying; anyone who has the use of reason and is able to perform the rite may act as minister. when several persons suitable to minister private baptism are present, the order of preference to be followed is: priest, deacon, subdeacon, cleric, layman, woman; but a woman should be preferred to a man if modesty calls for this, or if the woman is better acquainted with the manner of baptizing. it is considered a serious sin needlessly to prefer a non-priest to a worthy priest, a non-catholic to a catholic, an outsider to the parish-priest. if possible, parents should not baptize their own children, since it is more becoming that the spiritual parent and the carnal parent be different persons. . duties of parish-priests as to baptism.--(a) before baptism.--baptismal water should be blessed, added to or renewed, as the ritual regulations of one's place require; the faithful should be frequently admonished in sermons of the serious duty of having their infants baptized as soon as possible (canon ); the people should also be told (especially midwives, physicians and surgeons) how lay baptism is to be given validly (canon ). (b) at the time of baptism.--converts preparing for baptism should be well instructed in the principal religious truths (viz, those contained in the creed), and precepts (viz., the laws of the decalogue and of the church, see sqq.), and prayers (viz, the our father, the acts of faith, hope, charity, and contrition); and they should learn the nature and effects of baptism. the parish-priest may delegate a deacon to baptize solemnly in his place, if there is a sufficient reason, as when he himself is impeded by sickness, absence, or occupation (canon ). (c) after baptism.--the pastor in virtue of his office has the responsibility of attending to the registration of baptisms in the proper book (canon ). the registration should be made without delay--that is, before the sponsors have departed, or immediately after the ceremony, or at least on the same day, if possible; the entry should be made accurately and legibly. the duty of keeping proper baptismal records is considered grave, since important evils would follow on their neglect. . duties of parents and guardians in reference to baptism.--(a) as to administration of baptism.--parents are obliged under grave sin not to expose their children to the loss of salvation by undue delay of baptism (see , ). if there is danger of death, a child must be baptized at once; if there is no immediate danger of death, the child must nevertheless, on account of the absolute necessity of baptism, be baptized as soon as possible. some moralists consider a needless delay gravely sinful if it exceeds three or four days; others, if it exceeds ten or eleven days. since infants can be baptized in the womb, a mother is not obliged to undergo the caesarean operation to ensure baptism; but she may permit the operation for the sake of a more certain baptism, unless her obligations to husband or other children will suffer on account of the danger to her life. if a mother dies in pregnancy, the fetus should be extracted and baptized. the duty here rests with the relatives and the physician (canon ). (b) as to details of baptism.--parents should choose suitable names for their children, avoiding such as are obscene, ridiculous, or impious. it is advisable that the name of a saint or of of some other person distinguished for holiness be chosen, for this will be of a spiritual advantage to the child and an edification to others. parents have the right to appoint the sponsors of their infant children, and should choose only those who are canonically admissible. if baptism has been administered at home, the parents should, if the child survives, bring it as soon as possible to the church for conditional baptism, or for the baptismal ceremonies (canons , ). . sponsors.--from early times the church has required in baptism the use of sponsors, and the reasons for this usage will appear from the duties of these god-parents. the present law (canons sqq.) retains the ancient tradition, and prescribes as a serious duty that in solemn baptism (even of adults, whenever possible) there shall be at least one sponsor (male or female), and that not more than two be used, one a male and the other a female. (a) requirements for validity--since the sponsor takes obligations, he must have the use of reason and give consent to the office; since he is charged with the duty of spiritual guidance, he must be baptized and not be a member of a heretical or schismatic sect; since he exercises an office of honor, he must not be under the displeasure of the church by sentence of excommunication or the like; since he is to act as spiritual father, he must not be the parent or spouse of the baptized; since he is to stand for the baptized person, he must be designated by the latter or his parents or by the minister. the sponsor must also indicate (in person or by proxy) his acceptance of the care of the baptized person by physically touching him at the moment of baptism (either by holding the infant over the font, or by placing a hand on the candidate), or immediately after the baptism (by raising from the waters or receiving from the hands of the minister the one who has been immersed, or by taking from the font one who has been baptized by pouring). non-catholics, therefore, may not be sponsors, but to avoid great offense or other serious evil they may sometimes be admitted as witnesses or honorary sponsors (see sqq.). (b) requirements for lawfulness.--the sponsor should have reached his fourteenth year (unless the minister sees fit for a just cause to admit a younger person), and should know the rudiments of faith; he must be a person of respectability among catholics, and hence one who is notorious on account of certain penalties or on account of crime or of membership in the freemasons is not acceptable; he must be free to act as sponsor, and hence religious and clerics in major orders must have permission of the superior qualified in each instance to grant this permission. . duties of sponsors.--(a) they are obliged to look upon their spiritual children as their perpetual charges, to see to their christian education and to the fulfillment of the baptismal promises for which they stood surety (canon ). (b) these obligations are grave, since the matter is grave; but, as the care of children falls principally upon the parents, it is only when the parents neglect their duty that the sponsors are held to do what they can for the instruction and correction of their god-children (catechism of council of trent, page ). . duties of adult recipients of baptism or of those who have the use of reason.--(a) before baptism.--an unbaptized person who has faith and who sees the necessity of baptism, is gravely obliged to ask for baptism at once, if he is in danger of death, or as soon as he conveniently can, if he is not in danger of death; for since baptism is the divinely appointed means of entering the church and of sharing in its privileges, he who would delay it unduly would disobey an important command of god and would be seriously neglectful of his own salvation. for a sufficient reason, however (e.g., for the sake of instruction or probation, or to avoid persecution), baptism may be delayed even for years; but the catechumen should then make at once an act of contrition or charity so as to obtain the benefit of baptism of desire. converts should prepare for baptism by taking a course of instructions, or, when there is danger of death, a summary instruction ( sqq.). (b) at baptism.--the internal dispositions include, besides intention, faith and repentance: "he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved" (mark, xvi. ); "do penance and be baptized" (acts, ii. ). there must be an explicit faith in the four chief mysteries (see ). in this country converts who are being baptized conditionally make an abjuration and profession of faith before baptism, and go to confession and receive conditional absolution after baptism. the code recommends that those who are well receive baptism fasting; and that, unless grave reason excuses, the neophyte assist at mass and receive communion after his baptism (canon ). (c) after baptism.--since baptism makes one a member of the church, those who receive it are subject to church laws. the promises made in baptism are not strictly vows, but an engagement of loyalty to the faith and the commandments (see ). . duties of the minister of baptism.--(a) in reference to the parents.--if the parents insist on giving an unsuitable name to their child, the pastor should silently add a suitable name of some saint chosen by himself, and should inscribe both names in the register (canon ). a child of non-catholic parents should not be baptized by catholics, unless this can be done without injury to the natural right of the parents of training their own children and without danger to the future perseverance of the child. hence these children, if infants, should not be baptized against the will of their parents unless they are in danger of death and can be baptized without too great inconvenience; but if a child is able to judge for himself, or if there is no parental opposition (at least not of both parents), and there are good reasons to believe that the child will be brought up as a catholic, he may be baptized (canons , ). (b) in reference to the sponsors.--if a sponsor cannot be admitted, the pastor must use great kindness and prudence, so as not to give offense. if a non-catholic has been appointed as sponsor, the difficulty may sometimes be overcome by naming a sacristan or servant as sponsor and permitting the non-catholic to act as witness. (c) in reference to the capacity of the recipient.--the minister must give the sacrament only to those who are capable. hence, he cannot baptize what is not human (e.g., uterine growths which do not pertain to a fetus), or not living (e.g., a stillborn infant), or not unbaptized (e.g., a convert or an infant about whose valid baptism there is no reasonable doubt). speculatively there is some difficulty about baptism of unborn fetuses, of abortive fetuses, and of monstrosities (e.g., an infant with two heads or two hearts). for, as to the first, it seems that the physically unborn are incapable of spiritual rebirth; as to the second, it seems that the soul of an undeveloped fetus may be sub-human; and, as to the third, it may be doubtful whether a monstrosity is one individual or several individuals. practically, however, one should proceed on the principle that the sacraments are for men, and give the benefit of a doubt to the infants by conditional baptism. intra-uterine baptism should not be used except in case of urgent necessity, and it is then permissible to employ a mixture of one part of chloride of mercury with two parts of water to avoid infection. midwives, nurses, mothers, and physicians should be especially careful to baptize abortive fetuses, and should know how this can be done (see commentaries on canons - ). (d) in reference to the willingness of the recipient.--an infant is not required to will the sacrament, and hence the perpetually insane, who are unable to distinguish between right and wrong, may be baptized without any desire on their part. but an adult must intend to be baptized (see b). hence, the minister must inquire about the wishes of an adult candidate, if an unbaptized person is now out of his mind (insane, afflicted with lethargy or sleeping sickness, delirious), but formerly had the use of reason, he is classed with adults, and his intention has to be considered. he should not be baptized, therefore, until he comes to himself, unless there is danger of death and signs of a desire to receive baptism were given before (canons , ). (e) in reference to the worthiness of the recipient.--the minister should remind the candidate of the duty of attrition. if the person who asks for baptism wishes to retain certain habits (e.g., superstition, concubinage, or unlawful business) which cannot be reconciled with christianity, he cannot be regarded as suited for baptism. but in danger of death good faith should not be uselessly disturbed. (f) in reference to the pastor.--solemn baptism either in or out of one's territory may not be given without permission from the proper pastor who has jurisdiction (canons - ). and a minister who is not the pastor of the baptized person must send notice of the baptism to the pastor, as soon as possible, if the latter was not present (canon ). (g) in reference to himself and the sacrament.--the minister should inform himself, if necessary, about the existence or validity of a previous baptism, and he should observe the ceremonies, essential and accidental, of his rite. foundlings should be baptized conditionally, unless it is certain that they have been already baptized validly (canon ). the internal dispositions of intention and state of grace are necessary, while for baptism of adults fasting is advisable (canon ). . the sacrament of confirmation.--next to baptism, not in necessity or dignity but in likeness and in time, is confirmation; for confirmation completes the work begun in baptism, and it is also frequently received immediately or next after baptism. it may be defined as "the sacrament in which through the anointing with chrism and the prayer of the bishop a baptized person is perfected and strengthened in the grace received and signed indelibly with the character of soldier of jesus christ." (a) the element of the sacrament (remote matter) is chrism, that is, a mixture of olive oil and balsam specially blessed by the bishop and applied (proximate matter) by an anointing and the imposition of hands on the forehead of the recipient. the law of the church requires that the chrism be new (i.e., made at the last previous consecration of oils), and that the anointing be made with the right thumb in the form of a cross. (b) the form of confirmation in the latin church is as follows: "i sign thee with the sign of the cross, and i confirm thee with the chrism of salvation in the name of the father and of the son and of the holy ghost." . the minister of confirmation.--(a) qualifications.--the ordinary minister of this sacrament is only the bishop; but a priest may act as extraordinary minister, either from the common law (viz., cardinals, abbots, etc.), or from special indult (canon ). the bishop may confirm outsiders in his own diocese, unless their own ordinary forbids, and with permission he may confirm outside his diocese (canon ). since january , , by force of the decree of the congregation of the discipline of the sacraments (_spiritus sanctus_) the following were established as extraordinary ministers within the limits of their territories and for subjects in danger of death. ) "pastors having their own territories, therefore excluding personal and family pastors, unless they have also their own territory." under this heading are included secular and religious pastors. it is to be noted that, since national parishes in the united states are assigned a definite territory, pastors of such parishes enjoy the privilege of this decree. pastors of negro and indian parishes, even if they are considered to be personal pastors, may be included, for the jurisdiction is both personal and territorial. military chaplains can not confirm in virtue of this decree. ) "the vicars spoken of in canon , and also parochial administrators (_vicarii oeconomi_)." the first group are canonically innominate and authors adopt various titles for the personages involved. however, the reference is always to the priests placed in actual charge of _cura animarum_ in parishes which have been fully incorporated. the second group mentioned are the _vicarii oeconomi_, priests appointed canonically as administrators of vacant parishes (see canons , n. ; , ). all other vicars lack the power, namely, the diocesan administrator (_vicarius capitularis_), vicar general, _vicarius substitutus_ (priest who takes place of absent pastor), _vicarius adjutor_ (assists a disabled pastor), _vicarius cooperator_ (curate), those who according to canon , n. , take temporary charge of a vacant parish prior to appointment of a true administrator, chaplains of schools, hospitals, and other charitable institutions (by rescript of nov. , , the faculty was extended also to chaplains of maternity hospitals and foundling homes in the united states, and this faculty is renewable), the seminary rector, religious superiors even in exempt communities. ) "priests to whom is entrusted exclusively and permanently within a definite territory, and with a definite church, the complete care of souls together with the rights and duties of pastors." such territorial arrangements are not common in the united states. the reference may be to priests established as quasi-pastors in canon , § (hence pastors in missionary territory and prefectures), episcopal delegates to the territories later to be erected as parishes or to maintain the status of a perpetual vicarage. perhaps the reference is only to special arrangements made by particular diocesan laws. (b) duties.--the ordinary minister of this sacrament should confer it when his subjects reasonably request it, and the ordinary should see that the sacrament is administered to his people, if possible, at least every five years (canon ). it would be unreasonable, however, to expect a bishop to go to every sick or dying person who desires confirmation, as the sacrament is not necessary for salvation and the task would be morally impossible, the sacrament should be performed validly, worthily, and rubrically. when confirmation is given, fasting is of counsel, not of precept. the use of a sponsor in confirmation seems to be a grave obligation, when possible. a recipient can have but one sponsor, and a sponsor can act for only one or two confirmandi, unless it appear to the minister that there is sufficient reason to have a sponsor act for more (canon ). the pastor of the recipient, if he is unaware of the confirmation, should be notified as soon as possible (canon ). (c) various prescriptions, some of them subjects of special study, are attendant upon the grant of power to confirm to pastors and "equivalent pastors." the major ones are summarily stated here. the pastor obtains this power when he acquires the office. it lasts as long as he holds office. the exercise of his power becomes unlawful if he falls under censure; in certain cases it may then even be invalid. theologians disagree as to the precise nature of the power, whether it be of orders, of jurisdiction, of both, an intrinsic or extrinsic modification of orders, etc. the common opinion holds that it is solely a power of orders. hence, canon may not be safely used here, and an ordinary assistant who attempts to confirm would not fall under any irregularity; a pastor, however, might, by misuse of his power, be not only deprived of it, but be placed under an irregularity. use of the power is not dependent on the permission of the local ordinary. it may be necessary to inquire however, whether the bishop wishes to confirm in particular cases. episcopal instructions on this matter must be complied with. (d) subjects of the extraordinary minister. the decree, _spiritus sanctus_, in its second rule lays down a condition for the valid administration of confirmation by the extraordinary minister and determines the proper subject. the new faculty is strictly personal (hence it may not be delegated to others) and strictly territorial (hence the administration must take place within the confines of the minister's district and therein extends even to exempt places). the recipient must be "in real danger of death because of a serious illness from which it is foreseen that he will die." before treating the illness established as a condition for validity, other conditions of the subject must be considered. the decree describes the proper recipient as _fidelis_ in two places. the question has been discussed whether this limits the subjects to catholics and excludes validly baptized protestants. authors are not agreed. perhaps, since the extraordinary minister can act only within the powers given him in the decree, he would have to interpret _fidelis_ as extending solely to catholics. on may , , the congregation for the oriental church issued a grant of powers to the latin extraordinary ministers to confer confirmation under the same conditions to catholics of the oriental rite who live under the jurisdiction of a latin ordinary, who are in the territory of the latin pastor and whose rite has no established parish or mission in the locality. (this grant of power was previously impossible by virtue of canon , § .) in emergency cases there would be no need to await the arrival of the proper pastor. since ruthenian catholics are not under the latin ordinaries in this country, it seems that the decree might not extend to them. the point is disputed, but it would be imprudent to act on the opinion that the ruthenians are included until the question is officially settled. the recipient need not be a permanent resident in the territory by reason of domicile or quasi-domicile; physical presence suffices. the final condition of dangerous sickness is similar to the one in extreme unction; it must arise from an intrinsic cause, not from an extrinsic cause. and includes not only sickness, but also wounds and accident cases. the decree speaks of the subject in "_vero mortis periculo_." some thought that the wording distinguished the sickness from mere "_periculo" mortis_, and hence must be certain, not doubtful or probable. in response to the cardinal of palermo, on march , , the congregation of the sacraments favored the opinion that the norms for "_urgente mortis periculo_" (canons , , ) are applicable. as a rule of thumb, many authors propose: if the sickness permits the administration of extreme unction, it also justifies the giving of confirmation in accordance with the terms of the decree. . the recipient of confirmation.--(a) qualifications.--the subject of this sacrament is only a baptized person, and in adults intention is necessary. the general custom in the latin church is not to confirm before the seventh year, or thereabout, has been attained; but the sacrament may be given even earlier, if an infant is in danger of death, or if there seems to the minister to be a just and grave reason for confirming one under seven years of age (canon ). those who have the use of reason should not be admitted to confirmation without previous instruction on the nature of the sacrament and the requirements for its proper reception. (b) duties.--there is an obligation to receive this sacrament when one has the opportunity (canon ); but apart from scandal, contempt, or danger to salvation the obligation seems light. hence, if a person advanced in years is ashamed to receive confirmation with the children, he should be advised but not reproved; nor should he be denied absolution as if he were certainly guilty of serious fault. the recipient should be in the state of grace, and it is advisable that he go to confession beforehand if he have serious sin on his conscience. though not necessary, it is more suitable that the recipient be fasting. a new name may be taken in confirmation, and it is proper that those whose baptismal name is unsuitable should either have it changed at this time or add the name of a saint. those who are being confirmed should be present for the entire ceremony (canon ). . the sponsors in confirmation.--(a) qualifications.--the requirements for validity are, _mutatis mutandis_, practically the same as for baptismal sponsorship. thus, the sponsor must be designated by the parents or the candidate, or, in default of them, by the pastor or minister; he must not be the parent or spouse of the confirmandus; he must physically touch the confirmandus at the moment of confirmation. further, it is required that the sponsor be already confirmed himself. the requirements for licitness are the same as for baptism, and moreover, as a rule, the sponsor at confirmation should be of the same sex as the recipient and be different from the baptismal sponsor (canons , ). (b) duties.--the godfather at confirmation contracts a lifelong spiritual relationship with his godchild (which does not constitute a matrimonial impediment). the latter should have a special place in his prayers according to the order of charity, and, if necessity arises, should receive his protection and assistance in spiritual matters (canon ). . duties of the pastor in reference to confirmation.--(a) the pastor should instruct his people on the nature and advantages of confirmation and should see to it that they receive the sacrament in due time (canon ). he should also instruct his parishioners about the terms of _spiritus sanctus_. his power as extraordinary minister imposes an obligation _per se_ grave to use it when the cases arise; excusing causes, however, are possible, and neglect in a single case would be only venial. at appointed times each year he should hold a continuous course of instructions over a period of several days in order to prepare the classes of children for the proper reception of confirmation (canon ). (b) the pastor should see that the confirmations of his parishioners are entered in a special book of record, and should also note in the baptismal register the fact of confirmation (canons , , n. ). . the sacrament of the eucharist.--this is the chief sacrament, for, while the other sacraments produce the grace or the grace and the character of christ, this one contains christ himself; and, while the other sacraments are means that prepare man to consecrate or to receive the eucharist or at least symbolize it, the eucharist is the end of them all. the eucharist may be defined as follows: "the body and blood of our lord jesus christ present through the words of consecration under the appearances of bread and wine to be offered to god and to be received by man." thus, we may distinguish various aspects of the eucharist. (a) it is a sacrifice, since the mass is the supreme act of worship and is one with the sacrifice of the cross (see sqq.). (b) it is a permanent sacrament, since unlike the other sacraments it does not consist in the passing application of a sacred sign to a recipient, but in the abiding presence of a thing absolutely sacred contained under sensible forms. (c) it may be considered in its passing phases of beginning, in which it is consecrated by the priest (performance of the sacrament), and termination, in which it is received by the communicant (application, dispensation of the sacrament). . the matter and form of the eucharist.--since the essence of a sacrament is found in the outward sign, it is commonly held that the sacrament of the eucharist consists in the species of bread and wine as signifying the body and blood of the saviour, which is really, truly and substantially contained under them. (a) the matter of the first consecration is that which christ used, namely, bread. the bread must be true bread in the strict and usual scriptural sense of the word. hence, for validity it is necessary that it be made from wheat flour (bread made from beans, peas or other legumes, bread made from non-wheaten cereals such as corn, oats, and probably also rye and barley, is not valid matter); that the flour be mixed with water (bread made from a notable quantity, i.e., about one-third of other liquid, such as milk, oil, wine, is invalid matter); further, that the mixture be sufficiently baked (dough or half-baked cakes are invalid matter). the bread must be entire and not substantially adulterated or changed; hence, bread from which all the gluten has been abstracted, bread to which a notable amount of foreign substance (such as sugar or non-wheaten flour) has been added, bread so old that it has corrupted, cannot be consecrated. accidental qualities do not affect validity, and hence any kind of wheat may be used (hard, soft, red, or white). but the church law strictly requires that a priest observe the tradition of his own church (i.e., among latins the bread must be unleavened and the host round), and that all consecrated matter be new (i.e., not baked more than fourteen days, or, according to others, twenty or forty days), clean, and unbroken. the small particles for the laity should be about one inch in diameter, the large hosts about two or three inches; and all altar breads should be of moderate thickness. (b) the matter of the second consecration is likewise that appointed by christ at the last supper, namely, wine. only wine strictly so called according to scriptural and common usage is valid matter. hence, the eucharistic wine must be made from grapes, and consequently cherry wine, currant wine, peach wine, blackberry wine, cider, wild grape wine, artificial wine, etc., are insufficient; the grapes must be ripe, and verjuice is therefore invalid matter. the wine must also be entire, unadulterated, and uncorrupted; and hence wine from which all the alcohol has been removed, brandy or cognac (i.e., spirits distilled from wine), wine to which a notable quantity of water, tartaric acid, sugar, alcohol or other substance has been added, and wine which has become vinegar, are not fit matter for the sacrament. accidental qualities are of no importance to validity, and hence the wine may be red or white, dry or sweet; it may be made either from ripe or dry grapes (raisin wine); and the church permits the fortification of weak wine by a process of heating that does not prevent fermentation, or by the addition when fermentation has begun to subside of grape or wine alcohol on condition that the final alcoholic strength does not exceed %, or in some cases, if the wine possessed so much, % or %. but the church law strictly requires for licit matter that wine be fermented, though must or new wine is permissible in case of necessity, if it have about % alcohol; that it be neither souring nor frozen, nor mixed with substances added for the sake of aroma, color or sweetness, nor with water poured in before mass. the tradition and law of the church, based on the example of christ, make it a grave obligation that a few drops of water be added to the wine at the altar, but, if the water equals a third part of the wine, the matter becomes of doubtful sufficiency. (c) the form is contained essentially in the words of consecration used by christ at the institution of the eucharist, namely, "_hoc est corpus meum_" over the bread, and "_hic est calix sanguinis mei_" over the wine. but a grave precept of the church requires that all the other principal words of the consecration be pronounced (i.e., the "_novi et aeterni testamenti_, etc.," the "_hæc quotiescumque_, etc.," the "_qui pridie_," the "_simili modo_"). the omission of the particle "_enim_" would be only venially sinful. . the minister of consecration.--(a) qualifications.--every priest and only a priest can consecrate validly, for only to the apostles and their successors in the priesthood were spoken the words of christ: "do this in commemoration of me." but only those priests can consecrate lawfully who have the faculty of celebrating mass (see ). (b) duties as regards valid consecration.--internally, there must be the intention (actual or virtual) of acting in the name of christ, and of effecting what the words of consecration signify; and hence a merely narrative recitation of the form is insufficient. this actual or virtual intention must also determine the individual matter to be consecrated, and hence a host placed on the corporal is not consecrated if the priest neither saw it nor took it up for consecration. small crumbs in the ciborium and small drops of wine on the inner side of the chalice are consecrated, unless excluded by the priest's intention; but drops of wine on the outside of the chalice should be considered unconsecrated, since it is unlawful to consecrate what is not contained in the chalice. externally, bread and wine must be physically present to the priest, that is, so within his reach or range that according to human usage they can be correctly designated by the demonstrative pronoun "this" used in the form. accordingly, they must be near the minister; how near cannot be mathematically defined, and authors variously assign about ten, twenty, thirty, forty and fifty paces as the extreme limit. again, the bread and wine must not be separated from the minister by any dividing partition, such as a wall, or the altar, or perhaps even the closed door of the tabernacle, though a closed container (such as a covered ciborium or chalice) would not put the matter away from the minister's presence. finally, they must not be behind the minister's back, and, even if they are before him but hidden (e.g., hosts under the corporal or chalice), the consecration is doubtful. (c) duties as regards lawful consecration.--internally, there must be the state of grace, which the divine law prescribes, further, one who is conscious of grave sin certainly committed and certainly unconfessed (unless inculpably omitted in confession) must go to confession beforehand, unless there be need to celebrate at once (e.g., because otherwise there will be no parochial mass on a day of precept, or because grave scandal or defamation will result, or a dying person will be deprived of the viaticum) and confession is impossible (i.e., there is no confessor present who has jurisdiction, or who can be resorted to without a serious inconvenience extrinsic to confession, and moreover it is very difficult on account of distance, health, weather, or other like reasons to go elsewhere to confession). under these circumstances, he may make an act of perfect contrition and then proceed to celebrate. but one who has consecrated without confession because of such necessity must go to confession as soon as possible--i.e., within three days, or, if circumstances so require, earlier than that (e.g., if a confessor can be had the same day, but not again for a week) or later (e.g., if a confessor cannot be had for a week). these rules about confession are of grave obligation, from church law at least (canon ). on account of disrespect, it seems that grave sin is committed when the celebrant is voluntarily and advertently distracted during consecration, but he should not repeat the form unless it is certain or very probable that something essential has been omitted. externally, consecration must be made only during mass, both species must be consecrated, a larger quantity must not be consecrated than can be conveniently used, the matter at the moment of consecration must rest on the corporal and above the stone of the altar, and a ciborium must be uncovered while its bread is being consecrated. . inadvertent neglect of grave liturgical precept.--is the consecration valid when the minister inadvertently neglects some grave liturgical precept as to the matter or manner of consecration? (a) some authors reply in the negative, because they feel that no priest has the will to consecrate in a way forbidden by the church under pain of grave sin. according to this opinion, then, if accidentally no water were placed in the chalice, or if the chalice were unconsecrated, or if the ciborium were left off the corporal, the consecration would be invalid. (b) other authors distinguish as follows: if the celebrant intended not to consecrate with a material breach of grave liturgical prescription, the consecration would be null; if the celebrant had only the intention to consecrate all valid matter before him, the consecration would be valid. this latter intention, it seems, should be formed by all priests once for all, since it ensures the validity of their consecrations and is not sinful, as it does not aim to violate the rubrics, but only to provide for exceptional cases when a rubric is unintentionally violated. . the minister of communion.--(a) qualifications.--the ordinary minister of communion is a priest, the extraordinary minister a deacon. pastors and other priests to whose custody the blessed sacrament is entrusted have the right to give communion, and others also who have express or presumed permission. the celebrant of mass may give communion during his mass, and, if mass is private, just before and just after it. a sick priest who is unable to say mass may communicate himself, at least when there is no other minister at hand; and even a layman may, in the absence of a major cleric, give himself the viaticum, or consume the host to save it from profanation (canons - ). (b) duties.--internally, the minister is bound _sub levi_ to be in the state of grace, and _sub gravi_ to be free from censures (such as suspension) which forbid him the exercise of the ministry. externally, he must observe the church laws on the manner, time and place for distribution of the sacrament (canons , , - ), and also the liturgical rules for communion during and outside of mass, for communion of the sick and the dying, and for the avoidance of defects in giving communion (rituale rom., tit. iv; missale rom., de defectibus missae). . the recipient of the eucharist.--(a) those who may receive communion.--according to divine law, every living person who has received baptism of water is capable of receiving the eucharist, infants and the insane not excluded. ecclesiastical law requires other conditions, which are justified by considerations of respect for the blessed sacrament or other good reason. communion may not be given, first, to those who have not the use of reason (i.e., to infants and the perpetually insane), nor to those who are unable to understand the essential truths of religion and morality (i.e., to those who have always been deaf and dumb or blind, and who are uninstructed); for, on the one hand, the sacrament is not necessary for these persons, and, on the other hand, there is great danger of irreverence if it be given them. secondly, communion may not be given to those who cannot receive without grave peril of unbecoming treatment of the sacrament, as in the case of those who cough or vomit continually or frequently, or of those who are delirious, or unconscious, or insane, but if the danger is certainly slight (e.g., if the person can swallow an unconsecrated host without spitting it out), communion may be given, at least the viaticum or easter communion. next those persons are denied communion who cannot receive without scandal (e.g., those who are infamous, such as prostitutes or defamers, persons intoxicated or insufficiently dressed). finally, no one may receive communion who has already received it that day, lest the sacrament become common and be taken without due preparation; but exception is made when it is necessary to communicate a second time in order to comply with the divine law of receiving viaticum or of saving the host from profanation (canons - ). (b) those who must receive communion.--there is a divine precept that adults receive the eucharist worthily (john, vi. ). it obliges _per se_, when one is certainly or almost certainly in proximate danger of death, unless one has recently (that is, according to some, within a week's time) received communion; for this sacrament is the wayfarer's provision for his journey to eternity. it obliges also now and then during life, since the eucharist is man's spiritual nourishment for the journey of life. it obliges _per accidens_, when communion is necessary to avoid grave sin, for charity to self obliges one to use the means without which serious spiritual harm cannot be escaped. the church law determines the details for the fulfillment of the divine precept. all the faithful who have reached the age of reason, even though they be under seven years, must fulfill the yearly easter duty (see , ). in reference to first communion, the church requires that children who are not in danger of death must have a mental and moral fitness, consisting in a knowledge of the chief mysteries of faith and a devotion towards the eucharist such as is possible at their time of life. in reference to the last communion, or viaticum, the code declares that it is obligatory, no matter what be the cause of the danger of death; it reminds us that the duty should not be put off too long; it recommends that the viaticum be administered even to those who had communicated the same day before the danger of death arose, and that it be given on distinct days during the danger. for children who are in danger of death it suffices that they are able to distinguish the eucharist from ordinary food and to adore it reverently (canons - , ). . dispositions for worthy communion.--(a) dispositions of soul.--the divine law requires the state of grace (i cor., xi. sqq.), and probably also the previous sacramental confession which the church prescribes _sub gravi_ for one who is conscious of serious sin not yet remitted through absolution. but he is excused from the duty of previous confession who cannot omit communion now (e.g., because while at the rails he remembers a grave sin and cannot leave without being disgraced) and who is unable to go to confession (see c). the recipient must also have a knowledge of the sacrament suited to his mental capacity, and he must desire it, at least habitually. since the sacraments are fruitful in proportion to the coöperation given them, and since the presence and visit of christ deserves honor and recognition, communion should be received devoutly, and should be preceded by a preparation and followed by a thanksgiving (canons , ). the faithful may receive in any rite, but their own rite is advised for easter communion and strongly urged for the viaticum (canon ). (b) dispositions of body.--the communicant must observe the eucharistic fast and must conduct himself with external reverence. by ecclesiastical law a person is bound to the fasting from midnight to receive the holy eucharist lawfully (canons , ). despite the changes made by the apostolic constitution, _christus dominus_ (jan. , ) and the _motu proprio, "sacram communionem_" (mar. , ), priests and the faithful who are able to do so are exhorted to observe this venerable and ancient form of eucharistic fast before mass or holy communion. the legislation of these two papal documents, intended to increase devotion to the blessed sacrament by fostering frequent communion, decrees: ) that natural water does not break the fast; ) that the period for observing the eucharist fast before mass, at whatever hour it may be said (morning, afternoon, midnight), is three hours from solid food and alcoholic beverages, and one hour from non-alcoholic beverages. the priest who is to celebrate computes his time from the beginning of mass; the faithful, from the time of communion; ) that the sick, although not confined to bed, may consume non-alcoholic beverages and real and appropriate medicines, liquid or solid, without any restriction of time. the eucharistic fast is based on primitive tradition and is enjoined by the church as a grave obligation that admits of no lightness of matter. the fast is violated by the smallest portion of food or alcoholic drink. food is any solid which the physician considers digestible or alterable by the stomach, and hence the fast is not broken if wood, string, paper, hairs or fingernails are swallowed. but the food or drink must be eaten or drunk, that is, it must come from outside the mouth and be taken into the stomach in the way of consumption, and hence the fast is not broken by what comes from within the mouth (e.g., blood from the gums, food remaining in the teeth from the previous day) or by what is taken into the stomach in the way of saliva (e.g., the accidental remnants of a mouth wash or of a throat gargle, or spray, or of a chew of tobacco or gum, when one has spit out the contents as much as possible), or in the way of breathing (e.g., snuff, tobacco smoke inhaled, an insect or a raindrop blown into the mouth). a solid, like a caramel, however, which is dissolved in the mouth before it is swallowed, can not be considered as a liquid. the liquid of the _sacram communionem_ must be a liquid before it enters the mouth. (see "some further elucidations on sacram communionem" by cardinal ottaviani, _american ecclesiastical review_, vol. cxxxxvii, no, , august , p. .) the reasons that excuse from the eucharist fast, in regard to solids or alcoholic beverages, in lay communion, are, in case of the well, the good of the sacrament (i.e., its preservation from profanation), or the good of self (e.g., avoidance of serious disgrace, as when one who is at the altar rail remembers only then that he is not fasting); in the case of the ill, the danger of death (the viaticum may be received even daily after nourishment). the salt taken in baptism does not break the fast, and one who has a papal indult, which is granted for sufficient reasons, may receive communion when not fasting. external reverence means that one should approach communion with cleanliness of body, respectability of dress, and modesty of behavior. no one is unfitted for communion because of inculpable unsightliness (e.g., a sick man who has irremovable scars or deformities, a poor man who cannot afford any but the simplest garb, a crippled person whose gait is awkward). but unwashed hands and face, dirty mouth or teeth, worn or torn dress, and the like, which one avoids elsewhere as unsuited for human company, should be avoided when receiving the eucharist. women immodestly dressed should be refused communion, if otherwise scandal will result (canon ). . frequent communion.--what dispositions are required for frequent communion (i.e., communion made several times a week) and daily communion? (a) the necessary dispositions are the same as for rare communion, namely, the state of grace and a right intention. right intention means positively that one have in view the ends that christ intended when he instituted the sacrament, namely, that by means of communion one may please him, may be more closely united to him, and may receive a remedy for one's defects and infirmities. those who receive devoutly have these purposes at least implicitly, which suffices; but it would be a serious sin wilfully to exclude all these ends. right intention means negatively that one must not frequent communion merely from routine, or from vanity, or from purely human motives, such as pecuniary profit or advantage. if the true ends are not excluded, these improper motives do not exceed a venial sin. (b) useful, but not necessary, dispositions are freedom from venial sins, especially such as are deliberate, and freedom from affection for venial sins. . duties of parents, pastors, confessors in reference to communion.--(a) parents.--the obligation of the easter duty for boys under fourteen and for girls under twelve rests morally and juridically upon the consciences of those who are charged with their care, namely, parents, guardians, pastors, and confessors (see , ). the parents are the best judges of the mental development, moral disposition and instruction of their children, and therefore of their fitness for first communion (canons , , n. ). (b) confessors.--the decision or counsel about the fitness of children for first communion, of penitents for frequent or daily communion, about the frequency of the viaticum, is left by the church to the prudence of the confessor (canons , , , , n. ). (c) pastors.--the code prescribes that pastors be especially zealous in the matter of holding lenten classes for the instruction of children in order that they may receive their first communion worthily; it vests in the pastor the duty of seeing that no child approaches first communion who has not the use of reason or proper dispositions, as well as of seeing that those children who are fit receive communion without delay; it also requires that he provide for the fuller instruction in christian doctrine of children who have made their first communion (canons , , n. , ). pastors should recommend to their people the practices of frequent communion and of worthy communion at every mass they hear, and should take care that the dying receive the viaticum while they are in possession of their mental faculties (canons , ). on the duty of administering communion see . . reservation of the blessed sacrament.--having considered the duties owed to the consecration and communion of the eucharist, we shall conclude by mentioning those that are owed to the sacrament in its permanency or to christ dwelling in the tabernacle. (a) the duty of custody.--the blessed sacrament must be reserved in cathedral, abbatial, parochial, and religious churches; and it may be reserved with due permission of the ordinary in collegiate churches and in certain public oratories; but there must be someone in charge, and it is not allowed to reserve the eucharist in private homes or to carry it about when travelling. churches which have the blessed sacrament should be open at least a few hours daily to the faithful. it is not lawful to reserve the sacrament habitually on more than one altar of the church, and that altar should be the one that is most honorable or most suited for worship, and it should be suitably decorated. the tabernacle should be as precious as possible and be carefully guarded, and the hosts should be reserved inside in a solid pyx or ciborium. before the tabernacle should burn day and night a sanctuary lamp fed by olive or other oil (canons - ). (b) the duty of renewal of the hosts.--the consecrated species kept for communion and adoration should be frequently renewed, lest they be corrupted. it would be a serious sin of irreverence to neglect this duty for over one or two months, or even for a shorter time if the danger of corruption is great on account of local conditions, such as dampness (canon ). (c) the duty of worship.--pastors and others in charge of religious instruction should encourage devotion to the eucharist, and especially the practice of assistance at mass even on weekdays and of visits to the blessed sacrament. benediction may be given frequently, and at least once a year there should be held in every parish church the devotion of the forty hours, or at least some more solemn exposition of the blessed sacrament for a number of hours (canons - ). . the sacrifice of the mass.--in the eucharist is contained not only a sacrament which confers the grace of spiritual nutrition on its recipients, but also a sacrifice which offers to god christ's oblation as an act of adoration, thanksgiving, satisfaction and intercession. it is this sacrifice--which is one with the sacrifice of the cross, though offered unbloodily--that is known as the mass. the chief persons who have duties in reference to the mass are the celebrant and the assistants. (a) the celebrant is the priest, who acts in the name and person of christ. to say mass validly one must have the power of orders conferred in the presbyterate or priesthood, and must intend to consecrate (see b); to say mass licitly one must be free from impediments which debar from mass, such as suspension or irregularity. strange priests who wish to say mass are required to present a celebret or testimonial letter to the rector of the church (canon ), without prejudice, however, to their right to say mass once or twice when they present themselves in clerical garb and sign the visiting priest's book. (b) the assistants are all those who hear mass. their duties were already explained in the question on the first precept of the church ( sqq.). we shall confine ourselves here, therefore, to the duties of the celebrant. . the obligation of saying mass.--(a) the obligation by reason of orders or priesthood.--divine law imposes on priests as a body a grave obligation of celebrating mass with such frequency that the memory of christ's passion be kept alive, which is the purpose of the priesthood, according to the words: "do this in commemoration of me." divine law also imposes on each individual priest the obligation of saying mass at frequent intervals (i.e., at least, it would seem, on the greater feasts and at dates not more than six months apart); for a priest is ordained primarily to give glory to god and to impart blessings to man by the sacrifice of the mass (heb., v. ). it seems, therefore, that a priest receives grace in vain or neglects the sacrifice (ii cor., vi. , ii mach., iv. ) if he omits mass on the most solemn occasions of the year when nearly all the faithful are accustomed to receive communion, or if he omits it for such a notable period as more than six months. it seems that the sin is _per se_ venial, as being opposed to fervor rather than to charity; but it may be mortal _per accidens_, as when serious scandal is given. there is no sin, however, if a priest has no opportunity to celebrate, or is lawfully impeded (e.g., on account of humility, scrupulosity, illness, or censure). the law of the church recalls this obligation in canon , and calls on bishops and religious superiors to exhort their subjects to say mass at least on all sundays and holydays. daily mass is quite customary today, and there might be serious scandal if without reason mass were said only exceptionally. (b) the obligation by reason of special offices or duties.--pastors are bound to say or provide mass for their people on days of obligation as a duty of justice, and it seems on other days also as a duty of charity if there is a great need or demand and no reasonable impediment. there is an obligation of justice to celebrate mass, if one has contracted to do so; an obligation of fidelity, if one has freely promised; an obligation of religion, if one has vowed; an obligation of obedience, if one has been lawfully commanded by one's superior. . dispositions for the celebration of mass.--(a) dispositions of soul.--the celebrant must be in the state of grace, and must go to confession before mass if he has a serious sin on his conscience (see c). he must have the intention and attention which the validity of the consecration requires ( b), and the reverence and devotion which is due the prayers of the mass ( sqq.), voluntary and fully deliberate distractions entertained for a considerable time during the canon seem to be seriously sinful. it is most suitable, though apparently not commanded by the church, that matins and lauds be said before mass. there is, however, a duty of religion and of charity to self to make a suitable preparation and thanksgiving; but negligence here is a light sin, unless there be contempt or serious scandal. fifteen minutes or a half-hour is recommended by ascetical writers, and the prayers may be taken from those given in the breviary and missal, internal prayer, however, is more important than external recitation (canon ). (b) dispositions of body.--the eucharistic or natural fast is of grave obligation for the celebration of mass (canon ). the only excuses are necessity according to divine law or exemption by ecclesiastical law. necessity occurs when one must complete the sacrifice (e.g., when after the communion the priest notices that he consecrated one species invalidly), or must avoid scandal (e.g., when a priest remembers after going to the altar that he is not fasting), or must consecrate for the viaticum (e.g., when there is no consecrated host for a dying person). since the law is ecclesiastical, the church could dispense for a grave reason (e.g., to enable a sickly priest to say masses on sunday at widely separated points of his missions). it is clear that the celebration of mass calls for cleanness of body, suitableness of dress, neatness and rubrical correctness of vestments (canon ). the omission of a principal vestment (i.e., blessed alb, stole or chasuble) is a serious sin, except in grave necessity; the omission of minor vestments (e.g., amice) is a venial sin, unless there is a just reason. the color of the day is not gravely obligatory, except by reason of scandal, and a good reason makes it lawful to use another color. . gravity of regulations concerning circumstances of mass.--serious disrespect or serious scandal is caused by disregard of important regulations concerning the circumstances of the mass. hence, the following rules oblige under grave sin, though exceptions are permitted for cases of grave or very grave necessity. (a) the time of mass.--mass may not be said on good friday, nor private masses on holy thursday and holy saturday. only one mass may be said a day, except on christmas day and all souls' day, and on other days when there is reason for bination or trination allowed by the church. ordinarily the hour for beginning mass should not be earlier than one hour before dawn (i.e., in the latitude of new york from about : a.m. to : a.m., according to the season), nor later than one hour after noon. but the time is to be understood morally, and it is not a grave sin in being earlier or later than the times fixed, unless there is a difference of an entire hour (e.g., if one began mass at : p.m.) and not just excuse or dispensation. the holy see has extended to local ordinaries the power to permit the daily celebration of mass after noon, if the spiritual good of a considerable number of the faithful demands it (_sacram communionem_). the holy see has also granted permission to ordinaries to allow the celebration of an evening mass on palm sunday accompanied by the blessing of palms and procession. on holy thursday the mass of the lord's supper must be celebrated at the most convenient hour, but not before : p.m. and not after : p.m.; ordinaries may grant permission for one or even two low masses (besides the principal mass) to be celebrated in churches and public oratories, and for one in semi-public oratories within the same hours, : - : p.m. the proper hour for the easter vigil is that which permits the mass of the easter vigil to be started around midnight. permission may be granted to conduct the vigil at a time not before sunset (dispositions and regulations concerning the holy week liturgy, feb. , , sacred congregation of rites). one christmas may be said at midnight. it is a serious sin to say mass in less than a quarter of an hour, and a private mass should not be prolonged beyond a half-hour. (b) place.--mass may not be celebrated regularly except in a church or oratory that is at least blessed and is not polluted, execrated or interdicted. it must be said on an altar, and it would be a serious sin, except in grave or very grave necessity, to celebrate without at least one altar cloth or one lighted wax candle, or without a rubrical chalice, paten, or corporal (canons , ). (c) rites.--the principal rubrics of the mass are gravely obligatory, for example, to use an acolyte unless excused by dispensation or necessity, to say each prayer of the canon, and each part outside the canon that occurs in every mass (e.g., the prayers at the foot of the altar, the gospel), to perform the main liturgical actions (e.g., the offertory, the breaking of the host, the purification of the chalice). the secondary rubrics oblige under venial sin (see canons , - ). . is it lawful to discontinue a mass?--(a) to terminate mass before the end has been reached is unlawful unless there be a serious reason; otherwise, disrespect is shown the holy sacrifice. a grave reason (e.g., sudden sickness) suffices if mass be discontinued before the consecration; a most grave reason (i.e., danger of death or of profanation of the sacrament) if mass be discontinued between the consecration and the communion. but a mass that is broken off after the consecration and before the communion must be completed by the celebrant or another, at least if this can be done within an hour from the time of cessation; else the sacrifice is mutilated. (b) to interrupt mass is also unlawful without serious cause. thus, a grave reason excuses an interruption outside the canon, for example, to preach a sermon after the gospel or communion; but only a very grave reason excuses an interruption during the canon, for example, a sick call to give a necessary sacrament (baptism, penance, extreme unction, or viaticum) to a dying person. . application of the mass.--all the faithful, especially those who are present and also the celebrant himself, benefit by the mass, but there is a special fruit reserved to those for whose intention the mass is offered by the priest; for the mass is a sacrifice of intercession, propitiation, and satisfaction, and since the priest acts in the person of christ he may apply its benefits specially to some particular person or persons. in the following cases the celebrant is bound to make this application of the ministerial fruit of the mass. (a) in virtue of their office, pastors are seriously obliged to say mass for their flocks. there is a natural obligation on account of the relationship between the pastor and the people, and there is also a divine obligation, inasmuch as the priest is appointed to offer gifts and sacrifices for sin (heb., v, ). the details of this duty, as to the time, place and person, are prescribed in canons , , . there is a grave duty of saying for the people the number of masses which the church orders; but the non-observance of the circumstances is not a mortal sin, unless it happens frequently and without reason. (b) in virtue of justice, a priest who has received a stipend is bound to apply the mass for the intention of the donor, and to observe the conditions of the agreement (i.e., the time, place, and kind of mass specified by the donor). the duty of application is a grave one, because the loss inflicted on the donor by non-application of the mass to his intention is serious; the duty of observance of the accidental conditions, however, is not generally grave, but it becomes grave if its neglect inflicts serious harm (e.g., if the donor makes the date of the mass a _conditio sine qua non_, or if the mass must be said at once on account of an urgent and immediate necessity). restitution is obligatory if the mass is not applied, or if essential conditions are not complied with; it is obligatory _sub gravi_, if the stipend equals what is relatively grave matter in theft. (c) in virtue of obedience, subjects are held to apply masses for the intention of their prelates, secular or religious, though bishops are counselled to exact this most rarely. the obligation is grave or light according to the intention of the superior, but if the application is also due in justice to the giver of the stipend, there is a serious duty. (d) in virtue of religion or fidelity, there is an obligation of application when a priest has vowed this to god, or freely promised it to man. the duty is grave or light according to the intention of the vower or promisor (see , ). but if there is an onerous promise (e.g., in a society of priests whose members agree to say mass for fellow-members who have died), the duty is one of justice. one mass satisfies several free promises, if distinct masses were not promised. . duties of the priest as to the application of mass.--(a) for whom may mass be applied?--mass may be offered for all objects not forbidden. from the divine law it is forbidden to offer mass for those who are incapable of receiving its benefits (e.g., the demons, infants who died without baptism, the saints), or for intentions that are displeasing to god (e.g., for success in evil). from the ecclesiastical law certain restrictions are made on the application of mass in order to safeguard reverence and prevent scandal. thus, mass may be said only privately (that is, without publicity or special liturgical solemnity) and prudently (that is, with avoidance of scandal, for example, by the declaration that mass is said for the faithful departed with the purpose of aiding also a departed unbeliever, if this is pleasing to god) for the living and dead outside the church, such as infidels, heretics, schismatics, and the excommunicated. moreover, for a _vitandus_ mass may be applied only when the intention is his conversion (canon ). (b) how mass must be applied.--the intention must be formed by the priest, since he represents christ. but since his application does not produce but only bestows the fruits, it suffices that his applicatory intention be habitual and implicit, as when the celebrant has forgotten the intention formed before mass, or applies according to the mind of his superior. the person or purpose to which mass is applied must be at least implicitly determined, and the application must be made at least before the second consecration. if there are two conflicting intentions, the stronger prevails ( ), and, if it is doubtful which one was stronger, mass should be next offered for the intention which god knows was not satisfied. it is unlawful to apply mass by anticipation for the next person who will offer a stipend. . mass stipends.--it is not unlawful to receive a stipend for the application of mass, but irreligion, injustice, avarice, scandal and disobedience must be avoided. (a) irreligion is committed if the stipend is offered or taken as the price of the mass, or if mass is said only because of the stipend, or is requested only for the sake of human favor (see ); (b) injustice is committed, if an excessive stipend is exacted; (c) avarice is committed when one is over-anxious about large stipends; (d) scandal is given when there is commercialism or the appearance of it in dealing with stipends; (e) disobedience is incurred when the laws of the church on the amount of a stipend, the number of stipends that may be taken, their distribution, satisfaction, etc., are violated (see canons - ). it is forbidden to require two stipends for one mass, or one stipend for mere celebration and another for application. art. : repentance; penance; extreme unction (_summa theologica_, iii, qq. - ; supplement, qq. - .) . penance is the name both of a virtue and of a sacrament of the new law. the virtue was at all times necessary; the sacrament is necessary since its institution by christ. having considered in the previous article how the spiritual life is begotten, matured and preserved through the sacraments of baptism, confirmation and eucharist, we shall consider in the present article how spiritual death and infirmity are overcome by the remedies of penance and extreme unction. but first we shall speak of the virtue of penance or repentance which is a requisite for the fruitful reception of the sacrament of penance and of its complement, extreme unction. . the virtue of repentance.--this virtue is a gift of god and a permanent habit of the soul, but there are certain acts by which man coöperates with god and prepares himself for the gift. sometimes a sinner is converted through consideration of god's goodness or of the rewards of heaven; but usually those who have been drawn by sinful delights are first deterred from them by the thought of god's justice, and amendment begins from fear. faith, hope, fear and love, at least virtually, are always found in the process of turning to god, and usually they follow one another in that process in the order here given. (a) the beginning of conversion is with god who draws the heart: "convert us to thee, o lord, and we shall be converted" (lament, v. ). (b) then follows the movement of faith, for he that would come to god must first believe that he is (heb., xi. ). (c) next follow servile fear, which removes one from sin, and hope, which leads one to god, for faith holds out both threats of punishment and promises of mercy. (d) then come the movements of love, which detests sin for its own sake, and of filial fear, which offers satisfaction to god out of reverence. . repentance.--repentance may be defined as "a moral virtue that inclines the will of one who is subject to sin to grieve over it and to make reparation to god for the injury it does to his rights." (a) thus, repentance has its remote subject in one who is subject to sin, that is, in a person who has sinned or who is able to sin. hence, it is not in christ, who is impeccable, nor in the holy angels, whose wills are fixed in good; but it is found in the saints, inasmuch as their former sin is displeasing to them and their former contrition and satisfaction pleasing. (b) the proximate subject of repentance is the will, for its acts of regret, resolution, and reparation belong to the higher appetitive faculty, hence, repentance does not consist in emotional sorrow, and it does not need to be sensibly felt or joined with tears. (c) the formal object or motive of repentance is reparation to goal for the injury done him by one's own personal sin. sin may be considered as opposed to the divine goodness, and in this respect it is detested by charity; or as opposed to the good of man himself, and so hope detests it; or as opposed to the moral goodness of some particular virtue, and in this respect it is hated by that virtue, as temperance shuns intemperance; or as opposed to the right which belongs to god, the last end, that all actions be done for him, and in this respect sin is considered by repentance. one may regret original sin or sins done by others, but one is not properly said to repent of them. (d) the material object or subject-matter of repentance is the acts by which reparation is made to god, namely, grief over sin and its accompaniments, hatred of moral wickedness in the present, regrets for the past, and good resolutions for the future. thus, repentance differs from religion, for religion looks upon god as lord and benefactor and offers him worship, while repentance considers him as the last end who has been offended and offers him satisfaction. the difference between filial fear and repentance is seen in this, that the former falls back upon its own littleness, whereas the latter throws itself at the feet of god. . the character of repentance.--(a) it is a virtue, since it is commanded ("do penance," matt., iii. ), and also since it moderates according to reason the sorrow felt for sin, keeping it from the extreme of despair, lest it become the remorse of a cain or a judas. (b) it is a moral virtue, since its direct object is the human acts by which reparation is made to god, and its office the regulation of those acts within the bounds of moderation. (c) it belongs to justice, being a compensation offered for injury to another's right; but it is only a potential part of justice, as there is not perfect justice between an inferior and the superior to whose power the former is subject ( ). it is classed under commutative justice on account of the return that is offered for the offense; . the excellence of repentance.--(a) its dignity.--repentance ranks below other virtues, for, while they are naturally advantageous to man, repentance is beneficial only hypothetically, namely, in the supposition of sin. in one respect, however, it holds a certain preëminence, for the infused virtues are bestowed only in justification, whereas the acts of repentance that prepare for justification come before those virtues. (b) its necessity.--in the actual providence of god no mortal sin is remitted unless it be first repented of, and hence it is said: "unless you do penance, you shall all likewise perish" (luke, xiii. ). this is reasonable, since it is fitting that he who has turned away from god by his own act, should also return to god by his own act. as to venial sin, since it consists in an inordinate cleaving to created things and must be removed by its contrary, there is need of an actual rejection of the exaggerated attachment, and hence need of repentance; moreover, since one should be restored to god's friendship before being restored to his familiarity, penitence in regard to a venial sin does not avail, unless the penitent is in the state of grace. the act of repentance need not be formal (i.e., one in which a person expressly thinks of his sins and expressly detests them), but a virtual act suffices, that is, an act of love of god which implicitly includes repentance, though the latter is not expressly taken into consideration. . is repentance necessary as a means or as a precept?--(a) it is necessary as a means of salvation because, if it be omitted, salvation cannot be attained. god desires that the sinner assist in and consent to his own forgiveness, and repentance, as we saw, is the most suitable way in which the sinner can do this. (b) it is also necessary as a precept. the natural law requires that those who have done an injury, make reparation; the divine law calls on sinners to repent and be converted to god (acts, ii. , iii. , viii. ), and the church law prescribes annual confession. . how soon does the precept of repentance oblige?--(a) it obliges at once (i.e., without any delay), when there is immediate necessity for it. this happens _per se_, when one is in grave danger of death, for at that moment one is bound to prepare immediately to meet god, which supposes repentance. it happens _per accidens_, when by reason of some urgent precept distinct from that of repentance one is obligated here and now to rid oneself of sin (e.g., when one is called on to administer a sacrament and must have a pure conscience, or when one is gravely tempted and will surely fall unless one repents of the past). (b) it obliges soon (i.e., without any unreasonable delay), when there is no immediate necessity. it is not a new sin to put off repentance until tomorrow or next week in such a case; for the commandment of repentance, being affirmative, does not bind for each instant, but only for a reasonable time. but the common opinion is that a new sin is committed when repentance is delayed for a considerable time, since this exposes the sinner to further sins, impenitence, and damnation. practically, it seems that those who comply with the church law of yearly confession commit no sin of unrepentance, though some consider it a mortal sin to delay repentance beyond a month. . accompaniments of repentance as to mortal sin.--(a) when one mortal sin is forgiven, every other mortal sin is forgiven at the same time. for no one can be truly repentant unless he grieves over his separation from god, and this means that he grieves over each individual mortal sin. but, since venial sin does not separate from god, it is possible to be sorry for one venial sin without being sorry for another. (b) when mortal sin is forgiven, the eternal punishment is also forgiven, for forgiveness makes man a friend of god and an heir to heaven. but the temporal punishment may remain due, as is proved by the examples of adam (gen., iii. ; wisd., x. ), of mary, the sister of moses (num., xii.), of moses (num., xx. ), of david (ii kings, xii. , ), and of others. god is not only a merciful father, but also a just ruler, and it is fitting that he should exact satisfaction even for sin forgiven. but if repentance is very perfect like that of magdalen and st. paul, even the temporal punishment is forgiven. . the fruits of repentance.--(a) every sin, no matter how grievous, is removed by repentance (is., i. ), and hence there is always room for forgiveness. for man is always able to repent and god is always ready to pardon the penitent (joel, ii. ). the unpardonable sin is refusal to repent of sin, if one continues in that refusal, but even impenitence is forgiven when laid aside (see ). (b) sin once forgiven does not return, for god does not regret his gifts (rom, xi. ), and his pardon means that the guilt of a sin is destroyed and wiped out forever, but he who falls into the same sins after pardon increases his guilt by reason of his ingratitude. (c) the repentant sinner recovers the infused virtues he lost by sin and also his former merits (luke, xv. ; joel, ii. ; ezech., xxxiii. ; heb., vi. ). virginity of body and innocence of soul are not recovered as to their material elements (i.e., bodily integrity and freedom from all sin), but they are restored as to their formal part, which is the resolve to abstain from all venereal pleasure or to avoid all sin. it seems that former merits are also recovered, not necessarily in their entirety, but in a degree that corresponds with the greater or less excellence of repentance. . forgiveness of sin through the use of the sacraments.--(a) mortal sins are forgiven by the sacraments in virtue of the rite itself (_ex opere operato_) and immediately; that is, the sacraments either _per se_ or _per accidens_ (according as they are sacraments of the dead or sacraments of the living) produce in the soul first grace or justification, which is the opposite of mortal sin. (b) venial sins are forgiven by the sacraments in virtue of the rite itself but not immediately; that is, the sacraments produce directly either first or second grace, and indirectly through this grace they may awaken fervor, which is the opposite of venial sin. the sacramentals, on the contrary, remit venial sins, not in virtue of the rite itself but in virtue of the intercession of the church attached to the rite (_ex opere operantis ecclesiæ_); for the prayers of the church are acceptable to god and can obtain from him a grace of repentance that will remove venial sin. . the sacrament of penance.--for those who lose grace after baptism the sacrament of penance is necessary as a part of repentance and a means of forgiveness. this sacrament may be defined as "a sacrament of the new law instituted by christ in the form of a judicial process, in which, through the absolution of the priest, sins committed after baptism are forgiven to penitents who confess them with sorrow." (a) the remote matter of this sacrament is the personal sins committed after baptism, for baptism washes away all sins committed before its reception. of this remote matter, some is necessary (i.e., sins that must be confessed), namely, post-baptismal mortal sins not yet declared or directly absolved in confession; some is free (i.e., sins that may, but need not be confessed), namely, post-baptismal mortal sins already forgiven in confession, and post-baptismal venial sins, whether already remitted or not (canon ). imperfections which are not sins, or whose sinfulness is doubtful, are not sufficient matter for absolution; and if they alone are confessed, absolution may not be given, unless there is necessity, and then it may be granted conditionally (see , ). (b) the proximate matter of this sacrament, according to the view commonly held, is the three acts of the penitent--contrition in the heart, confession in words, and satisfaction in work. contrition must exist actually, but the other two acts in case of necessity need not exist actually, but are included implicitly in the act of contrition. (c) the form of the sacrament is contained in the words of absolution spoken by the priest. certainly the words, "_ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis_," are sufficient for validity. but lawfulness requires that one use the entire form and the other accompanying prayers as given in one's approved ritual. in case of necessity, as in shipwreck or sudden danger of death, an abbreviated form is permitted. absolution must be spoken or vocal, for the church has never recognized absolution by signs or in writing. it must be given to one who is present, that is, one who is in the same place and not too far away to hear and be heard. those who are in different rooms that do not open on each other are not in the same place; those who are more than twenty feet apart are too far away for presence, according to the common opinion; but in great need a more liberal view may be followed, and even absolution by speaking tube or telephone may be resorted to. (d) the subject of the sacrament of penance is every baptized person who has committed venial or mortal sin after baptism. if there is doubt about the baptism or about the sin, absolution may be given conditionally. besides the conditions given for the sacraments in general, the recipient of penance must exercise the three acts of contrition, confession and satisfaction. the first is essential in every case, and the second when possible; and without the third the sacrament is not integral or complete. . probabilism in administration of the sacrament.--in the administration and reception of the sacrament of penance it is lawful to follow opinions that are truly probable except in the following cases: (a) when the validity of the sacrament is at stake ( ), unless there is a case of emergency ( ). hence, as the law of material integrity pertains to the lawful, not to the valid use of penance, one may use probable opinions in its regard (see ); (b) when the seal of the sacrament is involved, lest confession become odious. . contrition.--the first act of the penitent is contrition. it is defined by the council of trent as a sorrow and hatred for sin committed, with a resolution of sinning no more and a desire of doing what is necessary for the proper reception of the sacrament of penance. (a) thus, it presupposes a hatred of personal past transgressions, for one grieves only about that which displeases one, and the acts of the will begin with likes and dislikes. (b) it consists essentially in sorrow or affliction of spirit, for contrition, being the chief act of repentance, looks to reparation to god for the injury done him, and it therefore punishes the sinner by sadness for his misdeeds. (c) it includes as a property or consequence the resolution to avoid future sin and to do what god requires for forgiveness; for no one is sincerely sorry for the past unless this sorrow makes him decide not to repeat the offense, and makes him desire to fulfill the conditions that god lays down for reconciliation. . the two kinds of contrition.--(a) perfect contrition is that which is caused by charity, or the love of benevolence or of friendship ( , ) towards god. this love is had, whether the object of one's affection is the divine being or persons, the divine and infinite perfections, or a single attribute; for all of these are really god himself. this contrition justifies the sinner at once, for it includes charity and the will (at least implicit) to do what god wishes, and god takes up his abode with those who love him (john, xiv. ). perfect contrition is necessary, both as a means and as a divine precept, whenever the duty of repentance or of the sacrament of penance obliges with a like necessity, and there is no opportunity of receiving the sacrament; for it is then the only way of recovering grace. (b) imperfect contrition, or attrition, is contrition caused by a supernatural motive inferior to that of charity, i.e., by a less perfect motive suggested by faith that leads one to grieve over sin committed, for example, the heinousness of sin in itself, its eternal punishment by god (i.e., the pain of loss or the pain of sense), or its temporal punishment by god in this life or in purgatory. this contrition does not justify the sinner without the sacrament, for it does not rectify or retract the disorder introduced by sin as far as lies within the sinner's power (that is, _ex opere operantis_). by his sin the sinner preferred the creature to god; by his attrition he does not go so far as to prefer god positively to every created good, else his contrition would be perfect. but attrition suffices for justification of the sinner with the sacrament of penance, for it includes the essentials of contrition in general, and thus removes the impediments to the activity of the sacrament (that is, the production of grace _ex opere operato_). the same holds good also of the sufficient disposition for baptism, and more probably of that for the sacraments of the living received in good faith by one who is not in grace. . is attrition based solely on fear of punishment laudable?--(a) fear of the world is sinful, because it offends god to escape evil ( ); slavish fear of god is sinful also, because it makes self the last end, avoiding sin solely because of the harm it will bring on self ( ). sorrow for sin caused by slavish fear is not attrition, and is not laudable. (b) servile fear of god in itself is good and supernatural ( ), and the sorrow for sin or attrition based on such fear is also good; and if it includes a resolution of amendment, it suffices for justification with the sacraments. the end (i.e., to escape punishment) is good (matt., x. ); the means (i.e., sorrow for sin) is good; and the use of the means for the end is good, for desertion of sin is the way to escape unhappiness (luke, iii. , ). nor is it wrong to make a nobler good (such as avoidance of sin) a means to a lesser good (such as escape from punishment) when the lesser good is not made the last end, but only the immediate end, of the greater good. thus, when we pray for temporal goods, we make a spiritual thing a means to a material end, but the last end of the prayer is god himself. servile fear, unlike slavish fear (_timor serviliter servilis_), does not make self the last end (denzinger, , , ). . attrition in the sacrament of penance.--must attrition based on fear of punishment be joined with love of god to justify in the sacrament? (a) some form of love is required, for all contrition is detestation of sin, and sin is not hated unless its opposite is loved. hence, just as attrition must be accompanied by faith and hope, so it must also be accompanied by some form of love of god ( ). (b) disinterested love is not required. this is certain as regards love of friendship, for even the smallest degree of that love is charity and justifies even without the sacrament ( , ). this is commonly held in reference to love of benevolence, which seems practically to be always united with love of friendship or charity. a love that inclines to god for his own sake but that does not predominate over other loves is held by some to be necessary, but it is difficult to understand such a love or to see its possibility. (c) interested love (the love of concupiscence or of hope) is therefore necessary. the common opinion today seems to be that it also suffices, and that it need be only virtual or implicit. in other words, the prevalent view is that every attrition prompted by fear of punishment contains an initial love of god which suffices to turn the sinner to god and to remove any obstacle to the action of the sacrament. for "the fear of god is the beginning of his love" (ecclus., xxv. ), the hope of pardon is a beginning of love of the author of pardon and justice, the resolve to amend is an inclination to keep the great command of love of god ( ). . the conditions for valid contrition and attrition.--(a) it must be internal, for contrition is an act of repentance and must be in the heart. merely pretended sorrow, and sorrow which one mistakenly thinks one has, are insufficient. (b) it must be supernatural, for contrition is a disposition for the reception of the supernatural habit of grace. sorrow for sin induced by natural motives, such as the punishments inflicted by human agencies, if these are not viewed in the light of faith, is not sufficient. (c) it must be universal, that is, there must be sorrow for all mortal sins not yet forgiven, for it is impossible to be really sorry for one serious sin while retaining affection for another. but it is not necessary to repent of all venial sins before one is forgiven (see ). (d) it must be sovereign, that is, if the contrition is perfect, god must be loved above every other good; if it is imperfect, sin must be hated above every evil that could lead to sin. if the sinner does not detest his dishonesty more than the privation he will suffer by being honest, he is not really contrite. it is, however, not necessary that contrition be sensibly felt, or be of supreme intensity, or that its act be of long duration; and it is rash to call to mind the kinds of evils or torments one would prefer to suffer rather than commit sin (see ). . valid and fruitful reception of the sacrament.--some theologians, distinguishing between contrition as matter of the sacrament and contrition as a disposition of the penitent, hold that it is possible to have a valid but unfruitful reception of the sacrament, and that revival of its grace is possible. they explain thus: (a) the contrition required for the matter and the validity of the sacrament must be such as can be known with moral certainty by the confessor from external indications, and hence it suffices for validity that the sorrow be true and sincere and supernatural; (b) the contrition required for the disposition of the penitent and the fruitfulness of the sacrament must be such as excludes all affection for every grave sin and includes the resolution to avoid all mortal sin in the future, and hence it is required for fruitfulness that sorrow be also universal and sovereign. (this opinion has very few, if any at all, adherents among modern theologians. it is retained here solely as a matter of record.) . properties of contrition.--since contrition belongs to the matter of penance, it must have the properties of sacramental matter ( sqq.). (a) thus, the matter must be sensible, and hence contrition must be shown in some external way, as by a sorrowful confession, devout request for absolution, or, in the case of those who are unconscious, by a call for a priest or the practices or prayers of a christian life. (b) the matter must be united with the form, and hence contrition must be elicited at the moment of absolution, or a short time before (not more than a few hours before, according to some, or even a few days before, according to others). but if a penitent recalls immediately after absolution a forgotten mortal sin, and is then absolved from it also, more probably he is not obliged to renew his act of contrition, because the act just made virtually continues; in practice, however, he might be told to make another act of contrition and a new penance or the same penance may be imposed before the second absolution. moreover, for absolution when one is unconscious and in danger of death, since an habitual intention suffices ( ), it seems that contrition made long ago, but not retracted, is sufficient. (c) the matter must have at least a moral unity of its own parts, and hence the contrition must in some way be directed to the confession; that is, either before or during or after the act of contrition there must be an intention to confess with the sorrow for sin contained in that act of contrition, or to apply that sorrow to the confession just made. otherwise it does not appear that one has the purpose to make a sacramental confession. but there is no practical difficulty, as every act of contrition contains implicitly the will to confess, or every sincere confession includes the will to use the contrition one has exercised or will exercise. . resolution of amendment.--the resolution of amendment which true contrition calls for is at least implicit in the hatred of sin, but it is advisable that the penitent expressly resolve to avoid sin in the future. this determination should have the following qualities: (a) it should be firm, that is, the penitent should make up his mind not to relapse into deliberate sin. yet, it is not necessary that he feel certain of his perseverance, and his resolve does not cease to be firm, if he foresees that he will fall again, provided he is decided to do the best he can; (b) it should be efficacious, that is, the penitent must decide to use suitable means to fulfill his good intentions as to reparation for scandal, calumny, and injustice, as to the avoidance of sinful occasions, etc.; (c) it should be universal, that is, the penitent must resolve at least generically to avoid each and every grave sin in the future. if only free matter ( ) is confessed, the penitent may direct his resolution of amendment to all past mortal sins confessed, or to one of the present venial sins declared, or he may resolve to do better in reference to a certain class of sins (e.g., deliberate sins, faults of speech), or he may resolve to diminish the frequency of his venial sins. . confession.--the second act of the penitent is confession, that is, the declaration of one's sins made to a duly authorized priest with the purpose of obtaining absolution. confession is obligatory both from divine and ecclesiastical law. (a) according to divine law, the forgiveness of grave post-baptismal sins is subject to the power of the keys, which is exercised in the form of a judgment and requires confession (matt., xviii, ; john, xx. ). this law obliges _per se_ in danger of death, and occasionally during life; _per accidens_, when one in sin intends to receive communion, when one is unable without confession to recover the necessary state of grace or overcome a serious temptation or bad habit. (b) according to church law, the faithful must go to confession once a year ( ), and confession is also prescribed at times for those who wish to receive communion ( ) or celebrate mass ( c, ). . the qualities of confession.--(a) confession is an act of virtue and should have the conditions of a virtue; that is, it should be discreet (e.g., the penitent should not reveal the names or sins of others), willing, and pure in motive (e.g., the penitent should not confess for temporal ends, such as the good opinion of the confessor), and courageous (i.e., the penitent should not be deterred by shame). (b) confession is an act of penitence, and, as penitence includes hatred and regret for sin and abasement of self, confession should not be boastful, jocular or proud, but shamefaced, sorrowful and humble. (c) confession is essentially a declaration of fact, and hence it should avoid the defects that make a declaration valueless or imperfect, namely, falsehood, obscurity, digression, or concealment. confession, then, should be truthful, clear, to the point, and entire. (d) confession belongs to the sacrament of penance, which is the forum of conscience, and hence the penitent accuses himself, submits to the judgment of the father confessor, and is heard in secret. public confession is valid but not obligatory. hence, one who does not speak the language of the confessor is not bound to use an interpreter. regularly confession should be vocal, but for grave reasons (e.g., if the penitent is dumb, or the confessor is deaf, or there is danger of being heard by those nearby) it may be made by signs or in writing. in case of a written confession the penitent should declare orally, if possible, that the writing contains his confession (see canon ). . is it a grave sin to lie to the confessor?--(a) there is a grave sin when the lie deceives the confessor about necessary matter (e.g., when a circumstance changing the theological species of a sin is denied), or about free matter which is the only sin confessed (e.g., when a penitent lyingly accuses himself of only one sin and that a venial one), or about free matter which the confessor asks about and needs to know (e.g., about habits or occasions of sin). he who falsely accuses himself of a grave sin, or who exaggerates the number of his grave sins, _per se_ sins mortally; but he is excused if he is ignorant or is under a momentary excitement or delusion. not only is there grave sin in the cited cases, but the confession is made invalid by the defect in essential matter which the lie produces; for the confessor does not understand the true state of the penitent's soul. (b) there is mortal sin when the lie deceives the confessor about matter that is impertinent to the confession, but is grave in itself, as when the penitent seriously calumniates a neighbor to the priest. in this case the confession is made invalid by the want of disposition on the part of the penitent. (c) there is light sin when the lie deceives the confessor about free matter which is not the only sin confessed, or which the confessor does not need to know in order substantially to pass judgment and give direction; also when the lie is not serious and is impertinent to the confession. in these cases the sacrament is not made invalid, for the insincerity does not change the confessor's decision. . integral confession.--the completeness or integrity of confession is twofold. (a) material completeness consists in the declaration of all mortal sins committed and not yet confessed and absolved. this kind of completeness is sometimes impossible, and therefore unnecessary. for completeness is obligatory in virtue of a positive law of christ, and positive laws do not bind in case of impossibility ( ). (b) formal completeness consists in the declaration of all the mortal sins which here and now, all things considered, one can and should mention. this kind of completeness is necessary for a valid and fruitful confession, because the law of christ calls for a complete confession, as far as possible, and formal completeness is possible. since he who is obliged by a law is also obliged to use the means to keep the law, those who are going to confession should examine their consciences beforehand, unless this is impossible or unnecessary. the time and diligence to be given this examination depends on the person and his circumstances; but all should be careful about it, while avoiding scrupulosity, and should also remember that contrition is even more important than confession. . manner of confession.--completeness of confession as regards mortal sins extends to the following points: (a) the theological and the lowest moral species of a sin ( sqq.) must be given, for otherwise the confessor does not understand the case before him. he who has committed a mortal theft does not satisfy by confessing a venial theft; he who is guilty of the specific sin of calumny does not satisfy by the generic accusation of sins of the tongue. but impossibility excuses, as when the penitent has only a general recollection about a sin; (b) the number of the sins must be given exactly or, if this is impossible, approximately. he who unintentionally exaggerates the number or tells a sin of which he is not guilty, is not bound to correct this, but he who unintentionally lowers the number to a notable extent should tell in his next confession what was omitted (see sqq.); (c) the circumstances that change the species of a sin must be declared, for example, the fact that the person who was scandalized was one's subject, that the person who was treated disrespectfully was one's superior, that the amount stolen was large (see ); (d) the external act that completed an internal sin must be declared, and hence he who committed impurity does not confess properly by saying that he gave consent to impure desires (see - ). . disputed cases.--(a) circumstances that notably aggravate a sin without changing its species.--for the obligation of confessing these circumstances, it is argued that, if the confessor does not know them, he is unable to guide the penitent properly. against obligation, it is argued that the species of the sin gives the confessor sufficient knowledge, and that the obligation of confessing aggravating circumstances would make the burden too heavy for the penitent. but all admit that _per accidens_ there may be a duty of confessing a circumstance of this kind, as when it makes a sin reserved, or consists in an occasion of sin or evil habit, or when it produces a great change in reference to satisfaction (e.g., the theft of $ , is quite different from the theft of $ ). (b) as to the imputable external effects of a sin.--one opinion is that these must be confessed, since they are willed in their cause ( , ); another opinion is that they need not be confessed since they are not sins, but results that followed on a sin; a third opinion answers that they must be confessed if the evil will was not retracted before they happened, but otherwise not. all agree, however, that the sinner in this case should confess that he sinned with foresight of the consequence, and that he should confess the consequence itself if there is attached to it something that should be known to the confessor (e.g., censure, irregularity, etc.). (c) sins whose commission, or gravity, or remission is uncertain.--if the uncertainty is about the fact or gravity of the sin, there is no obligation to confess the sin, even though its commission or its gravity be probable; for the obligation cannot be proved. but if it is certain that grave sin has been committed and uncertain whether the sin has been confessed, a mere doubt or suspicion in favor of confession does not exempt from obligation; a probable opinion in favor of confession excuses according to probabilism, but it does not excuse according to equiprobabilism, unless the doubt is about a confession made long ago by one who was careful in making his confessions, or unless there is question of a scrupulous person ( sqq., , ). . when material integrity is not necessary.--material integrity is not due because of real impossibility in the following cases: (a) when there is physical impossibility, as when one is at the point of death and too weak to make confession, or is deaf and dumb, or cannot speak the confessor's language correctly, or cannot finish confession on account of shipwreck or other great peril; (b) when there is moral impossibility, as when material integrity cannot be had except at the expense of a great temporal or spiritual evil distinct from the inconvenience intrinsic to the confession itself, and there is some serious reason that makes it necessary to go to confession here and now (e.g., the desire of not remaining long in the state of sin). examples are: great spiritual harm, as when a penitent is scrupulous; great temporal harm, as when the penitent has to flee to escape assassination. some affirm, while others deny, the duty of mentioning a sin that will defame an accomplice with the confessor, and in practice it seems the duty cannot be insisted on (cfr. ). . completion or repetition of past incomplete confessions.--(a) completion of past confessions must be made when they lacked material integrity, if the impossibility has ceased. (b) particular repetition is necessary when a confession lacked formal integrity or other essential; that is, if a sin was unlawfully concealed or unrepented of in confession, the sacrilege must be confessed and the previous confession made over, since it was invalid. but if the new confession is made to the same confessor and he has a general remembrance of it, the new confession may be made summarily. (c) general repetition is necessary when several past confessions were certainly invalid on account of lack of formal integrity or other defect. thus, he who has made bad confessions for three months must make a general confession of that period of time. general confession is advisable when there is a prudent doubt about the worth of past confessions; it is permissible when it will help a penitent to be more contrite and lead a better life; it is not lawful when it will do harm, as when a scrupulous penitent will be harrowed and maddened by the thought of his past sins. . satisfaction.--the third act of the penitent is satisfaction, which is defined as "a compensation for the injury done to god by sin, appointed by god's minister in the sacrament of penance and accepted and performed by the penitent." (a) this act is a compensation or payment made to god as an act of reparation and justice. (b) the compensation is appointed by the confessor, for its chief purpose is restoration of friendship between god and the sinner, and hence equality is not sought, but the good will to do what god's minister imposes. (c) the compensation is accepted and performed. this is required for the completeness, not for the essence, of the sacrament. he who is really contrite desires to satisfy, he who confesses offers to satisfy; and hence, if for any reason he does not actually satisfy, his satisfaction of desire suffices for the validity of the sacrament, but his omission to perform the satisfaction makes the sacrament incomplete. . the effects of actual satisfaction.--(a) there is a remissive effect, consisting in the _ex opere operato_ release of a portion or of all the temporal punishment due to sin forgiven. (b) there is a medicinal effect, consisting in the appreciation of the evil of sin, the caution and vigilance against future relapse, and the removal of evil tendencies, which the penitential works inculcate and promote. . the conditions for effective satisfaction.--(a) for validity (that is, for discharge of the obligation) the penitent must perform the penance as to essentials in the way prescribed by the confessor, and he must perform it personally, unless the confessor permits or enjoins fulfillment by proxy (canon ). a penance performed during the actual commission of or with actual affection for sin, is not a satisfaction, but a new offense. (b) for fruitfulness it is necessary that the penitent be in the state of grace when he fulfills the penance, for the works of his enemies are not supernaturally pleasing to god. or, more exactly, a penance done in the state of sin, but without affection for sin and under the influence of actual grace, has no strict right either of justice or of friendship to divine acceptance; but it seems fitting that such penance be accepted by the divine liberality in part satisfaction for sins forgiven. . the obligation of accepting and performing a penance.--(a) _per se_, the obligation is grave, since the penance belongs to the integrity of the sacrament, and hence its refusal or neglect is an injury to a sacred thing. (b) _per accidens_, the obligation may be light, and this is held to be the case when the penance was imposed for free matter, or when the satisfaction prescribed is a light work (such as one or two hail marys). a penitent is not bound to accept an unreasonable penance, and he may seek a commutation if such a penance is imposed. as a rule, negligence about the circumstances of a penance (e.g., the time, or posture) is not a grave sin, but exceptionally it may be serious (e.g., if one delays a gravely obligatory penance six months, or so long as to be in danger of forgetting it; if one omits to say a prayer on bended knees when this was chiefly intended by the confessor). . causes that excuse from a penance imposed.--(a) commutation.--if there is a just reason (e.g., the over-severity of the penance), the penitent may have his penance changed to something lighter. the confessor who imposed the penance may be asked to change it, even probably after and outside of confession, and after a long time, and though he does not remember the confession. another confessor may lessen the penance, but only in confession and after he has heard at least a summary repetition of the sins for which the penance was given. (b) cessation.--there is no obligation to fulfill a penance in case of impossibility, whether physical (e.g., if the penitent is dying and can neither say the prayers ordered nor ask for a commutation), or moral (e.g., if the penitent has forgotten the penance and cannot conveniently ask the confessor about it). . requirements in the minister for valid absolution.--(a) the divine law requires the power of orders, for only priests were appointed by christ as the ministers of penance, (b) the natural law requires the power of jurisdiction, since the sacrament of penance is exercised in the form of a judicial process, which supposes authority to judge. (c) the law of the church requires the approval of the bishop, or his decision that the priest is a fit person to hear confessions. approbation is always given along with jurisdiction. . power of jurisdiction.--the power of jurisdiction is so necessary that without it absolution is null. (a) jurisdiction in general is treated in canons sqq. of the code. ordinary jurisdiction is had by the pope for the whole church, and by ordinaries, parish-priests, exempt religious superiors, etc., for their own subjects. delegated jurisdiction comes from the law itself in favor of penitents who are dying (canon ), or who are making a sea voyage (canon ), a privilege extended recently also to those who are making air journeys, or who are outside their domicile (canon ), etc.; while delegated jurisdiction from man is had by those priests who have obtained faculties orally or in writing from the competent superior (canon ). (b) jurisdiction in special cases is treated in canons , , , sqq. religious women living in community should have for each house one ordinary confessor and one extraordinary confessor who comes four times a year. further, the bishop should appoint supplementary confessors to whom the religious may freely make their confessions, and special confessors for individual sisters when spiritual progress is aided by such an arrangement. . when the church supplies jurisdiction.--in certain cases the church, for the good of souls, supplies jurisdiction for the time being to priests who lack it: (a) in case of common error, that is, when all or many of the faithful in a place think that a priest has jurisdiction, as when he is seated in the confessional of a public church hearing or waiting to hear those who are going to confession. the common error is not of law, but of fact; (b) in case of uncertainty of law (e.g., whether a certain sin is reserved) or of fact (e.g., whether the confessor's jurisdiction has expired) about the confessor's jurisdiction, if the confessor has a positive or probable reason in favor of his right to absolve. the church supplies jurisdiction in the absolution of a reserved censure whose reservation was not known to the priest, unless it be _ab homine_ or most specially reserved to the holy see (canon , n. ); (c) in case of danger of death, when full jurisdiction is granted to every priest (canon ). . limitation of jurisdiction.--(a) reserved sins or cases.--for the sake of discipline and the good of souls the absolution of certain more atrocious or pernicious crimes is reserved to higher superiors, namely, to the pope or the ordinary. reservation is not incurred in a case reserved on account of censure, if the penitent's act was not gravely imputable; nor probably in a case reserved for its own sake (unless the reserving authority willed otherwise), if the penitent was ignorant (though not crassly or supinely) of the reservation (canon ). to fall under reservation, a sin must be mortal, consummated (i.e.. not merely attempted) certain and formal (i.e., perpetrated with knowledge of the special malice that caused reservation). reservation ceases when confession is made by the sick who are unable to leave the house or by those who are about to be married; when the superior has refused the request for faculties to absolve a reserved case, or the confessor prudently decides that the request for faculties cannot be made without grave detriment to the penitent or danger to the seal; when confession is made outside the territory of the superior who reserves the sin (canon ). (b) reserved persons.--those who have not special faculties cannot validly hear the confessions of nuns (canon ), for the director of consciences of these religious should be endowed with special virtue, knowledge and prudence. religious superiors, novice-masters, and rectors of seminaries or colleges should not act habitually as confessors of their subjects (canons , n. , ), lest the distinction between the internal and the external forum be forgotten. finally, to prevent abuse of the sacrament and occasions of relapse, a confessor cannot validly absolve his accomplice in a sin against the sixth commandment, consummated or unconsummated, or from the sin of complicity itself, as necessary matter of the sacrament, if the sin was on both sides external, certain, and both internally and externally grave (canons , ). . absolution from reserved cases.--(a) in danger of death, any priest can absolve every reserved sin and censure, but, should the penitent recover, there is a duty in certain specified cases of having recourse to the lawful superior (canons , ). the latter canon specifies two cases in which recourse is necessary after the person recovers, namely, a censure _ab homine_ and one most specially reserved to the holy see. a third case has been added by the sacred penitentiary, namely, when a priest who has attempted marriage and is unable to separate asks for absolution from the censure of canon , § , in danger of death. (b) in urgent cases, namely, if censures _latae sententiae_ cannot be observed externally without grave danger of scandal or infamy, or if it is hard for the penitent to remain in the state of grave sin for such time as may be necessary in order that the competent superior may provide, then any confessor can, in the sacramental forum, absolve from these censures, no matter how they are reserved, imposing, under pain of falling back into the censure, the obligation of having recourse within a month (at least by letter and through the confessor, if it can be done without grave inconvenience), without mentioning the name, to the sacred penitentiary or to a bishop or other superior who has the faculty. the confessor imposes also the obligation of fulfilling his injunctions (canon , § ). it is to be noted: ) the circumstances constituting an urgent case are the two specified in the canon: the difficulty of observing the censure; the hardship of remaining in sin, ) the object of the absolution is all censures _latae sententiae_, however reserved, with one exception, namely, the censure incurred under canon , § , the case of a priest who, after an attempted marriage, is unable to separate. no absolution as an urgent case under this canon can be given. the censure _latae sententiae_ for false denunciation can be absolved under this canon only if the conditions of canon have been fulfilled (actual formal retraction and reparation; imposition of a grave and long penance; and the sin itself remains reserved _ratione sui_ to the holy see). ) sufficient extrinsic authority is available to make safe in practice the extension of the grant of power of this canon to censures _ab homine_ which are _ferendae sententiae_. ) sections and of this canon indicate the right of the penitent to go afterwards to a privileged confessor without making the recourse to the superior enjoined upon him or observing the _mandata_ from the superior in case he has already made recourse, and the procedure to be followed when recourse is morally impossible. (c) outside of necessity, only those can absolve who have ordinary or delegated faculties. the law itself grants to pastors the power to absolve during the whole of paschal time from all sins which the ordinary has reserved to himself, and missionaries have the same power during the time they are giving a mission (canon , n. ). this does not apply to censures nor to cases reserved to the ordinary by the apostolic see or by law, such as the excommunication _latae sententiae_ which canon declares against the procurers of abortion. . absolution given by one not possessed of jurisdiction.--(a) effect.--absolution of mortal sins given without jurisdiction is invalid; and of venial sins, is unlawful and probably invalid. in some cases, however, the church supplies jurisdiction, as was said above ( ). (b) guilt.--there is no sin if the absolution is given in good faith, as when a confessor is inculpably ignorant of a reservation. if absolution is given in bad faith and the confessor knows that the church does not supply, there is a grave sin on account of the irreverence to the sacrament and the harm to the penitent. if the confessor knows that he lacks jurisdiction, but that the church supplies on account of common error, it seems that no sin is committed if there is a good reason for giving absolution (e.g., the absence of other priests); but otherwise there is mortal or venial sin according to circumstances. (c) penalty.--he who with presumption hears confessions without jurisdiction or absolves from a reserved case for which he has no faculties, incurs in the former case _ipso facto_ suspension from the power of orders, and in the latter case _ipso facto_ suspension from hearing confessions (canon ). . duties of the confessor before confession.--(a) fitness to hear confessions.--the confessor should have sufficient knowledge to be able readily to solve the usual cases and to work out or find the solution of the more difficult cases; sufficient prudence to be able to apply his knowledge well and to avoid what is dangerous or suspicious; sufficient goodness to be sincerely desirous of the spiritual advantage of the penitent, and to be patient in hearing him and firm in correcting him. (b) willingness to h ear confessions.-the confessor is obliged either from justice or charity ( ) to hear the confessions of those who reasonably request it. he should observe the rules of the ritual and of the code as to the manner and place of confession (canons - ). . duties of the confessor as judge in hearing the case.--(a) since confession should be entire, the confessor is gravely bound to question the penitent, when there is reason to think that the confession is not entire. with pious and well-instructed persons, of course, there is no need of questioning, and, since the duty of integrity rests primarily on the penitent, the confessor's negligence may be regarded as venial when he is burdened by a great multitude of confessions. (b) since confession must not be made onerous or harmful to penitents, the confessor is bound to be very discreet in the questions he asks, and to follow the rule that it is far better to say too little than to say too much. he must avoid any word or remark that might teach sin to the young or scandalize the old; he must be very reserved when speaking of matters that pertain to the sixth commandment, and, if there is need to question about them, should begin with very general queries. neither directly nor indirectly may he inquire the name of an accomplice of the penitent (canon ); but he is allowed to investigate matters which he has a right to know, even though the accomplice thereby becomes known to him. if the common good requires that a complaint be lodged against the accomplice, the confessor may oblige the penitent to make this complaint to the proper superior; but it is seldom advisable that the confessor agree to perform this duty himself, and then he should require that the penitent speak to him about the affair outside of confession, if this can be done (see ). (c) since the penitent acts as the accuser in confession, he should be believed both for and against himself. but should it happen that the confessor knows for certain that his penitent is lying, his procedure will depend on the source of his knowledge. if the knowledge is not of sacramental origin but comes from the confessor's own reliable experience (e.g., because he saw the penitent commit a sin and is sure that the silence about the sin is not due to forgetfulness, ignorance or previous confession of it), he should try to induce the penitent to confess, and, if the latter refuses, should deny absolution. if the confessor is morally certain on account of the word of a third person that the penitent is now concealing a sin, it seems to some authorities that absolution may be either granted or refused, to others that it must be refused. finally, if the confessor's knowledge comes from a previous sacramental confession or other obligatory secret, he is held to respect the secret; he may not ask any questions which he would not have asked otherwise, and, if the penitent will not confess, he must either grant absolution, as some hold, or dissimulate its denial, as others think. . duties of the confessor-judge in deciding about the case.--(a) the confessor should pass judgment on the past state of the penitent's soul as declared to him, but defect or mistake here would not make the sacrament null. the objective malice of the sins (i.e., their theological and moral malice) will be recognized by the priest from his knowledge of theology, and the subjective malice from the declarations or replies of the penitent. at times the confessor will have to rest satisfied with the decision that the sin or its character is uncertain. (b) the confessor should pass judgment on the present dispositions of the penitent, or the sincerity of his sorrow and resolution; but it suffices that the judgment be probable, and there be no strong suspicion against it. the penitent's devout confession, or his promise of amendment, the trouble he took to make his confession, etc., are indexes of good faith, just as boastful confession, disregard for former promises, and unwillingness or carelessness about coming to confession are signs of bad faith. . duties of the confessor-judge in passing sentence.--(a) the duty of binding.--the confessor must impose upon the penitent such duties as are necessitated by the essence of the sacrament (e.g., there is no true contrition without willingness to make due restitution, reparation, or satisfaction, and to avoid sinful occasions and to struggle against bad habits), or such penalties as are required for its integrity (i.e., the priest must impose a suitable penance). to safeguard morals, the law of the church gravely obliges a confessor to require his penitent _sub gravi_ to denounce another confessor certainly guilty of the crime of solicitation, unless there be a grave reason that excuses the penitent; and, if the penitent refuses, absolution must be denied. on the details of this law and on the penalties for solicitation, refusal to denounce, and false accusation, see commentaries on canons , and of the code. (b) the duty of loosing.--the confessor is bound _sub gravi_ to give absolution at once to one who is properly disposed, for there is a tacit contract between the penitent and the confessor that absolution will be granted if the penitent is worthy; the penitent puts himself to considerable trouble to obtain forgiveness, and he is deprived of a great good if absolution is refused (canon ). if only free matter is confessed, it is a venial sin now and then to deny absolution without reason, but no sin to deny it for a good reason if the penitent consents. (c) the duty of retaining.--the confessor should always refuse absolution to those who are certainly not contrite and in whom he cannot awaken true repentance, for absolution would be of no benefit to such persons and would make the confessor an encourager of sin. likewise, absolution should be denied those who are incapable (e.g., those who have not as yet committed sin or who confess only imperfections). if there is doubt about the fitness or capacity of the penitent, absolution should generally be delayed; but it may be granted conditionally for a serious reason (e.g., if the penitent is in a state of sin and cannot return to confession for a long time), and it should be granted conditionally for a very serious reason (e.g., if the penitent will probably not return, or if he is confessing in preparation for marriage). . penitents to whom absolution should be denied.--there are three classes of penitents especially to whom absolution should be frequently denied on account of their lack of repentance: (a) those who refuse to abandon a proximate and voluntary occasion of grave sin, for these are impenitent and unworthy of absolution. but absolution may be given those who promise to abandon a proximate and voluntary occasion, or to use the proper means of safety if they are in a proximate and necessary occasion of sin (see sqq.); (b) those who have contracted the habit of some grave sin, if they are unwilling to use the proper means to overcome it; but if they seriously promise to use means prescribed by the confessor, they should be considered as well disposed. a sin is habitual when it is committed often--that is, for an external sin about five times a month, and for an internal sin about five times a week-and when the sinner acts for the proper motive of the vice, e.g., in injustice for disorder, in intemperance for pleasure of the sense, in sins against charity out of hatred, etc. but consideration should be taken also of the character of the person (i.e., a weak-willed person is enslaved by habit more readily than a strong-willed person) and of the vice (i.e., an alluring sin like impurity becomes a habit more quickly than other sins); (c) those backsliders or recidivists who have confessed the same grave sin in three or four previous confessions and have relapsed into it again without any improvement. these persons should be absolved if they are sincere now and give some special indication as proof of sincerity (e.g., some effort made to conquer their habit); otherwise (except in great necessity, when they may be given the benefit of the doubt and be granted conditional absolution) they should not be absolved but should be put off kindly for a short space, since there is no reason to believe that the present sorrow is any better than that of the past. . the sacramental penance.--(a) obligation.--the confessor is bound to impose a penance in order to provide for the integrity of the sacrament and the good of the penitent. exceptions to this rule are the cases when the penitent cannot perform any penance, as when he is at the point of death, and when the penitent after the imposition of a penance and absolution remembers new and necessary matter. it is at least a venial sin to delay the giving of a penance till after the absolution, and it is a grave sin to give no penance at all, unless (as some hold) only a light penance was due. (b) quantity.--the amount of the penance should be suited as a punishment to the degree of the penitent's guilt, that is, a heavier penance should be given for necessary matter and a lighter penance for free matter. the penance should also take into consideration the moral malice and the frequency of the sins. works that the church may order under pain of serious sin suffice for necessary matter (such as a mass, a fast, five decades of the rosary, or the litany of the saints). light penances are the _de profundis_, the litany of st. joseph, five paters and five aves. for a sufficient reason (e.g., the sickness of the penitent, the probability that a grave penance will keep him from future confession, the fact that his sorrow is very great or that he has gained a plenary indulgence, the performance of satisfaction for him by the confessor himself) the quantity of a penance may be lessened. a grave penance may be lightened by joining it with some duty already owed (e.g., by requiring the penitent to say the rosary while hearing sunday mass, by obliging him to hear mass on sunday and also to say a few prayers after the mass). (c) quality.--the character of the penance should make it suitable as a remedy for the spiritual disease of the penitent; that is, as far as possible he should be required to perform works that tend to correct his chief failings. thus, for those who are uncharitable or avaricious an alms or other work of mercy is a good penance; for those who are given to pleasures of sense, a fast or other corporal austerity; for those who are lax or irreligious, a prayer, a visit to the blessed sacrament, a meditation, or frequentation of the sacraments. ordinarily it suffices to impose prayers as penances, since prayer is a universal remedy. penances unsuitable to the penitent (e.g., fasts for one who needs nourishment on account of labors), those that are too difficult (e.g., perpetual or long-continued practices), those that are harmful (e.g., penances that will bring the penitent into suspicion or ridicule), must be avoided. . the duties of the confessor as spiritual physician.--(a) general remedies.--the confessor should give much attention to the study of moral and ascetical works, so as to be able to suggest suitable means to his penitents for overcoming their spiritual infirmities and avoiding future relapses. thus, if a penitent desires to know or ought to be told how to struggle against anger, drunkenness or impurity, the confessor should know how to advise him and what measures to recommend to him. (b) special remedies.--certain classes of penitents need special attention. thus, the tempted and afflicted should be told the means of fighting temptation and sadness; the scrupulous should be forbidden to examine their consciences too carefully, or to accuse themselves minutely, or to spend too much time at devotions; the sick and the dying should be encouraged to dispose themselves well and to put aside thoughts of fear and discouragement; pious persons often need assistance when they suffer temptations to tepidity or spiritual desolation. the careless, lazy, malicious, and hardened should be reproved, but sternness should not be unmingled with kindness, lest the penitent be driven away from his duty altogether. . the duties of the confessor as teacher and guide.--(a) instruction.--the confessor should teach children and other ignorant persons if he finds that they do not know truths necessary to be known for a fruitful reception of the sacrament--that is, the mysteries of faith that must be believed explicitly and the dispositions for receiving absolution ( ). he should instruct about duties when this will be for the penitent's good--that is, when the penitent falsely believes something to be sinful which is not sinful, or to be gravely sinful that is only lightly sinful, or when the penitent's ignorance of an obligation is gravely culpable, or when he is invincibly ignorant but will be kept from a sin without graver evil if he is instructed now. if an instruction will probably do no good, a confessor should not instruct an invincibly ignorant penitent about his duties, unless silence will be productive of greater evils than instruction. thus, if the confessor foresees that the penitent will only be put in bad faith if he is told about a duty of restitution, it would be useless and wrong to speak to him about it; but if he should foresee that, if he does not speak, the penitent will do worse things with great injury or scandal to others, it would be necessary to instruct him. (b) direction.--in spiritual matters a confessor should be willing and able to counsel and advise, for example, about the choice of a state of life (marriage, clerical state, religious life), about voluntary rules or practices (vows, austerities), and about the performance of duties (e.g., training of children). for advice on temporal matters a priest should either direct his penitents to lawyers, physicians or other professional advisers, or, if he can give prudent direction himself (e.g., on artistic, educational, or business questions), he should preferably discuss the matter elsewhere than in the confessional. . the duties of the confessor after confession.--(a) _per se_, or by reason of his office itself, the confessor is held to guard inviolate the secret of the confessional--that is, he may not disclose, or use to the penitent's disadvantage, any information received from sacramental confession. this duty is a grave one imposed by natural law (since there is a quasi-contract that the confessor will treat the penitent's confession as confidential), by divine law (since christ, in willing that confession be used, implicitly willed that it be so conducted as not to become a thing odious, scandalous and harmful), and by church law (for canons , , , strictly forbid revelations or use of sacramental knowledge and decree severe penalties against transgressors). since god wipes out from remembrance the sins he has pardoned, the confessor, being god's representative, must treat what he has heard as not known to him. the obligation of the seal is so strict that no one may dispense from it, that neither probabilism nor epieikeia may be applied to it, and that no exception is allowed unless the penitent himself freely, unmistakably and for a serious reason gives permission for it to the confessor. (b) _per accidens_, or by reason of a mistake committed by him (e.g., absolution mistakenly refused or invalidly given, erroneous notion about the gravity of a sin imparted or not corrected, restitution imposed where not due or not imposed where due), a confessor is held to see that the mistake is corrected and that the penitent or a third party is spared or rescued from the harm which will follow from the mistake. the obligation is one of justice in those cases where there is a violation of implicit agreement (e.g., absolution unreasonably withheld), or damage positively and culpably caused (e.g., erroneous advice about the gravity of a sin or about the duty of restitution); it is one of charity in other cases where the confessor can without undue inconvenience assist the spiritual or temporal need of the penitent or of another (e.g., penitent's misunderstanding about his duty of restitution which the confessor failed to clear up). the duty of repairing mistakes is grave when there is grave damage (e.g., invalid absolution of mortal sins) and grave guilt was contracted by the mistake (e.g., if the invalidity was voluntary) or will be contracted by refusal to prevent the consequences of the mistake (e.g., if the invalidity has been discovered, and one knows that the penitent will die unabsolved, if one does not rectify the error). the duty is light if there is light damage (e.g., invalid absolution of free matter, or of necessary matter confessed by a person who will go to the sacraments soon again), or light culpability (e.g., failure to question about the species or number of sins, or to impose a penance, when the failure is due to distraction or forgetfulness). . manner of repairing defects made in hearing a confession.--(a) the reparation to be made.--if the penitent has been deprived of absolution, he should be absolved; if he has been wrongly instructed, he should be set right; if temporal loss has been caused, temporal restitution should be made. (b) the person to whom restitution should be made.--the injured person should be compensated. hence if restitution was mistakenly imposed on the penitent and he cannot recover his property, the confessor should reimburse him; if the penitent was mistakenly excused from restitution, payment is due the third party who loses by the advice. (e) the manner of making reparation.--if possible, the reparation should be made in the penitent's next confession, as this is less troublesome to all concerned. but if the confessor has wrongly instructed the penitent in an important matter, he is bound more probably (after obtaining the penitent's permission to speak about confession matter) to retract, even outside of the confessional, if this can be done without scandal or other serious evil, which would be rare. . excuses from the duty of repairing mistakes.--(a) physical impossibility.--if the confessor does not know who the penitent is or cannot find him, there is nothing to do but to repent over the mistake and to pray for the penitent that god may provide for him. (b) moral impossibility.--grave inconvenience excuses, unless the confessor has been seriously at fault against justice (e.g., by omitting absolution, by giving incorrect instruction in an important matter, by neglecting to warn against an occasion of serious sin, by wrongly advising on restitution of a large sum), or the salvation of a soul is at stake, as when an unabsolved penitent is dying (see sqq.) . the obligation of the seal of confession.--(a) its subject.--primarily the duty of the seal obliges the confessor, secondarily all others to whom the matter of sacramental confession in any way becomes known, such as bystanders, interpreters, or those who have spied into a confession. the penitent on his part is bound to keep as a natural secret the words of the confessor which the latter would rightly wish to be kept confidential (e.g., it would not be fair to excuse oneself in making necessary corrections, by saying that one was acting under advice of one's confessor, especially since the confessor cannot defend himself). (b) its object.--primarily, the seal extends to all sins confessed, whether they be light or grave, private or public; and a confessor may not confirm from his knowledge as confessor what he also knows from other knowledge. secondarily, it extends to all that is declared for a fuller explanation of the sins, such as circumstances, purpose, occasion, coöperation, and to all those things whose revelation would endanger the seal or make the sacrament odious, such as the denial of absolution, the penance given, the insincerity, impatience or scrupulosity shown in confessing, the fact that a confession was long or a general review. other matters not generally known and which the penitent reasonably wishes to be confidential (e.g., the fact that he made his confession, his natural defects of illegitimacy or deafness) should be kept as natural secrets. but there is no duty of sacramental or natural silence about matters which the confessor knows from other sources and which he is free to mention (e.g., facts learned from a non-sacramental confession made to the priest and others with a view to its use, or from the confessor's own perception of a theft committed by the penitent in the act of confession). . sins against the seal of confession.--(a) direct violation happens if a confessor declares, either to the penitent himself or to another, matter protected by the seal, and with such clearness that both the penitent and his sin can be recognized. this occurs even though no names are mentioned, or the penitent is unknown to the listeners, or is no longer living, or when the listeners do not perceive that sacramental knowledge is being used. the sin is grave, and, since the injury to religion and the public is always serious, it admits of no lightness of matter. the penalty is excommunication most specially reserved to the pope (canon ). (b) indirect violation happens if a confessor so speaks or acts as to create a danger of direct violation (e.g., if he speaks so loud in the confessional that those outside can hear, or if he is suspiciously silent when the penitent is being commended, or if he warns the parents of a penitent to be specially watchful of him, or if he refuses to hear a confession because he knows from a previous confession that the person is very scrupulous, or if he shows less confidence or regard for the penitent). the sin admits of lightness of matter, since the danger of direct violation may be remote; but if there is grave culpability, suspension or even severer penalties may be inflicted (canons , ). (c) unlawful use of sacramental knowledge happens if there is no direct or indirect violation of the seal, but the confessor's conduct is such as to make confession distasteful either to the penitent or to others, as when a superior is guided in giving his vote or directing his subject by information gathered from confession. this is forbidden in canon . (d) apparent violation of the seal happens if there is really no direct or indirect violation of the seal, or unlawful use of confessional knowledge, but a priest's language is calculated to arouse a reasonable suspicion that some such sin is being committed (e.g., if a preacher or retreat master or writer of moral cases uses illustrations from confessions heard by him which will excite distrust in his own or other penitents). serious scandal and defamation may also be caused by public statements unfavorable to the morals of a certain city or community or class. . special abuses.--two abuses to which confession is especially exposed are defamation and impurity, and hence the law of the church provides special safeguards against these dangers (see , , ). (a) defamation.--the fame of third parties is protected by the law which forbids the confessor to inquire about the penitent's accomplice, the fame of the penitent by the law of the sacramental seal, and the fame of the confessor by the law which subjects those who bring a false accusation of solicitation against a confessor to excommunication specially reserved to the pope, to retractation, reparation, and severe penance (canons , n. , sqq., ). (b) impurity.--the danger that a confessor will be tempted to solicitation by his knowledge of the frailty of a penitent is provided for by the law which severely commands formal denunciation of those guilty of solicitation (canon ); the danger that a penitent may be induced to yield to solicitation by a promise to absolve the sin is met by the law which invalidates absolution of an accomplice (canon ). . absolutio complicis.--absolutio complicis in peccato turpi invalida est praeterquam in mortis periculo (canon ). (a) objectum legis est peccatum turpe, i.e., quodvis peccatum contra sextum, consummatum vel non consummatum, colloquiis, aspectibus vel factis patratum. necesse est autem quod peccatum sit utrinque certum (quoad factum et jus), externum, et grave (qua internum et qua externum). unde non agitur de peccatis contra alias virtutes, neque de peccatis luxuriæ mere internis vel levibus. (b) subjectum de quo in lege est complex seu socius immediatus et formalis in ipso actu peccati; et sic non sufficit ad complicitatem cooperatio etiam proxima ( ), nec peccatum mere materiale, quale fit ab amente, dormiente, ebrio, infante, renitente. non requiritur tamen quod compar sit puber vel alius sexus, neque quod confessarius tempore complicitatis jam inter clericos adscriptus sit. . effectus legis de absolutione complicis.--(a) quoad absalutionem.--invalida et illicita est absolutio directa peccati nondum remissi si extra periculum mortis datur. est valida sed illicita: absolutio directa peccati nondum remissi, in periculo mortis data, quando alius sacerdos confessionem recipere potest; necnon absolutio indirecta peccati nondum remissi, extra periculum mortis data, quando poenitens bona fide peccatum reticet. est valida et licita absolutio directa peccati nondum remissi, in periculo mortis vel in gravissima necessitate (utputa urgente præcepto ecclesiastico et divino confessionis et communionis annuae) data, quando alius sacerdos aut nullimode aut nonnisi cum gravi incommodo (scil. infamiæ, scandali, periculi confessionis sacrilegæ) haberi potest; necnon absolutio directa peccati jam remissi, etiam extra hoc periculum et hanc necessitatem facta. non una tamen est sententia auctorum in interpretandis dubiis hujus legis, nec omnes conveniunt cum placitis hic positis, nam de dubiis alii strictius, alii mitius judicant. (b) quoad censuram.--excommunicatio specialissime reservata s. sedi ipso facto incurritur a confessario qui illicite absolvit vel fingit absolvere, sive directe, sive (quando poenitens ad tacendum inductus est a confessario ipso) indirecte. censura non incurritur igitur si confessio tantum auditur, si poenitens propria sponte peccatum reticet, si sacerdos dubitat num poenitens complex sit (canon ). . sacerdos reus delicti sollicitationis in confessione intra mensem denuntiandus est a poenitente loci ordinario vel s.c.s. officii (canon ). (a) delictum sollicitationis est provocatio, etiam inefficax, poenitentis eujuscumque ut actum quemcumque gravem contra castitatem committat. provocatio fit vel per verba (e.g., declarationes amoris, invitationes, laudes), per facta (e.g., dona), per sermones (e.g., colloquia de turpibus a poenitente confessis), per tractatus (scil. colloquia de re turpi agenda), per consensum internum-externum sollicitationi poenitentis datum. (b) delictum sollicitationis est provocatio quæ ordinem habet ad confessionem, i.e., quæ fit tempore factae confessionis (i.e., inter, immediate ante, immediate post confessionem), vel tempore confessionis faciendæ (i.e., occasione confessionis petitæ a poenitente, prætextu confessionis falso allegatæ a confessario, in loco confessionis cum confessionis simulatione). . confessarius debet, graviter onerata ejus conscientia, de onere denuntiationis poenitentem monere. (a) obligatio confessarii gravis est. sed antequam moneat, serio consideret utrum poenitens persona fide digna sit, utrum certo constet de facto, de turpitudine, de gravitate, de ordine ad confessionem, utrum detur causa excusans (e.g., mors sollicitantis; probabiliter, ejus plena emendatio per plures annos manifestata; grave damnum poenitentis quoad vitam, famam, fortunam, nisi gravius damnum simul immineat bono communi). si de delicto sollicitationis et de obligatione poenitentis nullum dubium est, confessarius moneat, etiamsi poenitens in bona fide sit et prævideatur certo non obtemperaturus, mortis periculo autem excepto. si poenitens irrationabiliter renuat denuntiare, absolvi non potest, sed confessarius de casu consulere debet ordinarium. (b) obligatio poenitentis etiam gravis est. denuntiatio facienda est intra mensem a cognita obligatione., ordinario sollicitantis, vel loci delicti, vel poenitentis, personaliter et judicialiter. poenitens qui nec comparere nec scribere potest, interea excusatur; sed ille qui justa causa exemptionis carens scienter omittit denuntiare intra terminum unius mensis incurrit in excommunicationem latæ sententiæ nemini reservatum, non absolvendus nisi postquam obligationi satisfecerit aut se satisfacturum serio promiserit (canon , n. ). confessarius non tenetur in se suscipere onus denuntiationis, nisi secus gravissimum damnum bono publico inferretur. . the sacrament of extreme unction.--as confirmation perfects baptism by bringing to maturity the new life of grace, so extreme unction perfects penance by strengthening against the spiritual debility that remains after sin itself has been wiped away. confirmation makes ready for the battle of life, extreme unction assists during the struggle of death. the fifth sacrament is defined: "a sacrament of the new law in which through the anointing with oil and the prayer of the priest adult persons who are in danger of death receive health of soul, and also at times health of body." (a) the remote matter or element of the sacrament is oil (james, v, , ). for validity it is required that this be olive oil, blessed by a bishop or by a priest having special papal delegation, with the special blessing for the oil of the sick (o. i.); for lawfulness, _sub gravi_ that it be oil blessed the previous holy thursday (canon ), _sub levi_ at least that it be blessed by the bishop of the diocese, or, in case of vacancy, by the neighboring bishop. in necessity the old oils may be lawfully used, while chrism and the oil of the catechumens may be used as doubtful matter. unblessed oils and oils blessed by an unauthorized priest do not suffice for validity. (b) the proximate matter is the anointing of the sick man with blessed oil. in urgent necessity it suffices to anoint one sense, or rather the forehead; in other cases the various senses should be anointed in the order given in the ritual. each anointing of a double sense should begin with the right organ (e.g., the right eye) and should be given with the right thumb in the form of a cross. if one organ is missing (e.g., a hand amputated), the anointing should be made, if possible, near to its place (e.g., on the wrist); if there is danger of contagion, the anointing may be made by means of an instrument, such as a brush or small stick. the anointing of the reins should always be omitted and the anointing of the feet may be omitted for any good reason, such as inconvenience to the dying person. (c) the form of the sacrament is the prayer used by the priest. in the latin church the ordinary form is contained in the words: "_per istam sanctam unctionem_, etc. by this holy anointing and his most tender mercy may the lord forgive thee whatever sin thou hast committed by sight (by hearing, by smell, by taste and speech, by touch, by thy steps). amen." the extraordinary rite for use when there is not time to give all the anointings is bestowed on the forehead in the words: "per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam indulgeat tibi dominus quidquid deliquisti. amen." the essential words of the form are: "per istam unctionem indulgeat tibi dominus quidquid deliquisti," because they express the intercession and the effect of the rite. it would probably be a grave sin to omit the reference to the senses in the ordinary form, as that seems to be a notable part of the form; but it would be a light sin, apart from contempt or scandal, to omit an unimportant word such as "amen." if there is doubt about the recipient's capacity (i.e., whether he has reached the use of reason, whether he is in danger of death, whether he is already dead, whether he is impenitent and unwilling to receive the sacrament), the form should be conditional. the condition should be "_si es capax_," not "_si es dispositus_," even in the last-mentioned case. for the sacrament is given validly even to one who is not well disposed (i.e., who lacks repentance) and there is thus the possibility, when validity is not made dependent on the condition of good disposition, that sacramental fruitfulness will follow later when impenitence, the obstacle to the sacrament's activity, shall have been removed. (d) the recipient of the sacrament is a catholic who after attaining the use of reason has come into the danger of death through sickness or old age. no one is capable of receiving this sacrament unless he is baptized, for baptism is the gateway of the sacraments ( ); unless he has reached the use of reason, for the sacrament is a remedy against personal sin and supposes that the recipient can or formerly could distinguish between right and wrong; unless he is in danger of death through the infirmity of disease or of decrepitude, for st. james teaches that the anointing is for those who are enfeebled by illness dangerous unto death. hence extreme unction cannot be administered validly to the unbaptized, to young children who have not come to the use of reason, to the perpetually insane, to those who are sick but not in danger of death, to those who are in danger of death but not sick (e.g., a strong man going to the gallows or to battle). but the sacrament may be administered to children who have not yet made their first confession, if they are capable of sin, and to the insane who once had the use of reason. the danger of death need not be immediate, and hence extreme unction may be given when the disease is mortal but the patient will last for several months or even a year, as in tuberculosis. illness includes not only chronic sickness, but also fatal disorders caused by wounds, accidents, poison. the rule about the old is that those who have reached sixty years and show some signs of approaching death, such as great feebleness or fainting spells, even though they have no special malady, may be anointed; for their old age itself is a disease. (e) the minister of extreme unction is the priest, since st. james directs that the presbyters (i.e., the priests) of the church be called to anoint the sick. extreme unction, unlike penance, is not exercised in the form of a judicial process, and hence the power of orders suffices for its valid administration, and any priest, even one who lacks jurisdiction, gives it validly. but for lawful administration church law prescribes that the minister regularly be the ecclesiastical superior or spiritual director (i.e., the pastor for his parish, the head of a clerical religious institute for his house, the parish-priest or chaplain for a lay religious body, the confessor for nuns), and that the minister extraordinarily (i.e., in necessity) be any other priest who has permission, or reasonably presumed permission. (f) the effects of extreme unction are _per se_ an increase of sanctifying grace, since this is a sacrament of the living; _per accidens_ (i.e., when the recipient is not in the state of grace, but is in good faith and has attrition) the forgiveness of sins and first grace. extreme unction produces first grace more surely than does absolution, if the penitent is unconscious, since it does not call for any external manifestation of contrition; hence the importance of anointing those who are dying but unconscious. the special benefit of extreme unction is immediate preparation of the soul for entrance to heaven, though restoration of the health of the body is sometimes vouchsafed when this is for the spiritual good of the sick person. venial sins and the remains of past sins (i.e., the debility left by them) are removed and the soul is strengthened with confidence as to things past and future and with peace and resignation as to present suffering. since the sacrament is given for the period of danger of death, it cannot be repeated during the same danger; but should the patient recover and relapse into a distinct danger through the same or another sickness, there arises a new need and the sacrament may then be repeated. . special duties.--in addition to the duties that are common in all the sacraments, the following duties should be noted in reference to extreme unction. (a) the recipient.--_per se_, extreme unction is not necessary as a means to salvation, for sanctifying grace may be had or recovered without it; but _per accidens_ it would be necessary as a means, if a dying person were in mortal sin and could not recover grace except through it. he who omits extreme unction unwillingly or for a good reason (e.g., because he is well prepared for death and cannot get a priest without very grave inconvenience) does not sin. he who omits the sacrament voluntarily and without good reason, is guilty of grave sin if he acts from contempt, or gives scandal, or exposes himself to eternal damnation; but if there is no contempt, scandal or danger to salvation, sin is indeed committed by the neglect at such a crisis of so important a spiritual aid, but only venial sin, since there is no grave precept to receive this sacrament. the recipient of extreme unction should be in the state of grace; and hence, if he has mortal sin on his conscience, he must beforehand make an act of contrition or receive absolution with attrition, or, if neither is possible, he must make an act of attrition. the custom of the church calls for confession before extreme unction, and divine law commands confession if one is in mortal sin and in danger of death. (b) the minister.--the pastor is gravely bound in justice to give or have given the sacrament of extreme unction to all his subjects who reasonably request it; other priests not charged with the spiritual care of the dying person are held in charity to anoint him, if he has not received the last rites and cannot otherwise be anointed. it is clear that sick calls should be attended to promptly, and it would be a serious matter to delay so long as to put the sick person in danger of dying without extreme unction or of receiving it when he had become unconscious and could not dispose himself properly. if the person has been pronounced dead before the priest's arrival, he should nevertheless be absolved and anointed conditionally if the last breath was not long before; because physicians teach that death takes possession gradually, life lingering in the body for some time after its external signs have ceased, for about a half hour when the end has come after long illness, for one or two hours when death is sudden or accidental. the ceremonies are obligatory under pain of sin, and it is considered a serious matter to neglect the more notable parts, that is, without reason to omit all or nearly all the prayers, or to give the sacrament without any sacred vestment. (c) the pastor.--the oil of the sick should be kept in a neat and properly decorated place, and should be contained in a vessel of silver or white metal. only in exceptional cases is it lawful to keep it in the rectory (canon ). the catechism of the council of trent (page ) declares that extreme unction should form a subject of frequent instruction. it is important to exhort the people not to delay in sending for the priest till the sick person has become insensible, nor to omit to send for him in case of sudden death, since, as already said, life remains for some time in the body after apparent death. (d) the people.--all those who are responsible for the good of the dying person, such as members of the family, physicians, nurses, relatives, friends, or neighbors, should beware of deceiving him about his condition and his need of preparation for death; on the contrary, they should see to it as far as they can, that he receives the last sacraments in good time and while he has the full use of his senses, when the spiritual benefit and the comfort of mind will be of greater assistance and the bodily cure more likely. art. : holy orders; matrimony (_summa theologica_, supplement, qq. - .) . the first five sacraments arc necessary for the spiritual welfare of individuals, the remaining two, which are the subject of this article, are needful, not for each person, but for the church as a body. a member of the church may save his soul though he remains outside the priesthood and the married state, but the spiritual good of the church itself requires both orders and matrimony. without orders the church would be deprived of her rulers, teachers and ministers of divine things; without matrimony the family would lack that sacramental protection which is so important for the christian home and the right rearing of members of society. . the sacrament of orders.--the spiritual office and power of a member of the clergy is called orders on account of the order or rank of superiority which it gives in the church. the rite or sacrament by which an order is conferred is strictly called ordination, and hence it is more correct to speak of the sacrament of ordination than of the sacrament of orders. ordination may be defined as "a sacrament of the new law in which a member of the clergy receives spiritual power in reference to the eucharist and the grace to exercise properly the duties of his office." (a) orders is conferred only on a member of the clergy. just as baptism is preceded by catechumenate and matrimony by espousals or engagement, so is ordination preceded by tonsure, a ceremony instituted by the church whereby a man is separated from the laity and enrolled among clerics with a view to prepare him for holy orders. the candidate for tonsure must be a male who has received baptism and confirmation (_sub levi_), and who has begun his course of theology; he sins if he approaches without a divine vocation or with the purpose not to go on for the priesthood. the privileges of clerics are those of forum and canon, and they are capable of receiving orders, jurisdiction and benefice (canons sqq). in the reception of tonsure the cleric is admonished to make his life agree with the garb which he then assumes, or, in other words, to cultivate the special virtues of his state (see sqq.). (b) ordination confers spiritual power in reference to the eucharist, the sacrament of sacraments. just as the sacred vessels of the altar receive a permanent consecration, so likewise the ministers of the altar are set apart by ordination, which confers upon them an indelible character with the power to exercise higher or lower offices in reference to the supreme sacrament and the sole sacrifice of the new law. hence, an order once conferred is eternal and the ordination cannot be repeated. (c) ordination confers grace, which is _per se_ second grace, or an increase of holiness. the special feature of the grace of orders is its suitability for the duties of the person ordained, for, where god imposes a special obligation, he confers also a special grace. it is clear that the duties of the ordained in reference to the real body of christ (i.e., duties as to the eucharist and divine worship) and the mystical body of christ (i.e., duties to the faithful who receive the eucharist and the other sacraments) call for a high degree of virtue and a life edifying to all. hence the need of a special grace in ordination. . distinction of the orders.--the following distinctions of the orders or ranks of the clergy should be noted: (a) an order is either sacramental or non-sacramental, according as it was instituted by christ himself or by the church. it is the teaching of st. thomas that all of the orders are sacramental in character, but there is not the same degree of certainty in each case. as to the priesthood, there is the certainty of defined dogma; as to the diaconate (and also episcopal consecration according to many) there is theological certainty, but no definition of faith; as to the subdiaconate, and the lower orders, there is probability; (b) an order is major (sacred) or minor (non-sacred) according as its functions are concerned with consecrated or non-consecrated matter in the celebration of the eucharist. the major orders, therefore, are the priesthood (whose office is to consecrate the body and blood of christ), diaconate (whose office is to dispense communion to the faithful), and sub-diaconate (whose office is to prepare the bread and wine of the sacrifice in the consecrated vessels, that is, the chalice and paten). the minor orders are those that prepare the matter of the eucharist in non-consecrated vessels (acolythate), or that dispose the people for the eucharist by freeing them from the impediments of demonic influence (exorcistate) or of ignorance (lectorate), or that exclude unbelievers from participation in the sacred rites (portership). to the sacred orders, on account of their closer approach to the eucharist, are annexed the duties of celibacy and of the divine office. . the hierarchy of orders and jurisdiction.--the orders of the clergy may be considered, not only in reference to power over the real body of christ (i.e., the eucharist), but also in reference to power over the mystical body of christ (i.e., the church). those who have power over the members of the church belong to the hierarchy, and this is understood in two senses: (a) the hierarchy of orders is composed of those who receive in ordination a permanent superiority over others in reference to the worship of god and the sanctification of souls by the ministry of the sacraments. from divine institution this hierarchy is composed of the three ranks of bishops, priests, and deacons; and from ecclesiastical institution of the lower clergy in orders. thus, the deacon is able to baptize and administer communion as extraordinary minister; the priest is the ordinary minister of baptism and the eucharist, and only a priest can act as minister of penance and extreme unction; the bishop is the minister, not only of the sacraments mentioned, but also of confirmation and orders; (b) the hierarchy of jurisdiction is composed of those members of the church who receive in their accepted election or canonical commission a power over the faithful which can be lost or resigned, and which relates to the instruction and government of subjects in matters of faith and morals. from divine law this hierarchy is composed of the supreme pontificate and the subordinate episcopate; from ecclesiastical law there are other ranks of authority, such as those of parish-priest, prelate, abbot, archbishop, primate, patriarch and cardinal. . the matter and form of the various orders in the latin church.--(a) in the minor orders the matter consists in the bestowal of the symbols of office, and the form in the words of ordination that accompany this bestowal. the porter is ordained when he touches with his right hand the keys of the church which the bishop presents to him with the words: "conduct yourself as one who must give an accounting for the things that are under those keys", the reader, when he touches the lectionary (i.e., missal, breviary, bible) offered him by the bishop with the form: "receive this book and announce well the word of god, knowing that, if you perform your office faithfully and usefully, you shall receive a portion with those who from the beginning have been good ministers of god's word"; the exorcist, when he touches the book of exorcisms (e.g., the ritual, pontifical or missal) presented to him with the words: "receive and commit to memory and have power to impose hands on the possessed, whether baptized or catechumens", the acolyte, when he touches the symbols of his office (i.e., first the candle and candlestick, next the empty cruet), while the words are said: "receive this candlestick and candle and know that you are deputed to light the lamps of the church, in the name of the lord"; "receive this cruet to furnish the wine and water for the eucharist of the blood of christ, in the name of the lord." "amen" should be added by the acolyte after each form. (b) in the subdiaconate, ordination is given when the candidate touches the empty chalice and the paten (the bishop saying: "see what a ministry is committed to you; i admonish you, therefore, so to conduct yourselves that you may be pleasing to god") and the book of epistles, such as missal or bible (the bishop saying: "receive the book of epistles and have power to read them in the holy church of god, both for the living and for the dead. in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost"). (c) pope pius xii in an official decree, an apostolic constitution of nov. , (see aas, - ), determined the essential elements of ordination to diaconate, priesthood and episcopate. formerly this had been a matter of discussion among theologians. in the diaconate ordination is given by the single imposition of the hands of the bishop that occurs in the rite with the words of the "preface," of which these are the essential: "send into him, we ask, o lord, the holy spirit, by which he shall be strengthened by the gift of thy sevenfold grace for the faithful performance of the work of the ministry." (d) the matter of the priesthood is the first imposition of hands of the bishop which is made in silence. the form consists in the words of the "preface" of which these are the essential and required for validity: "give, we ask thee, omnipotent father, to this thy servant the dignity of the priesthood . . ." (e) in episcopal consecration the matter is the imposition of the hands of the consecrating bishop; the form is the "preface," the essential words being: "fill out in thy priest the fullness of the ministry . . . " it is a disputed matter whether the episcopacy is a distinct order from the priesthood or simply an extension of it. the common opinion favors the negative side and consequently maintains that the consecration of a bishop is not sacramental. accordingly, the supreme order of priesthood includes the simple priests or presbyters and the high priests or bishops. the episcopacy confers no new power in reference to the eucharist, but it extends the character of the priesthood to new powers in reference to christ's mystical body, the church. . the minister of ordination.--(a) for validity it is necessary that the minister be a consecrated bishop; but the orders of ecclesiastical institution (i.e., subdiaconate and minor orders) may be given by a priest authorized by law, or by special indult of the apostolic see. thus, cardinals, vicars and prefects apostolic, and abbots have the power of conferring tonsure and minor orders from canon . (b) for lawfulness it is necessary that the consecrator of a bishop be the pope or a bishop designated by him; that the ordainer to other ranks of the clergy be the proper bishop of the candidate (i.e., the bishop of his place of origin and residence or of his place of domicile), or a delegated bishop (i.e., the bishop who has received dimissorial letters from the proper bishop or religious superior). see canons - . . the special duties of the minister.-(a) as to the ordinandus, the ordaining prelate must be morally certain from positive arguments that the candidate is suitable according to the canons; otherwise he would be guilty of a very grievous sin and would expose himself to the danger of sharing in the sins of others (i tim., v. ; canon , n. ). (b) as to the ordination, the minister is bound to observe the law on time and place, and to follow carefully and exactly the ceremonies of his own rite. if anything essential is omitted, it has to be supplied, absolutely or conditionally, according as there is certain or only doubtful lack. the omission of an accidental but notable ceremony (e.g., the anointing of hands) would be seriously culpable (canons - ). . the recipient of orders.--(a) for validity it is necessary that the recipient be of the male sex, for the divine law has reserved sacerdotal and ministerial functions to men, and the church law has properly followed this example in regard to the orders that are of church institution; the recipient must be baptized, for without baptism one has no capacity for other sacraments; if he is an adult, he must have at least an habitual intention freely formed of receiving the order to which he is raised. (b) for lawfulness it is not sufficient that the recipient be in the state of grace, since ordination is not merely a personal matter, but also a matter of great consequence to the whole church. the recipient of orders takes his place among the representatives and ministers of the church, and therefore he should have the special qualities that fit him for his dignity and office. intellectually, the ordinandus must be competent in theological and profane knowledge, and must have made a satisfactory course of studies (canons , sqq., - ). according to the code, first tonsure should not be given before the study of theology has begun, minor orders may be given during the first and second years of theology, subdeaconship only towards the end of the third year, deaconship only after the beginning of the fourth year, and priesthood only after the first half of the fourth year (canon ). morally, the ordinandus should be of commendable life and have the internal and external excellence which is supposed by the order he is to receive. virtues to which the pontifical especially exhorts clerics at their ordination are love and labor given to the church and the things of god's house (porter), devotion to the scriptures and sacred study (lector), conquest of passion (exorcist), the light of good example and the self-sacrifice of good works (acolyte), temperance, vigilance, prayerfulness (subdeacon), liberality to the poor, chastity, fortitude, zeal for preaching the word of god (deacon), elderliness in dignity, leadership in virtue, and justice in stewardship (priesthood). no one should be admitted to a sacred order who is unable to overcome a serious habit of sin (especially _in materia turpi_), even though secret; and if there is doubt about amendment, a test during a suitable period of time should be made. . canonical requirements for ordination.--(a) positive requirements are: proper age (that is, the twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-fourth years completed are necessary for subdeaconship, deaconship, priesthood, respectively); confirmation should have been received before ordination, for it is suitable that those who are to strengthen others in the faith should have the character of soldier of christ; promotion from order to order should be from lower to higher in proper succession, that fitness may be shown in lesser offices before the greater are received; an interval must elapse between certain orders, which will give to clerics the opportunity to exercise the powers they have received (e.g., between acolythate and subdiaconate a year, between subdiaconate and diaconate three months); the candidate for sacred ordination must have a title or some canonical means of support (i.e., for secular clergy the title of benefice, or patrimony or ministerial service; for religious the title of profession, common life, etc.). the law allows certain dispensations from some of these requirements (canons sqq.). (b) negative requirements are freedom from certain disabilities introduced by the church for the sake of the honor and dignity of the sacred ministry. some of these disqualifications are of their nature permanent, and they are removed only by dispensation or by disposition of the law (e.g., in certain cases by cessation of the cause, or by baptism, or by religious profession), and these are known as irregularities; other disqualifications, which are of their nature temporary and cease with lapse of time or changes in circumstances, are known as simple impediments. the effect of disqualification is to make it unlawful to receive an order, or to exercise an order already received. irregularities are produced either by deficiency or by delinquency, but the cause in either case must be certain; and, in case of delinquency, it must be a personal sin committed after baptism, which is mortal, external, and consummated in act. the irregularities from defect are: illegitimate birth; mental imperfection (such as epilepsy, insanity, possession); bodily imperfection that makes one unsuited for the service of the altar, on account of mutilation (e.g., those who have lost hand or foot, or thumb or index finger), or of unsoundness (e.g., the blind, the deaf, the dumb, cripples, paralytics), or of very noticeable deformity that excites ridicule or horror (e.g., dwarfs, giants, noseless persons, those who are hunchbacked); successive bigamy, that is, the fact that one has been twice validly married, for st. paul ruled that a cleric should be a man of not more than one wife (i tim., iii. , ; tit., i. , ); infamy of law, that is, the commission of certain crimes which the law declares infamous _ipso facto_ or after sentence (such as profanation of the eucharist or of graves, violence done to the pope or a cardinal, duelling, simultaneous bigamy, and certain sexual sins); participation in capital punishment by pronouncing (i.e., as judge or juryman) or executing the sentence of death. the irregularities from delinquency are: apostasy, heresy, schism; reception of baptism from a non-catholic; attempt at adulterous or sacrilegious marriage; voluntary homicide, coöperation in an abortion, mutilation of self or of another, attempt to commit suicide; unlawful exercise of medicine or surgery by a cleric with fatal results; unlawful exercise of the powers of major orders by a cleric or layman. the simple impediments are found in the following: in those who may be weak in faith, namely, persons whose parents are non-catholics, or who are themselves converts (i tim., iii. ); in those who are prevented by other occupations, namely, persons held by marriage, business forbidden to clerics, slavery, military service (ii tim., ii. ); in those who are actually in bad repute before the community on account of misconduct (i tim., iii. ). see canons - . . duties of ordinandi according to canon law.--(a) before ordination.--application to the bishop must be made beforehand at an opportune time, and testimonials of baptism, confirmation, orders already received, certificates of good character and studies, and letters from superiors testifying to freedom from impediments and general fitness must be presented. the candidate must undergo a special examination and make a spiritual retreat before the day of his ordination. the profession of faith is made before subdeaconship. (b) during ordination.--all the ceremonies should be observed, and especially the physical touching of the instruments (chalice and paten, etc.), which seems to be essential in minor orders and the subdiaconate. in the imposition of the hands in the other major orders, the head of the subject should be touched physically, although even moral touch is sufficient for validity of the sacrament (pius xii, apostolic constitution already cited). the law requires that the recipients of major orders receive communion, and the obligations seems to be grave for the new priests, since they celebrate with the bishop. (c) after ordination.--the nocturn (three psalms and their antiphons) which the ordaining prelate imposes on the newly ordained subdeacons and deacons should be taken from the first nocturn of the day, whether it be feria, feast or sunday, unless the bishop appoints otherwise. the three masses of the holy ghost, blessed virgin, and for the dead, imposed on the newly ordained priests, need not be applied for the bishop's intention, and a stipend may be taken when they are said; but it is fitting that they be applied in thanksgiving and for the benefit of the bishop as well as of the whole church on earth and in purgatory. these prayers and masses do not seem to oblige under sin, though some hold them to bind _sub gravi_. on the life duties of the clergy, see above ( sqq.). . registration of ordinations.--as in the case of marriage, ordinations should be registered in a special book and notice of them (if subdiaconate was received) should be sent to the pastor of the parish of baptism. a certificate of ordination is also to be given to the cleric ordained (canons , ). . the sacrament of matrimony.--marriage in general is defined as "the conjugal union of man and woman, contracted between two qualified persons, which obliges them to one another for life." (a) the word union may be taken actively for the passing act of internal and external consent, and then it refers to marriage in its state of becoming, as it is a contract and (among christians) a sacrament; or it may be taken, as it were passively, for the bond that results from the mutual consent pledged by the parties, and then it refers to marriage as a permanent state of life. (b) the marriage union is conjugal; that is, its end is the procreation and rearing of children, or the making of a family, and it therefore gives the right to the natural acts of generation. a contract which has other ends (e.g., a business agreement of labor or of partnership), or which excludes procreation (e.g., an agreement of onanistic concubinage), is not a marriage. (c) marriage is between qualified persons, for certain individuals are excluded by natural, divine or human law from making a valid contract of marriage. (d) marriage is between two, one man and one woman. this unity of marriage is its first property, resulting from its nature as a relationship intended primarily for the propagation of the race and its proper upbringing, and secondarily for the peace and contentment of the married couple, their mutual assistance to one another, and their protection against carnal temptations ( ). for polyandry is opposed to both these ends, and therefore to natural law, while polygamy does not accord well with the secondary ends of matrimony and is forbidden for all by the law of christ ("they shall be two in one flesh," matt., xix. sqq.). on the permission of polygamy in the later old testament ages, see , . (e) marriage obliges the parties to one another for life. this indissolubility of marriage is its second property, and also follows from the natural ends of marriage. for the right propagation of the human race is a matter that concerns not merely the married couple or human society, but also god himself, who is matrimony's immediate author and lawgiver, and god has decreed that marriage be unbreakable except in the few instances allowed by himself: "what god hath joined together let no man put asunder" (matt., xix. ). since the good of marriage is inferior to the good of faith, the divine law permits a dissolution of the bond in the case known as the pauline privilege (i cor., vii. - ); similarly, in a very few instances where there is a serious good more important than the preservation of the bond (the faith of a convert from infidelity, the observance of the counsel of chastity, the public welfare), and where the bond itself has not the strength of sacramentality (i.e., in a non-christian marriage), or has not been consummated in a christian marriage, the divine law authorizes the church, the representative of god, to decree a dissolution (see , ). not only are these cases few, but the conditions are strict (see canons - ), and hence these exceptions are no menace to the ends of marriage. but once consummation has been added to consent in a christian marriage, thereby perfecting the natural contract and extending the sacramental signification from the mystical and severable union of christ with the soul by grace to the physical and perpetual union of christ with the church by the incarnation, the indissolubility becomes complete and admits of no exception. the bill of divorce under the mosaic law seems to have been a true and complete dissolution of the marriage tie, but there is good reason to think that it was a toleration of the jewish civil code, not a permission given by god. the valid marriages of infidels as such are not subject to the judgment of the church; and the civil authority has no power to dissolve them (even when they are childless), otherwise individuals and the family and the state will suffer, as experience proves. . distinctions.--(a) in reference to validity, marriage may be true (i.e., validly contracted), or presumed (i.e., taken by the law to be validly contracted on account of some fact, as when the validity of a marriage was not attacked during the lifetime of the parties), putative (i.e., really invalid, but contracted in good faith by at least one of the spouses and not yet known by both to be certainly null), attempted (i.e., contracted invalidly in bad faith, at least one of the parties being aware of an invalidating impediment). (b) in reference to perfection, marriage is legitimate (when it is validly contracted between non-baptized persons), ratified or sacramental (when it is celebrated between baptized persons), consummated (when the consent given in the contract is subsequently completed by the conjugal act). it seems that marriage lawfully contracted between a baptized and a non-baptized person is not ratified or sacramental, for, as the consent must be mutual, so should the sacrament be mutual. but a marriage free from substantial defects is always a sacrament, even though the contractants do not wish this, when it is contracted between christians, whether they be catholics or non-catholics; and a marriage contracted between non-christians becomes a sacrament on the baptism of the parties. (c) in reference to its manner, marriage may be clandestine (i.e., not celebrated before the pastor and two witnesses), or secret (i.e., celebrated before the pastor and two witnesses pledged to secrecy, and without the publicity the church ordinarily requires), public (i.e., celebrated before pastor and witnesses and with publicity such as announcement to the people and registration in the usual marriage book). the secret marriage is also known as a marriage of conscience (canons - ). (d) in reference to the law under which it is performed, marriage is either canonical or civil. a purely civil marriage between catholics is invalid, as far as the bond is concerned, since their contract, as being a sacrament, is subject to the church. but the civil marriage, as far as the purely civil consequences are concerned, is a lawful ceremony, and is obligatory if required by law. a morganatic marriage is made between two persons of unequal condition (e.g., between a king and a plebeian woman) on condition that the inferior spouse and progeny shall not share entirely in the titles and property of the superior spouse. . the elements of the contract of marriage.--(a) the subject-matter of the contract is the conjugal right or the lawful power of exercising with the other party acts suitable for generation. (b) the ends of the contract are, primarily, the good of the race and of the children, and secondarily the good of the couple through mutual assistance and protection in spiritual and temporal matters. to these general ends may be added others which a particular person has in view, such as dignity, wealth, honor, lawful pleasure. (c) the essence of the contract is the consent, for every pact consists in mutual agreement. but if marriage be regarded as a permanent state, its essence is the bond of union, and consent is the efficient cause productive of the bond. marriage consent must have the qualities (internal, external, mutual, free) that are necessary in every contract, as explained in . . requirements for valid marriage consent.--(a) internal consent.--if both or one of the parties internally and positively wills to exclude marriage, or the right to the conjugal act, or an essential property of marriage, the contract is null, since there is no purpose to contract a real marriage. similarly, if both or one of the parties negatively (or by lack of all intention) excludes consent, there is no marriage. it should be noted that he who intends to get a divorce later on does not intend a permanent union or marriage, whereas he who intends to be unfaithful or to practise onanism may nevertheless intend to oblige himself to the duties of fidelity and of the lawful use of marriage, and therefore to a true marriage. fictitious consent, unless a serious reason excuses (e.g., when one is forced under grave fear to marry, when one becomes aware of a diriment impediment at the altar and cannot retire without great scandal), is a mortal sin, as being a lie in a very important matter and an injustice. if the other party was deceived, the party guilty of feigned consent is bound to make reparation for the damage done, and, unless the marriage has become impossible or inadvisable, the means of reparation should be a genuine consent revalidating the marriage. this is especially true when there is a conflict between the internal and the external forums on account of the inability to establish juridically the nullity of the invalid marriage. (b) external consent.--both as contract and as sacrament, matrimony requires some sensible manifestation of the internal consent. since the contract of marriage between christians falls under the jurisdiction of the church, the manner of expressing the consent is regulated by canon law. the solemnities required for valid and lawful marriage will be treated below in , . (c) mutual consent.--both parties must agree to the marriage, since no one is obliged by a contract without his consent. but mutuality does not imply simultaneity, for, if the previous consent given by one party continues, the subsequent consent given by the other is joined to it and the consent becomes mutual. (d) free consent.--if every contract must be deliberate and voluntary, this is especially true in the case of marriage, since it entails very heavy duties and its obligations are lifelong (cfr. ). in marriage there must be full and perfect consent, though it is not necessary that one think expressly on the essentials of the contract when assenting to it. . defects in consent.--consent supposes sufficient knowledge, and hence it may be vitiated by a defect as to knowledge. (a) mental derangement.--those who are not in possession of their mental faculties cannot marry, whether the derangement be habitual (e.g., idiots, the completely insane, monomaniacs on the subject of marriage) or actual (e.g., infants, those who are completely drunk or doped, the hypnotized or delirious, somnambulists). but defectives who are not unbalanced all the time or on all subjects, may be able now and then to realize the meaning of marriage and to give deliberate consent, though the presumption is against them. those whose mentality is of a low grade, but who are able to judge and reason correctly (e.g., stupid persons, the deaf and dumb, or blind), and those who have some little fanaticism or eccentricity are not excluded; otherwise very few of either sex could marry. (b) ignorance.--substantial ignorance, or the absence of knowledge about the essentials of marriage (viz., that it is a permanent association of man and woman for the purpose of raising children of their own), makes the contract null, for one does not consent to what one does not know. accidental ignorance, on the contrary, does not nullify, for he who understands the main facts about marriage can intend to contract it as others do, even though he does not know its details or secondary features. ignorance invalidates marriage, therefore, if one of the parties does not know that marriage is meant for the procreation of children or that children are procreated by carnal intercourse; but it does not invalidate if the parties are ignorant about physiology or scientific explanations. substantial ignorance in persons of marriageable age (especially young women) is not uncommon even in these days, but it is not presumed after puberty (canon , § ). (c) error.--error which excludes consent to the essential object of the contract nullifies, and hence a substantial error about the person with whom one is contracting makes marriage of no effect (e.g., if titus thinks he is marrying claudia, but is really marrying her twin sister, sempronia; if balbus intends to marry caia only on condition that she is a virgin and she is not a virgin; if julius intends to marry the woman who is present solely as differentiated by a personal or individual characteristic which he mistakenly believes her to have, such as seniority among her sisters). error which does not prevent essential consent does not nullify the contract. hence, a mere accidental error about the other party (e.g., titus marries claudia, thinking she is rich, whereas she is poor, and he would never have married her had he known her poverty) does not make marriage null, though the church makes the marriage of no effect when a slave is married in the belief that he or she is free (canon , § , n, ). a mere speculative error about the properties of marriage (e.g., if one believes that marriage may be lawfully dissolved for adultery) or about the validity of one's own marriage (e.g., if the bride erroneously believes that the marriage she is contracting is null) does not deprive the contract of its force, if there is really a purpose to marry as best one may; for such an error does not act upon the will or take away consent. . forced consent.--consent also supposes self-determination, and hence in certain cases force or fear makes a marriage null and unlawful. (a) effect on validity.--coercion nullifies marriage from natural law, when overpowering physical might extorts an external assent, or when moral violence so terrifies as to unsettle the reason; from church law at least, when being grave, external and unjustly caused, it compels one to marry in order to escape the evil it inflicts or threatens. in other cases fear does not void marriage, even though it be the cause of the contract, as when the fear is slight, or when it is induced by shipwreck or by the fear of sin, or when a seducer marries only because he is threatened with prosecution unless he marries the girl whom he seduced. (b) effect on lawfulness.--he who by intimidation impels another to marry, sins gravely if the fear is unjust and grave, or unjust and productive of serious evils; he sins venially if the fear, though unjust, is light and not productive of serious evils; he sins not at all; if the fear is justly caused, unless he offends charity by his manner of acting; revengeful spirit, etc. he who marries knowing that the other party is forced into the contract, is guilty of serious injustice; and he who marries unwillingly, but with the purpose to live as if he were validly married, sins gravely by his will to live in impurity. . conditional consent.--conditional consent is that in which the agreement to marriage is made dependent on some fact or event. (a) a condition makes marriage invalid if it neutralizes consent (e.g., if the condition is _de praesenti_ but unfulfilled; if it is _de futuro_ and against the substance of marriage; if it is impossible but seriously added); it suspends marriage if it is _de futuro_, possible, and not against the substance of marriage; it neither nullifies nor suspends if it is _de præsenti_ or _de præterito_ and fulfilled. in law the presumption is that _de futuro_ necessary or impossible conditions and shameful conditions are not serious, or are modes rather than conditions (see ), and of course in the external forum invalidity on account of a condition has to be proved. conditions against the substance of marriage are such as deny essential conjugal rights or duties (i.e., the right to have conjugal intercourse, the duty of fidelity to the consort, of loyalty to the bond); but they should not be confused with the purpose to violate marriage engagements, or with a resolution, or a vow, or a pact in the form of a mode, not to make use of the right to conjugal intercourse. (b) a condition added to marriage consent is gravely sinful, unless there is a very urgent reason for it; otherwise most serious evils would result. moreover, there is responsibility in justice for culpable damages, as when one party gives consent conditionally without the knowledge or against the will of the other party. a suspensive condition (e.g., "if my parents will consent") is regularly unlawful without the bishop's permission, and marriage rights may not be used in a marriage dependent on a condition whose fulfillment is not known to the parties. it is unlawful to make a vow or promise of chastity in the married life unless there is moral certainty that it will be kept. . the elements of marriage as a sacrament.--(a) the matter and form of marriage are found in the contract, for the sacrament is the natural pact elevated to the dignity of a sacred sign productive of grace. the remote matter is, therefore, the bodies of the spouses, or the bodily rights which they give one another (i cor., vii. ). since the indeterminate part of a contract is the offer or bestowal, and the determinate part the approval, the proximate matter of matrimony is found in the grant of mutual conjugal rights externally manifested, and the form in the acceptance of that right externally manifested. (b) the ministers and the recipients of matrimony are the parties themselves, since it is they alone who make and receive the contract. in order to be a recipient of the sacrament it is necessary that a person be baptized and be free from all natural, divine and human impediments that make one incapable of the contract of marriage. (c) the effects of matrimony are _per se_ second grace, which increases sanctity and is of help especially for the due performance throughout life of the duties of the conjugal state and for domestic blessedness and happiness. . duties in connection with marriage.--the duties in reference to marriage as a permanent state of life were treated already in sqq., and we shall consider here only the duties that have to do with marriage as a contract and a sacrament. these duties can be arranged under three heads: (a) before marriage, there are obligations in reference to the preparation for marriage, which consists remotely in engagement or espousals, and proximately in compliance with duties owed to divine, ecclesiastical, and civil law (e.g., license from the state, establishment of freedom to marry, proclamation of banns, dispensations, confession); (b) during marriage, in addition to the common obligations of intention and a state of grace, there are special duties in reference to the external form or rite of marriage; (c) after marriage, there is a duty of making canonical records and of validating defective marriages. . betrothal or engagement.--engagement is a promise of their future marriage made by competent persons. (a) it is a promise, either unilateral or bilateral, the latter being espousals or betrothal in the strict sense of the word ( ). like every promise, engagement is not binding unless it be made with requisite deliberation and freedom from force and fear. but a valid engagement to marry has not the same strength, either from divine or from human law, as a contract of marriage, and hence fraud or light fear unjustly produced and which induces one to become engaged leaves the engagement rescindable at the will of the innocent party. canon law requires certain formalities for a valid engagement, and without them there is no obligation in either forum. the law is that the contract of betrothal be in writing, and be signed by the parties and also by the pastor or local ordinary or two witnesses, and that, if one or both of the parties be unable to write, this be noted in the document and an extra witness be added (canon ). (b) it is a promise made by competent persons. hence, there is no valid engagement if a party is incapable either naturally (e.g., one who has not the use of reason) or canonically (e.g., one who has not attained the age of seven years). it is against good morals to be engaged to two persons at the same time, with the understanding that one will marry the second after the expected death of the first; and much more is it immoral for a married person to become engaged to marry another, the marriage to take place after the death of the present consort. some canonists hold that engagements are not valid before the age of puberty, on account of the lack of sufficient discretion. (c) it is a promise of future marriage, that is, a contract to marry, not a contract of marriage. a nuptial engagement is invalid if the marriage promised is invalid or unlawful, for no one can bind himself to sin. an invalid marriage is promised if there is a diriment and not dispensable impediment in the way, or if in spite of a removable impediment the engagement is unconditional, unless the mind of the parties is to marry after the impediment has ceased. the church seems to regard as null an engagement made on the condition that the pope will dispense an impediment. an unlawful marriage is promised when the parties cannot marry without sin (e.g., when the marriage will bring great sorrow or disgrace on parents), or when they promise to marry in a sinful way (e.g., with the understanding that they will abuse marriage). but an unlawful promise of a lawful marriage is not necessarily invalid, and hence an engagement dependent on an immoral condition not opposed to the substance of marriage would become obligatory on fulfillment of the condition (see d, ). . it should be noted that the former diriment and impedient impediments produced by espousals are no longer in force, and even a valid engagement gives no right to an action for the celebration of marriage. . is an engagement necessary before marriage?--(a) an engagement is not strictly necessary. neither the validity nor the lawfulness of marriage depends on espousals, for there is no law that requires this. hence, if for a reasonable cause a man and woman married without any previous binding pledge on either side, the marriage would be good and lawful. the formal engagements of canon law are not common in this country, but an informal engagement usually precedes matrimony. (b) engagement is most suitable and useful. men are accustomed to fit themselves by long and serious study for the business of a profession or calling, and to enter into preliminary agreements about contracts of major importance (as in contracts to sell), and certainly marriage, a contract and vocation that binds until death and upon which the spiritual and temporal welfare of society and individuals rests, is among the most momentous of human agreements. the special advantage of engagement is that it affords a means of preventing hasty and ill-advised unions, of discovering impediments, of securing the consent of parents, and of preparing oneself in knowledge and virtue for the duties of the married state. if engagements were regarded and treated as a period of training for serious and sacred duties, not as a time for frivolity or enjoyment, there would be fewer divorces and less talk about trial marriages. on the duties of engaged persons to one another, see , . . duties to parents or guardians in reference to marriage.--(a) there is, _per se_, a duty of consulting with one's parents about one's marriage; for he who marries without their knowledge, generally exposes himself to the danger of making a serious mistake, and moreover as a rule the interests of parents themselves are bound up intimately with the marriages of their children. hence, unless a very serious reason excuses, he who marries without advising with his parents sins grievously by his rashness or want of filial affection. the same is true, if a child wilfully disregards the wishes of his parents by stubbornly marrying when for a good reason they disapprove. if their opposition is imperative and emphatic, or if they are grief-stricken at thought of the imprudent marriage, the sin is serious; but if their opposition is mild and the match not a very bad one, the sin is venial. the consent or counsel of parents is not necessary for validity, however, since it is not they who are getting married, and no law makes their consent or counsel an essential part of the compact. _per accidens_, their consent or counsel is not even necessary for lawfulness, as when the children live far away from their parents, or when marriage has to be contracted without delay, or when the parents are unreasonable in their opposition. (b) there is, _per se_, no duty of obeying one's parents in the matter of marriage: first, because marriage supposes choice, admiration, and love, and these do not submit to dictation, even from parents; next, because in things that pertain to nature, such as self-preservation and procreation, children are not subject to their parents; finally, because the authority of parents does not extend to the whole lifetime of their children and marriage is a lifelong union. hence, parents may not compel their children to marry or to remain single; they may not make the match for their children against the latters' will, they may not force a child to marry a person whom he or she detests, they may not veto a marriage that does not appeal to them if the son or daughter has good reasons for it. those parents sin, then, who refuse their blessing to a marriage out of selfishness, and those parents sin gravely who force their children into loveless unions and so make them unhappy in this world and endanger their salvation for the world to come. _per accidens_, there is a duty of obeying parents in reference to marriage when one is obliged even apart from their command to do what they prescribe, when the marriage which they forbid is also forbidden by law (e.g., if the child is needed at home to support his indigent parents, if the mate selected will bring disgrace upon the family and the match can easily be broken off), or when the marriage which they require is also demanded by duty (e.g., if a son will surely enter upon a wild and reckless life unless he marries). see above, , , , , , , sqq. . duties of parents in reference to marriage.--(a) if there is question of the marriage of a child, parents should guide themselves by the rule of st. paul: "let her marry whom she will, only in the lord" (i cor., vii. ). undue pressure should be avoided, but bad marriages should be opposed, and parents should assist their children to marry well. (b) if there is question of a parent's second marriage, the children's interests should be considered in making the choice of the step-father or step-mother, and, if the children are grown up, they should be consulted, or at least they should not be unreasonably saddened or harmed by the new marriage. . obstacles to marriage.--since marriage is a most important contract and a sacrament, it is necessary to ascertain beforehand with moral certainty that there is no obstacle to its valid and lawful celebration. this imposes duties on the pastor, the couple themselves, and the faithful who know them. (a) the pastor in virtue of his office is gravely obliged to make inquiries about the competency and fitness of the prospective husband and wife, and even in a death-bed marriage the obligation does not cease. church law prescribes the method of inquiry, which should include an examination and instruction of the couple and a publication of the marriage. of course, there is an obligation of confidential secrecy. (b) the couple are bound to present themselves to the pastor within a reasonable time before the marriage in order to make these arrangements, and should bring with them the necessary papers (for example, their baptismal certificates, license to marry, testimonials). they are gravely obliged to make known either to the pastor or to the confessor any impediment, even though it be of a secret and culpable nature, in order that their marriage may be valid and lawful, unless they wish to give up the marriage or seek a dispensation in some other way. (c) the people who know of an impediment to a marriage are bound under pain of mortal sin to make it known in time to the pastor or ordinary; for the natural and divine laws, as well as the law of the church, hold one to speak when this will prevent irreverence to the sacrament of matrimony, sin and other serious evils to the neighbor. the obligation ceases, however, when the revelation is either impossible or useless. cases of impossibility are those in which revelation will cause great spiritual harm (e.g., public scandal), or great temporal harm of a public kind (e.g., violation of professional secret), or a great temporal harm of a private kind (e.g., persecution), unless a more serious evil will result from concealment. revelation is useless when the marriage can be stopped or made legal in some other way (e.g., by persuading the couple to break their engagement or get a dispensation), or when one foresees that the revelation will have no effect. . duties of the pastor in the examination of engaged persons.--(a) he should question both the man and the woman separately and prudently about their freedom to marry, even though he is certain that there are no impediments. he should inquire especially whether there has been a previous marriage, and should also ask specifically about any impediment that seems likely. about impediments of a defamatory kind he should not interrogate before others, leaving that matter if necessary to his doctrinal instruction or to the confessor. (b) he should ask both of them, and especially the woman, whether they have decided on marriage freely, without force or pressure from any person. but children who live with their parents should be asked whether or not they have obtained their parents' consent to the proposed marriage. . special proofs of freedom to marry.--(a) proof of baptism.--a baptismal certificate should be presented by the parties (if baptized in another parish), even by one who is a baptized non-catholic. if a certificate cannot be had, other proofs are necessary. in danger of death, the sworn testimony of the parties suffices; outside danger of death, the testimony of a reliable witness, or of the person himself, if he can remember his baptism, or, it seems, a certificate of confirmation or first communion will do. if baptism cannot be proved and there is a prudent doubt, it should be administered conditionally. (b) proof of single state.--if it is manifest that a previous civil marriage was null and was dissolved by divorce, the proof of the facts suffices. if the husband or wife of a previous marriage has died, but the pastor has no personal knowledge of this, positive proof of the decease in the form of a public document or of sworn testimony of two or at least one reliable witness is necessary, and if the pastor cannot obtain these he must have recourse to the ordinary. . matrimonial impediments.--(a) definition.--an impediment is a circumstance directly affecting the contract of marriage and rendering it illicit or invalid. thus, an impediment differs from an unfitness that refers immediately to marriage as a sacred rite or sacrament (such as lack of proper intention or a state of mortal sin), or that does not directly affect the parties (such as forbidden time). (b) division.--in reference to effects, an impediment is either impedient (i.e., one that forbids marriage under pain of grave sin but does not render it null and void) or diriment (i.e., one that not only forbids marriage, but also makes it null and void). . sinfulness of marrying with an impediment.--(a) if the impediment is certain, grave sin is committed; for deception and disobedience are committed in a grave and sacred matter, and, if the impediment is diriment, the marriage contract is made null. great necessity, however, would sometimes excuse. (b) if the impediment is uncertain, no sin is committed when the impediment is one of ecclesiastical law and the doubt is one of law, for in such a case the legislator removes the obligation (canon ); nor when the impediment is impotency (canon ), in view of the fact that the general law of propagation of the race leaves a natural presumption against impotency, which can be overcome only by a certain impediment. it would be an intolerable hardship if marriage were made impossible by a doubt where proof is so difficult. there is a serious sin, however, in other cases, because one is either exposing the sacrament to nullity or is refusing, contrary to a serious command of the church, to seek a dispensation. . the impedient or prohibitive impediments (canons - ).--(a) vow.--the following simple vows make marriage illicit: the vow of virginity, that of perfect chastity, the vow not to marry, the vow to receive sacred orders, the vow to enter religious life, the simple vows of religion. a vow to abstain from the use of marriage is not against the substance of marriage, but it is difficult to keep in the married state; the vows to enter religion, or take sacred orders, or not to wed, are incompatible with marriage. hence, the church forbids one who has these vows to marry, unless the vow be first dispensed. those who marry while bound by one of these vows sin gravely, and are held to keep the vow if this is possible or the other party's rights do not prevent. (b) legal relationship.--in those countries where relationship from adoption makes marriage illicit, there is also an impedient impediment of canon law. the church wishes, in so far as possible, to preserve harmony between her own law and that of the state. hence, she includes in her code the civil law regulations that forbid marriage to certain persons on account of the intimate relation that exists between them through civil law adoption. the law of some european (e.g., france, germany, switzerland) and south american countries have a prohibitive impediment of adoption, but in the united states, the british empire, and many other countries adoption is no such hindrance to marriage. (c) mixed religion.--marriage between two baptized persons, one a catholic and the other a member of an heretical or schismatical sect, is severely forbidden by the church. mixed marriages in themselves are opposed to divine and natural law, inasmuch as they offer an occasion for communication in false worship and a danger of perversion; and hence they have been disapproved from the very beginning of the church (ii john, x. ; i cor., v. ; tit., iii. ). but the divine prohibition ceases if appropriate measures are used to safeguard the faith of the catholic and the children, and the church will grant a dispensation, though reluctantly and only for just and grave causes. . duties in reference to mixed marriages.--(a) the pastor.--a dispensation should not be sought unless there is first a sufficient reason, all things considered, and generally the reason should be the public good (such as the relative fewness of catholics in a district, hope of conversion of the non-catholic, avoidance of scandal). secondly, there must be guarantees given by the non-catholic that the faith of the catholic will not be interfered with, and both parties must promise that all the children will receive catholic and no other baptism and education. finally, these promises must be such as to produce moral certainty of fulfillment, and as a rule it should be required that they be given in writing. after the marriage has been celebrated the pastor is held both in charity and in justice to do what he can to have the promises faithfully lived up to. (b) the parties.--neither before nor after the marriage in the catholic church is it lawful to have any non-catholic religious ceremony (see sqq.); and if the pastor knows that this has been done or will be done, he may not assist at the marriage without permission from the ordinary, which is granted for a most grave reason (scandal being avoided). after the marriage the parties are bound in justice to keep the promises made, and the catholic is held in charity to seek prudently, by good example and advice, to convert the non-catholic. . marriages with bad catholics.--(a) if the bad catholic is unworthy in the matter of faith, because he has notoriously given up the church (even though he has not joined any other religion), or because he is a member of a forbidden society, there is a danger of perversion. in such a case the pastor may not assist at the marriage unless the ordinary decides that there is a sufficient reason, that the danger of perversion is made remote, and that the catholic education of the children is provided for. (b) if the bad catholic is unworthy in the matter of morals, because he is a public sinner (e.g., one who neglects the easter duty), or notoriously under censure and therefore a person to whom the sacraments must be denied, the pastor is confronted with the law that one may not coöperate formally, even by assistance, in the profanation of a sacrament. as the guilt of the unworthy person is public in these cases, there must be public reparation before the marriage can be sanctioned by the presence of the church's representative. the reparation is to be made either by the sinner going to confession or by the censured person obtaining absolution. but since the priest's presence can be only a material coöperation, it may be permitted by the ordinary for a grave reason when the unworthy person refuses to comply with the conditions. . other obstacles to marriage.--other obstacles which forbid marriage, though they are not strictly canonical impediments, are the following: (a) valid engagement gravely forbids marriage with a third party. this is a natural obstacle which results from the very nature of a binding promise; (b) special prohibition of the church at times gravely forbids a particular marriage, as when the holy see in granting a dispensation for a present marriage forbids a future marriage. if an irritant clause is added, the prohibition has the force of a diriment impediment. the ordinary also may forbid a particular marriage for a time, as when there is suspicion of a secret impediment, or when great damage will likely ensue from a marriage. this prohibition is for a special case or time or person, and thus it differs from the impediments of the law; (c) closed times (lent and advent) are the seasons when, on account of the penitential and mournful character of the liturgy then in use, the solemn blessing of marriage is not regularly permitted. this is not really an impediment, since marriage itself may be contracted at any time of the year, according to the general law. . diriment impediments to marriage.--the diriment or nullifying impediments to marriage are personal incapacities in a person which render him or her incapable, from divine or ecclesiastical law, of contracting marriage with anyone (absolute impediments), or of contracting marriage with a certain individual (relative impediments). . the absolute diriment impediments are the following: (a) those that are due to a personal defect making one unable to promise with sufficient discretion (impediment of age) or to perform what is promised (impediment of impotency); (b) those that are due to a voluntary act which consecrates one to god with the obligation of perpetual celibacy (the impediments of orders and vows). . the relative impediments are the following: (a) that one which is due to an obligation to one's present husband or wife (the impediment of bond); (b) that one which is due to too great a difference between two parties (impediment of disparity of cult); those that are due to too close a kinship between two parties, whether natural (impediments of consanguinity and affinity) or like to the natural (impediments of public decency, spiritual kinship, legal kinship); (d) those that are due to a relationship caused by a crime that makes it unsuitable for two parties to marry. if one party is perpetrator and the other the victim, there is the impediment of abduction; if the two parties are accomplices, there is the impediment of crime. . the impediment of age.--(a) nature.--this impediment exists in males who have not completed their sixteenth year, and in females who have not completed their fourteenth year. these ages are set by the general law, because all parts of the world have to be considered and sufficient discretion may be presumed at those ages everywhere. but substantial ignorance even after those years invalidates consent, and moreover, in colder countries where development is slower, marriage is generally inadvisable before the parties are and respectively. the marriageable ages according to the statute law in most of our states are and with parental consent, and and without it. (b) effect.--this impediment is of ecclesiastical law in so far as the precise determination of age is concerned, but of natural law in so far as the use of reason is demanded. hence, the church may dispense, and hence also the impediment as ecclesiastical does not bind the unbaptized, even when being underaged they marry christians. . the impediment of impotency.--(a) nature.--impotency is the inability to exercise the sexual act in a way suitable for procreation. the requisites for this act are _immissio membri virilis in vaginam mulieris cum seminis effusione_, and hence those are impotent who lack sexual organs (such as the emasculated or spayed), or who on account of psychical or physical abnormalities are unable to have complete intercourse (e.g., anaphrodisiacs, some hermaphrodites, those who suffer from hypospadias, vaginism, etc.). sterility, or the mere inability to procreate from sexual intercourse (as in old persons), is not the same thing as impotency, and is not an impediment to marriage. authorities are not agreed whether or not the operations of male vasectomy and evariotomy produce impotency or sterility. but many regard the former operation as unlawful except for a most grave cause (such as the saving of life), since it takes away a power given by nature for the benefit of society, exposes the individual to very serious temptations, and opens the way to terrible abuses. (b) effect.--impotency anterior to marriage and perpetual, whether in the man or in the woman, whether known to the other party or not, voids marriage from the law of nature itself, and hence is not dispensable. but impotency that arises after marriage or that is only temporary does not invalidate, and impotency that is relative (i.e., in reference to one person only) does not nullify marriage except in reference to a determinate person. in justice to the other spouse, married persons who have an easily curable impotency should have this defect removed. . the impediments of orders and vows.--(a) orders.--those who are in sacred orders (priesthood, deaconship and, in the latin church, subdeaconship) cannot marry validly. the impediment is decreed by ecclesiastical law alone, and hence the church has the power to dispense. one who was ordained through compulsion or in ignorance of the duty of celibacy, is permitted to marry, if he does not wish to ratify his ordination; but he then loses all right to exercise his order ( ). (b) vows.--professed religious with solemn vows or simple vows that annul marriage cannot marry validly. it is more probable that this impediment, in so far as solemn vows are concerned, is of divine right; but the pope, as the vicar of christ, is able to dispense (see , , , e). . the impediment of bond.--(a) a person who is already validly married cannot marry again until the bond of the existing marriage is removed by the death of the other spouse or by dissolution. an exception is the case of the pauline privilege; but even then the bond of the first marriage remains till the second is contracted (see e). (b) this impediment is of natural and divine law, and it binds all men, the unbaptized as well as the baptized. no dispensation can be granted from the impediment as long as it continues; and moreover those who would contract a second marriage must offer proof that the bond of the first marriage was non-existent, or that it has ceased. nullity of a previous marriage must be established by canonical process (canons sqq.); dissolution of an unconsummated marriage through vow or papal dispensation is proved sufficiently by an authentic document; cessation of bond through death of consort must be demonstrated with moral certainty, if it is not manifest (see ). the procedure to be observed in cases of the pauline privilege is explained by commentaries on canons sqq. of the code. . the impediment of disparity of cult.--(a) a marriage of a catholic (i.e., of a person baptized in or converted to the catholic church) with an unbaptized person is null and void. this impediment bars the marriage of a professed ex-catholic with an infidel, but not the marriage of a non-catholic with an infidel; and by infidel is understood here not only a non-christian (such as a jew), but also a christian unbaptized or invalidly baptized. a person accidentally baptized by a catholic is not considered a catholic if born of heretical or schismatical parents and reared by them in their sect. (b) this impediment as prohibitive is of divine ordinance, for the same reasons as in the case of mixed marriages (see c): "bear not the yoke with unbelievers" (ii cor., vi. ). but neither natural nor divine law nullifies such a marriage with unbelievers; for the substantial ends of marriage (i.e., procreation and education of children) can be had even in such unions, and very holy personages have contracted marriage even with pagans (e.g., jacob with the daughters of laban, joseph with the daughter of putiphar, moses with the daughter of jethro, esther with assuerus, st. cecilia with valerian, st. monica with patricius, st. clotilda with clovis, etc.). the church, however, has made disparity of cult a diriment impediment on account of the special danger, and it grants no dispensation unless the precautions decreed for mixed marriages be observed (see , ). . the impediments of kinship.--(a) consanguinity.--marriage is null when contracted between blood relatives, that is, persons descended from one another or from one common ancestor within certain limits. in the direct line consanguinity invalidates marriage between all ascendants and descendants, legitimate or natural, that is, between a man and all his female ancestry (mother, grandmother, etc.) and posterity (daughter, etc.), and between a woman and all her male ancestors and posterity. in the collateral line it invalidates to the third degree inclusively, that is, between a man and a woman whose parents are related as first cousins or even more closely. the degree of consanguinity between this man and woman is first, second or third, according as one, two or three generations separate them (i.e., both or the one farthest removed) from the nearest ancestor of both (see canons and ). consanguinity is multiplied when two parties are descended from several common stocks. this impediment is of the natural law as regards the first, and probably all the other degrees of the direct line; for reverence due to parents forbids one to marry them. marriage between brother and sister is not opposed to the absolute or primary law of nature, but to the relative or secondary law (see ); for natural inclination teaches that it is unbecoming for members of the same family to intermarry, and further the children of their unions are very apt to be weakly or defective. in other degrees consanguinity is an impediment of church law only, and may be dispensed for a good reason, but a more serious reason is necessary for nearer relationship. (b) affinity.--marriage is null when contracted between relatives-in-law, or those who are kin by valid, even though unconsummated, marriage. but the impediment exists only between the husband and his wife's blood relatives, and vice versa. in the direct line it includes all degrees; in the collateral line it extends to the second degree inclusive. hence, a widower is impeded from marrying all the lineal relatives of his deceased wife (her mother, grandmother, daughter, granddaughter, etc.), and the following of her collateral relatives: her sisters, her aunts, her nieces, her first cousins. affinity is multiplied by multiplication of the consanguinity on which it is based (e.g., when a woman is doubly related to one's deceased wife), and by successive marriages (e.g., when a woman is the sister of a man's two deceased wives). the impediment of affinity is justified by moral reasons--by the mutual reverence that should exist between those who are closely related by marriage, by the dangers to which their relationship would be exposed if they were able to marry, and by the good of society, which is promoted when marriage is not confined within to narrow a circle. but the impediment is entirely ecclesiastical, for the church can dispense in all degrees, and the relationship is only an imperfect copy of consanguinity. (c) public decency.--this impediment, also known as quasi-affinity, arises from an invalid, even though unconsummated, marriage, and from public or notorious concubinage; and it annuls marriage in the first and second degrees of the direct line between the man and the blood relatives of the woman, and vice versa. the reason for the impediment is the unbecomingness of marriage with the near relatives (i.e., the mother, daughter, grandmother, granddaughter of the woman, and the father, son, grandfather, grandson of the man) of a person with whom one has lived in putative marriage or concubinage. the impediment is less strict than that of affinity, and is of ecclesiastical law only. (d) spiritual relationship.--this impediment nullifies marriage between a baptized person and the person who baptized him or her or who stood for him or her in baptism. the minister and the sponsor contract a relationship of spiritual parenthood to the baptized person, since baptism is a supernatural birth and the godparents are charged with the religious welfare of the godchild. reasons of respect and of intimate relationship make marriage between such persons unbecoming, and hence the church from early times has ruled against it, (e) legal relationship.--persons who in civil law are unable to marry one another on account of the relationship arising from legal adoption are also barred from marriage in canon law. the relations between an adopted person and the members of the family into which he is adopted are so close that human lawmakers have often felt it necessary to declare adoption an impediment to marriage. . matrimonial impediments produced through misdeeds.--(a) abduction.--there can be no valid marriage between a man who holds a woman under restraint in order to compel her to marry him, if she has been abducted by him or is violently detained by him in her residence or elsewhere. if the woman who has been carried away or who is held against her will marries unwillingly, the marriage is invalid according to natural law; if she marries willingly, the marriage is invalid from church law. hence the impediment of abduction is of positive law only and does not oblige infidels (see canon ). (b) crime.--there can be no valid marriage between the following: those who during a legitimate marriage have consummated adultery together and have mutually promised future marriage or have attempted marriage, even though only civilly (canon ); those who during the same lawful marriage have consummated adultery together, and of whom one has committed conjugicide; those who have coöperated physically or morally, even though they are not adulterers, to murder the spouse of one of them. the purpose of this impediment is to safeguard the fidelity and rights of married persons, and to punish those who resort to adultery or murder in the hope of a new marriage. the impediment is ecclesiastical and does not affect infidels. . duties of the pastor after the inquiry about impediments.--(a) dispensation.--if the pastor finds an impediment of natural or divine law (e.g., the bond of an existing marriage), or an impediment which is never dispensed (e.g., consanguinity in the first degree of the collateral line, notorious conjugicide, when there is no danger of death), he cannot proceed with the marriage. if he discovers another impediment, he must inquire whether or not there is sufficient reason for dispensation. for the impediments of occult crime, disparity of cult outside of mission countries, age, sacred orders and religious profession (also for neglecting the form of marriage), a grave reason is necessary to permit marriage; but for the remaining impediments, a less grave reason is required. the usual or grave reasons for dispensation include the public good (e.g., peace between peoples, prevention of serious litigations), a great private good (e.g., a suitable marriage offered to a woman who on account of age or locality can hardly find another such chance), great spiritual good (e.g., prevention of a mixed or civil marriage or great scandal, termination of open concubinage), great temporal good (e.g., means to support the family of a poor widow); but other and lesser reasons sometimes suffice, as when the woman is illegitimate, an orphan, deflowered, sickly, or homely, or the man needs someone to take care of him or of his small children from a previous marriage, or when the marriage has already been announced or will be of great advantage to the parents of one of the parties. in case of urgent necessity or of danger of death, the pastor and also the confessor or priest who assists at the marriage are empowered to grant certain dispensations; in other cases dispensation can be granted only by the local ordinary or by the holy see. the petition for a dispensation must state the facts truthfully, but must conceal the identity of the petitioner when the impediment is occult. in executing a dispensation one must observe the conditions laid down by the superior who granted it (see commentaries on canons sqq.). (b) publication.--even though it is morally certain that there is no impediment, the banns of marriage should be proclaimed beforehand and in the place where the parties have their domicile or quasi-domicile (or residence, if they are _vagi_), and also, if necessary, in other places where they have lived. this is a grave duty, since its purpose is to ensure the validity and lawfulness of marriages. if it is morally certain that there is no impediment, the ordinary may dispense for a good reason (see commentaries on canons sqq.). . after the examination and proclamation.--(a) if it is certain that there is an impediment, the procedure will be that given in a; (b) if it is doubtful whether there is a diriment impediment, the matter should be investigated more fully, but without defamation of the parties, and if the doubt remains, the question should he submitted to the ordinary (see above, b); (c) if no impediment, certain or doubtful, has been discovered, the pastor should approve the parties for marriage. . duties of the pastor as regards the religious instruction of the engaged couple.--(a) the pastor should require those who are not confirmed to receive confirmation before their marriage, if they can do this without serious inconvenience. (b) he should instruct the parties in the essentials of christian doctrine, if they are ignorant in these matters (see sqq.), and he should point out to them the nature of marriage as a contract and as a sacrament, its purposes and properties, the grace it confers and the conjugal and parental duties it imposes, the necessity of preparing for the sacrament and of receiving it in the state of grace. he should also speak about the impediments, so that the couple may understand the disqualifications for a valid and lawful marriage; but this should be done prudently, so as not to shock the innocent or to help others to evade the law. but ignorance of the catechism is not strictly an impediment; and if the parties are unwilling to take instruction, they should be married without it. in a mixed marriage it is often very useful to give the non-catholic a short course in catholic teaching, and all couples who are preparing for marriage would do well to read some of the good works prepared especially for the use of engaged or newly married people. the code requires of pastors that in their sermons they instruct the people on marriage and exhort them to avoid mixed marriages and marriages with the unworthy (canons , , ). . the pastor and the duties of engaged couple.--the pastor should also inquire about duties owed by the couple to others. (a) duties to parents.--he should seriously admonish minors subject to parental authority not to marry without the knowledge or against the reasonable wishes of their parents. if the parents are opposed to the marriage, the pastor should decide from the circumstances whether the opposition is justified or not; if one parent only is unwilling, the wishes of the father _per se_ have preference over those of the mother, as he is the head of the family. if the engaged couple will not heed the pastor, he is seriously bound to refuse to marry them until the case has been presented to the ordinary for decision (canon ). (b) duties to civil law.--the state has no power over the sacrament of matrimony, its bond, or its inseparable temporal effects (such as the rights and duties of spouses, legitimacy of children and the like), but it is competent in reference to merely civil effects and conditions, which are temporal circumstances separable from the substance of marriage. hence, those who are getting married should comply with civil formalities that do not trespass on church rights, such as registration or marriage license. . opposition of parents to marriage.--in deciding whether the parental opposition to a marriage is reasonable or not, the pastor should take into consideration both the motives for the opposition and the reasons in favor of the marriage. (a) the motives for the opposition are reasonable, if the parents object because of the undesirability of one of the couple, or their incompatibility, or the evil consequences that will follow the marriage. a person is undesirable on account of defects of soul (e.g., an atheist, a drunkard, a libertine, a man or woman of ill-fame, a cruel man, an ill-tempered woman), or of body (e.g., a person who is deformed, or malodorous, or afflicted with syphilis or other serious disease), or of mind (e.g., a half-witted person), or of economical ability (e.g., a man who is a gambler or spendthrift, or who is unable to earn a living; a woman who is loaded with debts or who cannot take care of a home). there is incompatibility when the ages of the couple or their rank in life, their race, their education, their tastes, or their dispositions are utterly different. there are evil consequences when scandals, hatreds, disgrace, or loss of temporal goods will ensue. (b) the reason for the marriage, however, may suffice to prevail over the parental objections. thus, if the strong disapproval of relatives is the only reason against a marriage and its abandonment will make the couple unhappy for life, charity does not oblige to such a sacrifice. and the temporal advantage of a family should not be preferred to the spiritual benefit, if their son who is wild wishes to marry a poor girl who has a good influence over him rather than a wealthy girl whom he does not admire. . religious duties before marriage.--(a) confession.--a public sinner (e.g., one who has been living in concubinage) is obliged to go to confession before marriage in order to repair his scandal. a sinner whose guilt is not public must repent before receiving the sacrament of matrimony, since it is a sacrament of the living and supposes the state of grace; but an act of contrition strictly suffices. it is recommended, however, that all persons go to confession as a preparation and that they make a general confession. the confessor should be told of any occult or incriminating impediment that was not disclosed to the pastor, and it is therefore advisable that the confession precede the ceremony by several days, so as to allow time for possible dispensations. (b) communion.--it is better that communion be received on the day of one's marriage, but, if this is not convenient, it may be received several days before or several days after. there is no command as to this, but the church's counsel is most earnest. . the celebration of marriage.--(a) requisites for validity.--in order to be valid, a catholic's marriage must be celebrated in the presence of the parish-priest or ordinary, or of a priest delegated by either, and of at least two witnesses. there are two exceptions to this law, namely, in danger of death when the priest cannot be had and in the case of inability to appear before a priest within a month. this law is most suitable, since marriage is not a mere profane contract, but a sacrament subject to the church; the law is also necessary, since secret or clandestine marriages would be impossible of proof, and society and the family would be seriously harmed if they were permitted except in very extraordinary cases. (b) requisites for lawfulness.--the pastor assists lawfully at a marriage if he has assured himself of the freedom of the parties to marry and of his own right to assist officially at their marriage. the pastor has the right to witness a marriage when the parties are his subjects by reason of their location in his parish, or when he has permission from their pastor or ordinary to assist at the nuptials. when the bride is from one parish and the groom from another, the rule is that the marriage should be held before the bride's pastor (canons sqq.) . the rite of marriage.--(a) the essential rite consists in the words of consent spoken by the bride and groom. the assisting priest asks for this consent, and then (except in a mixed marriage) blesses the newly married pair and the ring. marriage by sign language or through an interpreter or proxy is not lawful without special permission, and marriage by letter is not recognized (canons sqq.). (b) the accidental rite is the nuptial blessing bestowed during the nuptial mass that follows on the marriage. this is omitted in mixed marriages, and also as a rule during advent and lent. the place for marriage is regularly in the parish church, if it is a catholic marriage, but outside the church if it is a mixed marriage (see canons sqq.). the ordinary may dispense from the requirements of place (canon ). . coöperation in an unworthy marriage.--(a) the priest.--the clergyman acts as the official representative of the church, and hence only a serious reason will permit his assistance when the unworthiness of one of the parties is known to him in an extra-confessional way. a serious reason would be a threat of bodily harm to the priest or great spiritual detriment to the parties, such as their continuance in the state of sin. a more serious reason is required if one of the parties is an _excommunicatus vitandus_. finally, at times only passive assistance is permitted, as in certain mixed marriages in which the non-catholic refuses to give guarantees, but there is greater danger of perversion without than with the assistance (see sqq.). (b) the spouses.--the bride and groom are the ministers as well as the recipients of matrimony, and hence, if one of the parties knows that the other is not in the state of grace, there is an administration of a sacrament to an unworthy recipient. but only charity would bid one to deny the sacrament to that other party, if one could not induce him to dispose himself, and charity does not oblige with great inconvenience. hence the worthy party, if he or she has a suitable reason for marrying, does not sin by reason of the other party's unworthiness. (c) the witnesses.--the coöperation of the witnesses is less than that of the priest and of the worthy party, and hence only in an extraordinary case do the witnesses sin by assisting at a marriage contracted before the church. they may presume that all is well, if the pastor has agreed to the marriage; and even though they are certain that the bride or groom is in mortal sin, the fear of incurring displeasure or harm will ordinarily excuse the best man or bridesmaid from all sin, or at least from grave sin. . registration of marriages.--the code requires that marriages be recorded in the matrimonial and baptismal registers, and that notification be sent to the pastors of the parishes where the bride and the groom were baptized. this duty seems to be grave, since its end is to provide for stable conditions and secure proof of freedom to marry. the entries should be made without delay (i.e., within three days at least), lest they be overlooked or be made incorrectly (canon ). . when an impediment is discovered after marriage.--a diriment impediment or other invalidating defect is sometimes discovered after the celebration of marriage. there are various solutions of this difficulty. (a) if the marriage can be validated (or made valid), this should be done. the manner of simple validation of marriages null on account of diriment impediment, defective consent or lack of form, is declared in canons - . (b) if the marriage cannot be validated simply, it may be made valid in certain cases by the special validation known as a _sanatio in radice_. this supposes that a consent naturally sufficient, but juridically insufficient, was given, and that a renewal of consent cannot be obtained (see canons - ). (c) if marriage cannot be validated in any way (as in the case of an indispensable impediment), the parties should be separated, or permitted to live together as brother and sister, or left in good faith. thus, if the nullity of the marriage is public, the parties should be separated after a declaration of nullity; if the nullity is secret and unprovable, the parties may be permitted to live together as brother and sister, if they know the marriage is null, but are not exposed to the danger of incontinence; if the parties are in good faith about their marriage and it is foreseen that serious evils would result were they told the truth (such as bad faith, or misfortunes for the children), they may be left as they are. . the lawfulness of divorce and separation.--(a) complete divorce, or dissolution of the bond with the right to remarry during the lifetime of the other spouse, is never lawful, except in the cases mentioned in e. moreover, the civil lawgiver has no right ever to dissolve the marriage tie, for the marriage bond of christians is sacramental and not subject to the state, while the marriage bond of non-christians is indissoluble by human authority. on the death of one spouse, however, the survivor is free to marry again, though chaste widowhood is more honorable. (b) incomplete divorce, or separation from bed and board, is allowed permanently to the innocent spouse in case of adultery, and temporarily when there are other good reasons. thus, if one of the parties becomes an apostate, or gives non-catholic education to the children, or leads a criminal or disgraceful life, or makes common life too hard by his cruelty, or endangers the other party in soul or body, the innocent spouse may separate after appealing to the ordinary, or may depart on his or her own authority, if the facts are certain and there is danger in delay (canons sqq.). with permission one may even seek a civil divorce, if it is a separation only, in order to be free as regards civil effects of marriage ( ). appendix i summary of common law on prohibition of books (holy office, apr., ) [placed at end of volume i, after section , in print edition] seeing that delays and omissions in denouncing the books frequently occur, and that many of the faithful are in a state of deplorable ignorance regarding the denunciation and prohibition of harmful books, the supreme sacred congregation of the holy office deems it appropriate to call to mind the principal provisions of the sacred canons on this subject; for it is beyond doubt that bad or harmful writings expose purity of faith, integrity of morals, and the very salvation of souls to the greatest dangers. certainly the holy see cannot by itself, with adequate care and in due time, prohibit the numberless writings against faith and morals which, especially in our time, are being published almost daily in various languages all over the world. hence it is necessary that the ordinaries of places, whose business it is to preserve sound and orthodox doctrine and to protect good morals (c, , § ), should, either personally or through suitable priests, be watchful as to the books which are published or sold in their territory (c. , § ), and forbid to their subjects those which they judge should be condemned (c. , § ). the right and duty to forbid books for just cause belongs also to an abbot of an independent monastery and to the superior general of a clerical exempt institute acting with his chapter or council; nay, in case of urgency, it belongs also to the other major superiors with their proper council, it being understood, however, that these must as soon as possible report the matter to the superior general (c. , § ). nevertheless, books which require a more expert scrutiny, or in regard to which, for salutary results, the judgment of the supreme authority seems to be required, should be referred by the ordinaries to the judgment of the holy see (c. , § ). it is, of course, the duty of all the faithful, and especially of clerics, to denounce pernicious books to the proper authority; but this duty is especially incumbent on clerics who have some ecclesiastical dignity, such as the legates of the holy see and the ordinaries of places, and on those who are eminent in doctrine, as for example the rectors and professors of catholic universities. the denunciation is to be made either to this congregation of the holy office or to the ordinary of the place, giving by all means the reason why it is thought the book should be forbidden. the persons to whom such a report is made have a strict duty to keep secret the names of those who make it (c. , § , , ). finally, ordinaries of places and others who have the care of souls should duly inform the faithful of the following: a) the prohibition of books has the effect that, unless due permission is obtained, the forbidden book may not be published, nor republished (without making the corrections and obtaining due approbation), nor read, nor retained, nor sold, nor translated into another language, nor in any way communicated to other persons (c. , § , ); b) books condemned by the holy see are considered as forbidden everywhere and in whatever language they may be translated (c. ); c) the positive ecclesiastical law forbids not only those books which are individually condemned by a special decree of the holy see and placed on the index of forbidden books, or which are proscribed by particular councils or ordinaries for their subjects, but also the books which are forbidden by the common law itself, that is, in virtue of the rules contained in canon , which forbids in a general manner nearly all books which are bad and harmful in themselves; d) the natural law forbids the reading of any book which occasions proximate spiritual danger, since it forbids anyone to place himself in danger of losing the true faith or good morals; accordingly, permission to use forbidden books, from whomsoever it be obtained, in no way exempts from this prohibition of the natural law (c. , § ). appendix ii the "ecumenical movement" [placed at end of volume i, after the preceding appendix, in print edition] on december , the holy office issued an instruction on the "ecumenical movement" addressed to all local ordinaries. in its prefatory remarks the instruction insisted upon the church's intense interest to attain to the full and perfect unity of the church. it noted as an occasion of joy the desire of many separated from the church to return to the unity of christ's fold, a good intention, indeed, which, however, in being put into practice has not been regulated by right principles. accordingly the holy office prescribed that local ordinaries maintain due vigilance over the associations seeking church unity, that they designate well-qualified priests to pay close attention to everything which concerns the "movement," and that they supervise publications on this matter by catholics or by non-catholics, in as far as these are published, or read, or sold by catholics. the manner and method of proceeding in this work is to be regulated by the ordinaries, who are cautioned to prevent the growth of indifference to catholic truth and fallacious hopes of unity based upon false or impossible foundations. with regard to mixed assemblies of catholics and non-catholics, when there seems to be hope of spreading knowledge of catholic doctrine, the ordinary is instructed to designate well-qualified priests, to explain and defend the church's teaching. special permission, however, must be obtained from ecclesiastical authority if catholic laymen are to attend. where no hope of good results exists, the meetings are to be ended or gradually suppressed. the following specific instructions are given for the conduct of "ecumenical meetings." all the aforesaid conferences and meetings, public and non-public, large and small, which are called for the purpose of affording an opportunity for the catholic and the non-catholic party, for the sake of discussion, to treat of matters of faith and morals, each presenting on even terms the doctrine of his own faith, are subject to the prescriptions of the church which were recalled to mind in the _monitum, "cum compertum_" of this congregation under date of june, . hence, mixed congresses are not absolutely forbidden; but they are not to be held without the previous permission of the competent ecclesiastical authority. the _monitum_, however, does not apply to catechetical instructions, even when given to many together, nor to conferences in which catholic doctrine is explained to non-catholics who are prospective converts, even though the opportunity is afforded for the non-catholics to explain also the doctrine of their church so that they may understand clearly and thoroughly in what respect it agrees with the catholic doctrine and in what it differs therefrom. neither does the said _monitum_ apply to those mixed meetings of catholics and non-catholics in which the discussion does not turn upon faith and morals, but upon ways and means of defending the fundamental principles of the natural law or of the christian religion against the enemies of god who are now leagued together, or where the question is how to restore social order, or other topics of that nature. even in these meetings, as is evident, catholics may not approve or concede anything which is in conflict with divine revelation or with the doctrine of the church even on social questions. as to local conferences and conventions which are within the scope of the _monitum_ as above explained, the ordinaries of places are given, for three years from the publication of this instruction, the faculty of granting the required previous permission of the holy see on the following conditions: . that _communicatio in sacris_ be entirely avoided; , that the presentations of the matter be duly inspected and directed; . that at the close of each year a report be made to this supreme sacred congregation, stating where such meetings were held and what experience was gathered from them. . as regards the colloquies of theologians above mentioned, the same faculty for the same length of time is granted to the ordinary of the place where such colloquies are held, or to the ordinary delegated for this work by the common consent of the other ordinaries, under the same conditions as above, but with the further requirement that the report to this sacred congregation state also what questions were treated, who were present, and who the speakers were for either side. as for the interdiocesan conferences and congresses, either national or international, the previous permission of the holy see, special for each case, is always required; and, in the petition asking for it, must also be stated what are the questions to be treated and who the speakers are to be. and it is not allowed, before this permission has been obtained, to begin the external preparation of such meetings or to collaborate with non-catholics who begin such preparation. . although in all these meetings and conferences any communication whatsoever in worship must be avoided, yet the recitation in common of the lord's prayer or of some prayer approved by the catholic church, is not forbidden for opening or closing the said meetings. . although each ordinary has the right and duty to conduct, promote, and preside over this work in his own diocese, yet the coöperation of several bishops will be appropriate or even necessary in establishing offices and works to observe, study, and control this work as a whole. accordingly it will rest with the ordinaries themselves to confer together and consider how a proper uniformity of action and coordination can be obtained. . religious superiors are bound to watch and to see to it that their subjects adhere strictly and faithfully to the prescriptions laid down by the holy see or by the local ordinaries in this matter. in order that so noble a work as the "union" of all christians in one true faith and church may daily grow into a more conspicuous part of the entire care of souls, and that the whole catholic people may more earnestly implore this "union" from almighty god, it will certainly be of assistance that in some appropriate way, for example through pastoral letters, the faithful be instructed regarding these questions and projects, the prescriptions of the church in the matter, and the reasons on which they are based. all, especially priests and religious, should be exhorted and warmly encouraged to be zealous by their prayers and sacrifices to ripen and promote this work, and all should be reminded that nothing more effectively paves the way for the erring to find the truth and to embrace the church than the faith of catholics, when it is confirmed by the example of upright living. index to volumes i-ii the numbers refer to the sections in the text. nos. - are contained in volume i [of the print edition]. abjectedness, definition, . abnormal mental states, as obstacles to voluntariness of acts, , ; effect on voluntariness of acts, . abortion, canonical penalties for, a. absolute standard, in grave matter, . abstemiousness, subjective part of temperance, a; definition, ; degrees of abstemiousness, a; austerity, ; excellence of fasting and abstinence, a; sins opposed to abstemiousness, a. see also gluttony; sobriety. abstinence, excellence of, a. abstinence, total, see sobriety. accession, title to private ownership, a; principles of accession, . accusation, judicial, obligation, ; when a malefactor is bound to accuse himself, ; ethical conditions for lawful accusation or denunciation, ; persons who may not act as accusers, ; judicial accusation and fraternal correction, ; unjust accusation, ; cessation of duty of accusation, . see also complaint. accused, see defendant. act, virtuous, intrinsic and extrinsic modes of performing, ; essential and ideal modes, . acts, human, - ; definition, ; knowledge requisite for, ; ignorance renders them involuntary, ; effect of error, forgetfulness and inadvertence on, - ; consent requisite for, ; free and necessary, a; perfectly and imperfectly voluntary, b; voluntary absolutely and under a certain aspect, c; voluntary in themselves or directly and in their cause or indirectly, d; voluntary, approvingly and permissively, ; omissions, - ; obstacles which destroy or lessen voluntariness, sqq.; voluntary acts either elicited or commanded by the will, - ; intellectual, - ; sensible, - ; external corporal, - ; morality of, sqq.; acts forbidden to clerics, a. acts, meritorious, sqq. acts, moral, sqq.; good, - ; bad, - ; indifferent, sqq.; morality of external act, sqq.; morality of act indirectly willed, - ; morality of consequences of act, , imputability, sqq,; imputability in cases of double result, sqq.; acts that are objectively efficaciously and subjectively unjust, a, b, c. see also acts, meritorious. acts of charity, see charity. acts of faith, see faith. acts of hope, see hope. acts, voluntary, - . see also acts, human. adjuration, definition, ; species of adjuration, ; solemn or simple adjuration, a; imperative or deprecative adjuration, b; qualities of lawful adjuration, ; persons who may be adjured, ; use of exorcisms, ; effects of adjurations, . adoration, see religion. adornment, when lascivious, b. adulation, sin against affability, a. adultery, definition, ; sinfulness of adultery, b; degrees of malice, c. advertence, full and partial, sqq., , . advisor, implicit, c. aeromancy, form of divination, g. affability, virtue of, b; definition, ; offices of affability, ; sins against affability, . affectation, vice opposite to modesty, b. afflictions, medicinal, as remedies against sin, . _agapæ_, in early church, a. age of reason, puberty and majority, . agency, a. aggression, unjust, . albigensianism, c. almsgiving, external effect of charity, ; definition, ; manner of giving, ; forms of almsgiving, ; seven corporal works of mercy, ; seven spiritual, ; comparison of corporal and spiritual alms, ; duty of almsgiving, sqq.; three classes of needy persons distinguished, ; three degrees of corporal need, ; rules on giving alms, ; gravity of the obligation, ; refusal of alms and restitution, ; alms from ill-gotten goods, sqq.; almsgiving from the goods of another, - ; order of charity in almsgiving, ; amount to be given, , ; employment as alms, b; when alms are excessive, ; clerics and almsgiving, ; time for almsgiving, ; manner, ; public charity cannot take the place of almsgiving, . alphonsus liguori, saint, preference for equiprobabilism, , , ; on obligation of judge when evidence is contrary to his personal knowledge, c. ambiguous answers, lawfulness of, . ambition, as incentive to envy, ; vice against greatness of soul, b. amendment, resolution of, . american law on bankruptcy, . amusements, forbidden to clerics, c. anarchists, condemned by church, b. anger, ; immediate cause of fighting, ; a cause of contumely, c; definition, ; gravity of the sin of anger, ; anger compared with hatred and envy, ; one of the seven capital vices, . annuities, b. anti-nationalism, sin against piety, b. anti-tutiorism, b. apology, as reparation for contumely, b; manner of apologizing, . apostasy, definition, ; comparative gravity of sins of apostasy, ; objectively speaking, no reason can justify apostasy, ; apostasy to non-catholic and anti-catholic sects, . appeal, right of accused, . appetites, sensible, . appetites, sensitive, as subject of sin, . appetites, spiritual, . arianism, c. art, intellectual virtue, b; one of the two practical virtues of intellect, a. assent, external and internal, a, b; objects, d. assistant priest, special duties of, c. astrology, a form of divination, c. astuteness, a form of evil prudence, a. attrition, see contrition. augury, a form of divination, d. auspice, a form of divination, d. austerity, nature and kinds, . authority, can supply indirect certitude, ; kind necessary to make opinion solidly probable, . avarice, ; opposed to liberality, ; comparison of avarice and prodigality, . backbiting, see defamation. bailments, . bankruptcy in american law, . baptism, sacrament of, faith necessary for adult candidate, ; the most necessary sacrament, ; effect is regeneration, a; material element of baptism, b; formal element, c; solemn baptism, a; private baptism, b; duties of pastors, ; duties of parents and guardians, ; sponsors required by church from very early times, ; requirements for validity and lawfulness of sponsors, a, b; duties of sponsors, ; duties of adult recipients of baptism, ; duties of minister of baptism, . barter, c. beatitudes, c, , ; rewards promised, ; third, ; first, ; seventh, ; sixth, ; fourth and fifth, ; eighth, ; second, . beneficence, external effect of charity, sqq.; regulated by the order of charity, - ; sins against, sqq. see scandal; obscenity; seduction; coöperation. benefices, ecclesiastical, ; institution of benefices, h. bestiality, form of impurity, d. betrothal, duties of persons engaged to marry, ; duties imposed by engagement to marry, ; courtship, ; duty to manifest defects, b; fidelity during the engagement, c; right to manifest affection, c; formal promise to marry imposes duty of marriage within a reasonable time, d; breaking of engagement, d; duty of restitution in breach of promise, d; signs of affection between engaged persons, . bills, unjust refusal to pay, . birth-control, see matrimony, sacrament of. bishop, interpreter of diocesan laws, ; special duties, a. blackstone, on purely penal character of civil laws, b. blasphemy, sin of, sqq.; heretical and non-heretical, ; interpreting cases of doubtful blasphemy, ; sinfulness of blasphemy, ; the greatest sin against faith, b; species of blasphemy, ; circumstances which aggravate, d; blasphemies against the three divine persons, ; despair and presumption as blasphemy, a; sin against holy ghost, ; state of malicious sin, ; remedies against blasphemy, ; absolution, . blessed sacrament, confraternities of, a. bluntness, vice opposite to modesty, b. bonaventure, saint, on obligation of judge when evidence is contrary to his personal knowledge, c. bond, definition of, a. bonds, purchase by clerics, e. books, when obscene, e; forbidden, see writings, forbidden. booty, obligation to make restitution, . borrowing, sinful, b. brahmanism, a. breach of promise, damages resultant on, a. bribery, judicial, see judge. broth, use forbidden on friday, c. buddhism, a. buying and selling, b. calumny, definition, e; worst kind of defamation, d. see also defamation. candidates for public office, lawfulness of revelations about, . capital vices, seven, sqq. carbonari, forbidden by church, h. cardinal virtues, . see also prudence; justice; fortitude; temperance. carelessness, caused by sloth, , c, . casuistic method, in moral theology, . catholic daughters of america, b. caution, integral part of prudence, b. celibacy, origin and obligation, a. censorship, government, not desirable, e. censures, by the church, c. ceremonial law, see law, mosaic. certainty, of knowledge, ; certainty of practical truth, . certitude, necessary for prudence, . certitude of conscience, necessity, - ; kinds, sqq.; metaphysical, physical and moral, sqq.; speculative and practical, ; demonstrative and probable, ; direct and indirect, ; principle of authority and reflex principles supply indirect certitude, . charity, theological virtue of, ; compared with faith and hope, ; remains in the blessed, ; fruit of the holy ghost, ; definition, ; charity and natural love, sqq.; true friendship with god, ; uncreated and created charity, - ; excellence of, ; charity and beatific vision, ; production of charity, ; origin, ; may be increased, ; perfect charity, ; three degrees, ; decline of charity, ; loss of, ; object of, ; love of creatures not always charity, ; sinful, natural and supernatural self-love, ; friendship and charity, - ; love of neighbor, ; charity for sinners, - ; for enemies, sqq.; common signs of charity, ; refusal of greeting a lack of charity, ; general order of charity, ; character of love of god, sqq.; sacrifice of spiritual goods for neighbor's sake, ; love of the body, ; order of charity between neighbors, sqq.; order of charity between relations, sqq.; acts of, sqq.; exercise of act, ; internal effects of charity, ; joy, ; peace, sqq.; reconciliation with god effected by charity, ; what reconciliation with enemies demands, ; manner and time of seeking reconciliation, sqq.; external effects of charity, ; beneficence (q.v.), ; almsgiving (q.v.), ; fraternal correction (q.v.), sqq.; hate (q.v.), sqq.; sins against peace, sqq.; opposition between schism and charity, ; schism greatest sin against neighbor, ; duty of owner towards one in dire need, a. charity, commandments of, in old testament, a; in new testament, b; precepts of secondary acts of charity, ; prohibitions of uncharitableness, ; commandment of love of god, sqq.; modes of performing act of love of god, - ; must be subjectively and objectively great, ; actual and habitual, ; degrees of perfection of this act, ; commandment of love of self, ; pursuit of supernatural, intellectual and corporal goods, - ; care of the mind, ; commandment of love of neighbor, sqq.; conditions, ; fulfillment of the commandments of charity, sqq.; various ways of fulfillment, ; external acts must be accompanied by internal love, ; internal act must be explicit, ; proper intention, ; obligation is universal, ; times when the precepts of charity oblige, sqq.; ignorance as excuse for omission, ; cases when love of neighbor must be explicit, ; necessity of habit of charity, ; order of charity is also commanded, . chastity, fruit of the holy ghost, ; subjective part of temperance, a; definition of chastity, ; fruit of fear of the lord, c; vow and virtue of chastity, b. chauvinism, sin against piety, a. children, compensation of, ; sex education of children, ; duties of children, charity and piety, ; special love of parents, a; respect and assistance owed to parents, b. chiromancy, form of divination, b. christian doctrine, confraternities of, a. christian science, b; refusal of medicine or hygienic care, . circumspection, b. clairvoyance, form of divination, a. clemency, definition, ; vices opposed to clemency, a. clergy, duty of charity to the poor, a; disposition of superfluous wealth by beneficed clergy, a. see also clerics. clerics, special duties of, ; duties before entering clerical state, a; duties after entering clerical state, b; internal vocation, a; external vocation, b; sinfulness of disregarding vocation, a; positive duties of clerics, a; obligation of divine office, a; excuses from the obligation of divine office, a; precept of clerical celibacy, a; negative duties of clerics, ; forbidden acts, a; forbidden occupations, b; forbidden amusements, c; prohibition against trading, a; clerics and purchase and sale of stocks and bonds, a; duties of clerical superiors, a; special duties of those who have care of souls, a. clients, duties to lawyers, b. coercion, as obstacle to consent, ; effect on voluntariness of acts, . coition, unnatural, form of impurity, b. commandments, natural and supernatural, ; of faith, sqq.; hope, sqq.; charity, sqq.; prudence, ; justice, - ; fortitude, - ; temperance, . commandments, ten, sqq. _commodatum_, a. communication, dangerous, sqq.; civil and religious communication, ; when non-religious communication is sinful, ; when religious communication is sinful, ; communication in worship, sqq.; private and public, ; participation of non-catholics in catholic worship, - ; restriction of this participation, ; performance of catholic rites by non-catholics, . communion, holy, minister, ; recipient of the eucharist, ; persons who may receive communion, a; persons who must receive communion, b; requirements in candidates for first communion, b; dispositions for worthy communion, ; confession, preparation and thanksgiving, a; rite in which communion may be received, a; dispositions of body (eucharistic fast and external reverence), b; necessary dispositions for frequent communion, a; useful dispositions for frequent communion, b; duties of parents, pastors and confessors in reference to communion, . see also eucharist, holy. commutations, involuntary, a; voluntary, b. commutative justice, see justice. compensation, various kinds of, ; lawfulness of occult compensation, ; unlawful occult compensation and restitution, ; conditions required by commutative justice for occult compensation, ; occult compensation in doubt of law, b; where there is strict right to compensation, ; where there is no right to compensation, ; compensation of children and employees, ; conditions required by legal justice for occult compensation, ; conditions required by charity for occult compensation, ; lawfulness of open compensation, . compensationism, sqq. see also systems, moral. complaint, duty of making complaint about private wrongs, ; persons in whose favor one may denounce a private wrong, . see also accusation, judicial. complicity, see coöperation. concupiscible passions, - . see also passions. condemnations, of error by the church, b. condign merit, see merit. condiments, not forbidden on friday, c. confession, see penance, sacrament of. confessors, duties of, regarding obligation of restitution, ; need of prudence, a. see also penance, sacrament of. confirmation, sacrament of, ; remote and proximate matter, a; form, b; minister of confirmation, ; recipient of confirmation, ; sponsors in confirmation, ; qualifications and duties of sponsors, a, b; duties of pastor in reference to confirmation, . confucianism, a. congruous merit, see merit. conscience, and moral theology, ; definition, ; variously divided, ; true or false, ; good (right) or bad (wrong), a; certain or uncertain, b; obligation of, ; authority not unlimited, ; no autonomous morality, a; when conscience must be followed, ; erroneous and doubtful conscience, ; results of following erroneous conscience, ; results of disobeying erroneous conscience, - ; a good conscience, sqq.; antecedent and consequent conscience, ; vigilant, tender and timorous conscience, ; scrupulous conscience, ; lax conscience, sqq.; malicious or non-malicious laxity (reprobate or weak conscience), ; partial or entire laxity, - ; pharisaic conscience, ; inculpable and culpable laxity, ; causes of a lax conscience, ; dangers of lax conscience, ; rules regarding sins due to lax conscience, - ; opinion as state of conscience, sqq.; remedies for lax conscience, ; scrupulous differs from strict (tender) conscience, a; scrupulous conscience differs from scrupulosity, b; rules regarding scrupulous conscience and sins, ; dangers of scrupulous conscience, ; perplexed conscience, sqq.; directions of st. alphonsus regarding perplexed conscience, ; scrupulosity, sqq.; distinct from scrupulous conscience, a; from a tender conscience, b; from anxious, doubtful or guilty conscience, c; chief subjects of scruples, ; signs of scrupulosity, ; internal causes of scrupulous conscience, ; external causes, ; sometimes tolerated by god, ; dangers of scrupulosity, ; rules for the scrupulous, ; qualities necessary for successful direction of scrupulous, ; scrupulous and past confessions, ; scrupulous and present confessions, ; scrupulous and performance of duties, ; scrupulous and commission of sin, ; remedies for scruples, sqq.; signs of a good conscience, ; certain conscience, sqq.; kinds of certitude, sqq.; uncertain conscience, - ; doubt and suspicion, ; presumption, ; reflex principles to settle doubts, sqq.; opinion, sqq.; accusing or excusing, a; forbidding or permitting, b; the moral systems, sqq.; tutiorism, sqq.; laxism, sqq.; probabiliorism, sqq.; equiprobabilism, sqq.; probabilism, sqq.; compensationism, sqq.; respective merits and use of the rival systems of conscience, sqq.; use by confessors, . conscience, systems of, see systems, moral, and conscience. consent, act of will, ; consent of the will, condition of mortal sin, , , ; obstacles to, see obstacles to consent; qualities necessary for valid consent, ; defects that invalidate consent, . consolations, spiritual, differ from devotion, b. contention, definition, ; sinfulness, ; causes, . continence, potential part of temperance, c; nature of, . continency, fruit of fear of the the lord, , c. contraception, see matrimony, sacrament of. contract, forms of, ; gratuitous contracts, a; contract as title to private ownership, b; elements of contract, ; subject-matter of contract, ; when contracts are immoral, a; sinful contracts, ; qualities necessary for valid consent, ; defects that invalidate consent, ; when fear invalidates consent to contract, c; form of contract, ; accidentals of a contract, ; conditions added to contract, c; modes of contract, d; obligation of entering into contract, a; obligation of valid contract, ; quality of obligation in onerous and gratuitous contracts, a; quantity of obligation in onerous and gratuitous contracts, b; objects of obligation of contract, d; obligation of quasi-contract, d; cessation of obligation, ; unilateral and bilateral contracts, a; onerous contracts, b, c; subsidiary contracts, d; immoral contracts, d; sinful contracts, ; illegal contracts, ; unenforceable contracts, a; voidable contracts, c; contracts _ipso facto_ void, d; qualities necessary in the parties contractant, ; legal privileges of minors in connection with contracts, ; principles obligatory in all forms of contracts, ; gratuitous contracts, a; onerous contracts, b; aleatory contracts, c; fraudulent contracts, . contractor's agreement, b. contrition, the first act of the penitent, ; perfect contrition, a; imperfect contrition or attrition, b; attrition based solely on fear of punishment, ; servile fear of god, b; slavish fear, b; attrition in the sacrament of penance, ; disinterested love not required in penance, b; interested love necessary in penance, e; conditions for valid contrition and attrition, ; internal sorrow; a; supernatural sorrow, b; universal sorrow, c; sovereign sorrow, d; properties of contrition, . contumely, definition, ; various forms of, ; manner of confessing contumely in sacrament of penance, ; sinfuless of contumely, ; gravity of matter in contumely, ; causes of contumely, ; duty of bearing with contumely, ; reasons for resistance to contumely or detraction, ; duty of one who answers contumely or detraction, ; duty of restitution for contumely, ; what kind of reparation should be made, ; method of apologizing for contumely, ; cessation of obligation of restitution, ; the differences between defamation and contumely, . coöperation, and restitution, ; positive coöperators in injury, ; negative coöperators, ; distinction between coöperators as equal or unequal causes of injury, ; coöperation in suicide, ; coöperation in defamation, sqq.; coöperation in sinful oaths, ; coöperation in divination or other form of superstition, ; coöperation in the sin of drunkenness, a; coöperation and restitution, see restitution. see also coöperation in sin. coöperation in religious activities, sqq.; immediate and mediate, sqq.; lawfulness of material coöperation, ; most usual cases of coöperation, ; contributions to false worship, ; building of houses of false worship, - ; preparing for non-catholic services, - ; resemblance to scandal, b. coöperation in sin, definition, ; how it differs from complicity, ; formal or material, a; positive or negative, b; occasional or effective, a; immediate or mediate, b; indispensable or not indispensable, c; unjust or unlawful, ; explicit or implicit, ; proximate or remote, ; sinfulness, ; lawfulness of material coöperation, ; gravity of reasons necessary for coöperation, sqq.; lawfulness of immediate coöperation, ; special cases, ; formal coöperation with evil reading matter, ; with evil dances or plays, ; material coöperation with evil dances or plays, ; coöperation by manufacture of sinful objects, sqq.; coöperation in supplying food and drink, - ; in renting houses, rooms, etc., - ; lawful and unlawful coöperation of employees, ; duties of confessors, - . correction, fraternal, definition, ; distinct from judicial correction and censure of vice, a, e; includes prevention of sin, d; duty, - , , ; when advisable and inadvisable, - ; doubtful cases, ; sin committed by omission or delay, - ; when person not a superior should make correction, ; obligation of inquiring into suspected wrongdoing, ; private spying uncharitable, c; faults that call for correction, sqq.; correction of vincibly and invincibly ignorant, sqq.; past sins do not demand correction, ; persons to be corrected, ; correction of superior, ; persons to administer correction, ; persons excused from duty, ; manner of correction, - ; secret and public corrections, ; obligation of reporting an occult sin, ; duties of superior when subject is reported for fraternal correction, - ; obligations for private individuals summarized, . council of trent, catechism of the, points about which explicit faith is required, . counsel, gift of the holy ghost, a. counsels of new testament, , sqq.; the three chief, ; superiority of, . counterclaim, definition, a. courage, inferior to justice, a. courtship, see betrothal. cowardice, caused by sloth, ; sin against fortitude, b. creditors, order of preference among, . credulity, . creed, knowledge of necessary, . creeds, summarize formulas of christian teaching, ; what articles deal with, ; apostles', nicene and athanasian creeds, ; summary of teaching of apostles' creed, sqq. cremation, societies for the promotion of, forbidden by code, b; cremation of corpses, b. criticism, when sinful, ; when injustice is committed by professional critics, . cruelty, vice opposed to clemency, a. culpability, see guilt. cunning, a. curiosity, compared with impurity, a. cursing, definition, ; when cursing is not sinful, ; sinfulness of cursing, ; gravity of sin of cursing, ; circumstances that change moral species of cursing, ; numerical multiplication in sins of cursing, ; cursing of evil, ; unlawful cursing of an irrational creature, . custom, effect on law, sqq.; kinds of, . see also customs in canon law. customs in canon law, sqq.; may interpret, abrogate or introduce law, ; kinds of, ; origin of, a; legal force of, b; time required for acquisition of legal force, ; cessation of, . _damnum_, definition, b. dances, when obscene, d; evil, formal coöperation with, ; evil, material coöperation with, . danger, of formal sin, a, ; of material sin, b. dangerous reading, see reading, dangerous. debates on religion, generally inexpedient, . debt, moral and legal debt, , - ; moral degrees of, . debt, conjugal, - . decalogue, invincible ignorance of generally impossible, ; laws of the first and second tables, ; the precepts contained in the decalogue, . deceit, form of lying, b. decency, subjective part of temperance, a; definition of decency, b. decision, wise, potential part of prudence, b. defamation, definition, ; self-defamation, e; different forms of defamation, ; differences between defamation and contumely, ; implicit and explicit defamation, b; direct and indirect defamation, d; examples of indirect defamation, ; examples of direct defamation, ; defamation by innuendo, a; defamation by plain speech, b; sinfulness of detraction, ; right to true and false reputation, ; sinfulness of gossip or criticism about real and known defects, ; moral species of defamation, ; species of sins of defamation, ; numerical multiplication of defamations, ; theological species of defamation, ; harm done by defamation, ; comparison of defamation with other injuries against neighbor, ; rule for determining seriousness of defamation, ; harm done by reason of defects revealed, ; revelation of secret faults, ; harm done by reason of person defamed, ; meaning of the expression "infamous in a certain place," sqq.; revelation about a person juridically in disrepute elsewhere, ; revelation about a person actually in disrepute elsewhere, ; notoriety in a closed community, ; revelation about a person formerly in disrepute, ; when the name of person defamed is not given, ; defamation of deceased and legal persons, ; harm done by reason of person of defamer, ; defamation at second hand, ; harm done by reason of listeners, ; detraction to one discreet person, ; belittling a person to himself, ; disclosing matters detrimental to third party, ; rights that have precedence over false reputation, ; unlawful attack on another's false reputation, ; conditions that justify revelation of another's defects, ; revelations about public officials or candidates for public office, ; revelations about historical personages, ; revelations about persons who figure in news of day, ; injustice in professional critics, ; coöperation in defamation, ; direct consent to defamation, ; persons who listen to defamation from curiosity, ; sinfulness of indirect consent to defamation, ; guilt of superior who consents to defamation, ; circumstances which lessen guilt of indirect consent, ; inaction in face of defamation, ; ways of opposing defamation made in one's presence, ; restitution for defamation, ; gravity of obligation of restitution, ; conditions which entail duty of restitution, ; coöperators and restitution, ; circumstances of restitution, ; persons by whom restitution must be made, , ; persons to whom restitution must be made, ; responsibility of defamer for spread of defamation, ; first way of making restitution, ; other methods of making restitution, ; legal reparation for defamation, ; time when restitution for defamation is to be made, ; cessation of duty of restitution, ; excuses from restitution, sqq.; right of defamed person to condone injury, . see also derision; tale-bearing; reputation. defects, natural, of fallen man, . defendant, definition, ; duties of defendant in civil cases, ; duties in criminal cases, ; duty of accused to plead guilty, ; rights and duties of accused in conducting own defense, ; rights and duties of accused who has been found guilty, . defense of self, see self-defense. definitions of the church, solemn and ordinary, b; by the church, c. defloration, definition, . deism, b. deliberation, wise, potential part of prudence, a. delight, . demerit, definition, . demon, the, . denunciation, see accusation, judicial; complaint. deposit, a. derision, definition, ; distinction between derision and jesting, ; sinfulness of derision, . desire, ; sinful, sqq. desires, evil, , sqq. desires, impure, see impurity. despair, definition, ; despondency, ; pusillanimity and spiritual sloth, ; despair of unbelief, ; signs indicating despair, ; malice of despair, ; despair compared with other sins, ; causes of despair, ; remedies for, ; caused by sloth, . detraction, reasons for resistance to contumely or detraction, ; duty of one who answers contumely or detraction, ; definition, c. see also defamation. devotion, definition of, ; differs from emotion, e; from spiritual consolations, b; external and internal cause of devotion, . devotions, different forms of, c. discord, sqq.; definition, ; sinfulness of intentional and unintentional, - ; origin, ; prohibition against, . disobedience, see obedience. dispensation from law, ; who may be dispensed? . dispensations, in the strict or wide sense, , sqq.; differ from privileges, ; persons who can grant dispensations, - ; manner of seeking, ; how invalidated, ; when dispensation is refused, ; interpretation of faculty of dispensing, - ; cessation of, - . see also matrimony, sacrament of; vows. distractions, see prayer. distributive justice, see justice. divination, see religion, sins against. divining rods, and divination, c. divorce, books in favor of divorce forbidden, b. see also matrimony, sacrament of. docility, integral part of prudence, b. doctors, as source of moral theology, . domicile, true and quasi-domicile, . double result, effect on imputability of acts, sqq. doubt, sqq.; positive or negative, ; as state of conscience, sqq.; reflex principles for solution of doubt, sqq.; cases of negative doubt to be settled in favor of obligation, ; negative doubt of law, a; of fact, b-c; rash doubts, ; supervening doubt of possessor in doubtful faith, ; antecedent doubt of possessor in doubtful faith, . doubt, sin of, sqq.; methodical and real, - ; involuntary, indeliberate, unwelcome and ignorant, ; negative, ; positive, ; passing and permanent, . dress, when lascivious, b; modesty in, a. druggists, duties of, c. drunkenness, sin against sobriety, b; passive drunkenness, a; degrees of the sin of drunkenness, a; malice of the sin, a; drunkenness compared with other sins, a; responsibility of drunkard for sins committed while intoxicated, a; coöperation in the sin of drunkenness, . duelling, books in favor of, forbidden, b; definition, ; morality of, ; fallacy of arguments for, ; penalties against, . dulia, species of reverence, c; obligation of religious cult of dulia, . duties, with regard to habits, ; of man, sqq. easter communion, obligation of, sqq. eastern star, among societies forbidden by church, b. education, neglect a sin against self, . effects of omissions, may be directly and indirectly voluntary, - . egoism, sin against piety, b. election, act of will, . embezzlement, definition, a. emotion, differs from devotion, a. employees, duties in justice and charity, . see also employers. employers, duties in justice and charity, ; duties of, ; labor disputes, ; obligation of giving employment, . emulation, distinct from envy, a, ; when it is a sin, . enemies, charity towards, ; general and special love of, . enfeeblement, definition, c. engagement to marry, see betrothal. enjoyment, see relaxation. envy, ; sin against charity, sqq.; definition, ; objects of, ; subjects of, ; distinct from emulation, fear and indignation, ; lawful and unlawful emulation, ; lawful and unlawful jealousy, ; lawful and unlawful grief at another's prosperity, - ; envy by nature a mortal sin, ; degrees of gravity, ; one of capital vices, ; how preeminent among sins, ; useful considerations and practices against envy, - ; as origin of discord, ; origin of contention, ; prohibition against, . epieikeia, ; in human laws, , sqq.; definition, ; limits on use, sqq.; use in determining obligation of ecclesiastical laws, ; a. subjective part of justice, . see also equity. equiprobabilism sqq. see also systems, moral. equity, subjective part of justice, ; greatness of legal equity, ; definition of equity, . error, resembles ignorance, ; practical and speculative, effect on gravity of sin, ; may diminish theological guilt, b. escape from prison, when licit, b. espousals, see betrothal. ethics, and moral theology, . eucharist, holy, ; the chief sacrament of the church, ; matter and form of the eucharist, ; qualities of the bread, a; qualities of the wine, b; grave precept of church regarding the form, c; minister of consecration, ; duties of minister as regards valid consecration, b; confession as preparation for consecration, c; effect on consecration of inadvertent neglect of grave liturgical precept, ; reservation of the blessed sacrament, ; duty of custody, a; duty of renewal of hosts, b; duty of worship, c; visits to the blessed sacrament, c; forty hours' devotion, c. see also communion, holy; mass, sacrifice of the. eugenical sterilization, c. euthanasia, definition, . eutrapelia, virtue, e, . exaggeration, form of defamation, c. executioners, become irregular by canon law, . exorcisms, use of, . extreme unction, see unction, extreme. faith, theological virtue of, and moral theology, ; definition, ; compared with charity, ; ceases in the blessed, ; excellence, ; utility, - ; meaning, ; st. paul's definition, ; st. chrysostom's definition, a; st. thomas' definition, b; definition by vatican council, ; material and formal objects, ; divine and catholic faith, ; divine and ecclesiastical faith, ; private revelations, ; human faith, d; external and internal assent, ; solemn and ordinary definitions of church, b; condemnations of error, b; definitions and censures, c; religious assent, d; explicit and implicit, sqq.; obligation of explicit faith, ; points about which explicit faith is required by catechism of council of trent, ; faith is necessary for salvation, ; formulas summarized in creeds, ; increase in articles of faith, ; apostles/ nicene and athanasian creeds, ; summary of teaching of apostles' creed, sqq.; internal and external acts of faith, sqq.; supernatural and natural truths to which assent must be given, ; act of faith necessary, sqq.; what must be believed with implicit and explicit faith, ; mysteries that must be believed, sqq., , ; substantial and scientific knowledge of mysteries, ; faith necessary for absolution, ; merit of the act of faith; assent of credibility, a; preambles of faith, b; habit of faith, ; properties of faith, ; living and dead faith, ; persons who have or had faith, ; persons who have not faith, ; how faith must be supreme, a; faith must be universal but not necessarily explicit, b; growth and decline of faith, - ; cause of faith, ; effects, ; internal and external dangers to, ; dangerous reading, sqq.; dullness of understanding as sin, ; blindness of mind as sin, ; commandments of, sqq.; commandment of knowledge, ; means of communicating knowledge, ; degree of knowledge necessary, ; knowledge of creed, decalogue, virtues, sacraments, duties of one's state, lord's prayer, ; means for retention of knowledge, ; memorizing of catechism, ; commandment of internal acts of faith, ; primary and secondary truths of revelation, ; obligation of affirmative commandment, ; when and how often act of faith should be made, - ; formal and virtual act of faith, ; commandment of external profession, sqq.; denial of faith, ; ways of denying faith, ; commandment of external profession, sqq.; divine precept of profession, ; secret, private and public profession, sqq,; obligation to give instruction on matters of faith and morals, ; ecclesiastical precept of profession, ; flight to avoid profession, ; when concealment of one's faith is lawful, ; sins of unbelief, see unbelief, sin of. see also unbelief; heresy; apostasy; doubt; credulity; rationalism. fame, see reputation. fare, travelling without paying, . fasting, excellence of, a. see also abstemiousness. favoritism, sinfulness declared by revelation, ; sinfulness declared by reason, ; gravity of sin of favoritism, ; favoritism in spiritual matters, ; favoritism in secular matters, ; favoritism in marks of esteem or honor, ; favoritism in judges, umpires, arbitrators and the like, a. fear, as obstacle to consent, , ; acts done with and through fear, ; two moral species (fear of the world and of god), ; habitual and actual fear, ; worldly fear as sin, ; servile and filial fear of god, sqq.; initial and perfected fear, ; divine commandments concerning fear, ; compared with envy, b, . fear of the lord, gift of the holy ghost, b; perfects hope, ; distinct from other kinds of fear, ; corresponds to first beatitude and fruits of modesty, continency and chastity, ; complement of temperance, a. fecundation, artificial, c. fees, in connection with administration of sacred rites, b. feigning of defects, form of lying, b. fenians, society forbidden by church, b. fidelity, fruit of the holy ghost, . see also truthfulness. fighting, definition, ; kinds, ; sinfulness, ; causes, ; hatred as cause of fighting, ; frequent occasions, ; evil consequences, . first-fruits, and tithes, b. fitness, the right standard for distributive justice, c. flattery, vice opposite to modesty, b. flesh meat, sqq. foolhardiness, sin against fortitude, b. foolishness, sin of, opposed to gift of wisdom, ; description of sin, ; causes, ; cause of contumely, b. foresight, b. forgetfulness, resembles ignorance, . form, sacramental, see sacrament. formal sin, . fornication, definition, ; sinfulness of fornication, ; fornication compared with other sins, a; circumstances of fornication, a; fornication of engaged person, b; forms of fornication, ; the state and places of prostitution, . fortitude, ; golden mean in, a, b; gift of the holy ghost, b; rank among moral virtues, ; definition of fortitude, ; two acts of fortitude, ; excellence, ; sins opposed to fortitude, ; integral and potential parts of fortitude, ; differs from patience, b; complements of fortitude, ; gift of fortitude, a; fortitude and the eighth beatitude, b; fortitude and the fruits of patience and longsuffering, c; commandments of fortitude, ; subjects of fortitude, . see also martyrdom. franchise, electoral, see voting. fraternal correction, see correction, fraternal. fraud, invalidates consent of contract, b; injustice in voluntary commutations, ; definition of fraud, ; two kinds of injustice in sales, ; injustice regarding price, ; criteria of a just price, ; obligation of observing prices settled by law or custom, ; when market price may be disregarded without injustice, ; unjust sales based on ignorance of real value, ; obligation of restitution on account of unjust price, ; injustice regarding thing sold, ; defects in the thing sold, . free love, definition, c. freemasonry, b; books in favor of, forbidden, b; society forbidden by code, a. friday abstinence, c. friendship, ; friendship of utility, pleasure and virtue, ; five marks of true friendship, ; human friendship not a distinct virtue, ; virtue of friendship, b. fruition, as act of will, . fruits of the holy ghost, b; twelve in number, , , , , , , , . gambling, sinful, d; gambling forbidden to clerics, c. geomancy, form of divination, c. gift, sinful, a; when are free gifts to judges permissible? d. gifts of the holy ghost, a; intellectual, a; appetitive, , , b; understanding and knowledge, - ; fear of the lord, - ; wisdom, sqq.; counsel, ; piety, ; fortitude, ; fear of the lord, . gluttony, ; sin opposed to abstemiousness, b; ways of committing gluttony, ; sinfulness of gluttony, a; gluttony as capital sin, . gnome, part of judgment, d. gnosticism, c. gnostics, b. god, belief in his existence and providence necessary for salvation, . golden mean, in virtues, - . good, common. c. goods, external, not last end of man, ; of the body, not last end of man, ; of the soul, not last end of man, ; when temporal goods should be surrendered to avoid scandal, . goods, abandoned, when they may be occupied, e; when vacant goods may be occupied, f. good templars, independent order of, forbidden by church, b. good will, fruit of the holy ghost, . gossip, sinfulness of, . grace, . gratitude, virtue of, a; definition of virtue, ; two kinds of gratitude, ; circumstances of gratitude, ; sins against gratitude, ; moral species of ingratitude, ; theological species of ingratitude, ; is it right to confer favors on the ungrateful? . grave matter, absolute and relative standards, ; opinions on the amounts that are grave matter, a. greatness of deed, integral part of fortitude, b; definition of virtue, . greatness of soul, integral part of fortitude, b; definition of virtue, ; greatness of soul and humility, ; vices opposed to, sqq. grief, at another's prosperity, when lawful and unlawful, - . guaranty, d. guilt, formal guilt, ; material guilt, ; causes that remove or diminish theological guilt, a. habits, as obstacle to voluntariness of acts, , ; definition, ; antecedent and consequent, ; in general, sqq.; definition, ; entitative and operative, a; good and evil, b; infused and acquired, c, - ; strengthening and weakening of, sqq.; exercise great influence on morality, ; our duties regarding, . see also virtue; vice. half-truths, form of lying, c. haruspicy, form of divination, c. hate, (see also passions, concupiscible); sin against charity, ; definition and kinds, ; hatred of god, ; interpretative and formal hatred, , ; hatred of god as a special sin, ; gravity of this sin, ; degrees of malice, ; hatred of creatures, ; dislike of self, , ; may one wish evil to self or others? ; wish for death or spiritual evil, - ; gravity of sin of hatred of neighbor, ; comparison with other sins, ; hatred not a capital vice, ; species of sin, ; manner of confessing sin, - ; as cause of fighting, ; prohibition against, . health, injury to, a form of injustice, . heresy, c, sqq.; as a sin and canonical crime, ; positive and negative, a; internal and external, b; occult and public, c; material and formal, d, - ; sinfulness of, ; circumstances that modify guilt, ; penalties, ; books in favor of, forbidden, b; heresy compared with schism, . hibernians, ancient order of, b. hire of labor, form of onerous contract, b. historical personages, lawfulness of revelations about, . holy ghost, fruits of, see fruits of the holy ghost. holy ghost, gifts of, see gifts of the holy ghost. homicide, definition, ; when homicide is lawful, ; unlawful killing of offenders, ; lawfulness of tyrannicide, a; homicide in self-defense, ; killing of the innocent, sqq.; unintentional killing of the innocent, ; destruction of the unborn, sqq.; canonical penalties for, a; accidental homicide, ; moral and legal guilt of homicide, . see also punishment, capital, . honor, definition, b; persons who are deserving of honor, ; species of honor, ; obligation of showing honor, ; honor due to superiors, a. honors, pursuit of, sometimes demanded by charity to self, . hope, theological virtue of, , , , sqq.; definition, - ; supernatural and natural hope, ; animated and inanimated hope, ; disinterested and interested hope, b, ; object of, ; excellence of, ; comparison with faith, ; with charity, ; pseudo-hope (egotistical, epicurean, and utilitarian), ; hope overcomes spiritual discouragement and aridity, ; means for growth in hope, ; subject of hope, ; certainty of, ; perfected by fear of the lord (q.v.), ; sins against hope, sqq.; despair (q.v.), sqq.; spiritual desolations, ; pusillanimity and spiritual sloth, ; presumption (q.v.), sqq,; commandments of hope, ; acts of hope obligatory, ; unlawful to surrender beatitude, ; when the commandment of hope obliges, sqq. horror, . see also passions, concupiscible. houses of study, courses of theology must follow st. thomas aquinas, . human acts, see acts, human. humanitarianism, sin against piety, b. humility, greatness of soul and humility, ; potential part of temperance, c; definition, ; the three acts of humility, a; two requirements of humility, ; excellence of humility, a. hunting, forbidden to clerics, c. husbands, see matrimony, sacrament of. hussism, c. hydromancy, form of divination, c. hyperdulia, species of reverence, c. hypocrisy, form of lying, b; sinfulness of hypocrisy, . iconoclasm, c. idleness, e. idolatry, see religion, sins against. ignorance, various kinds, sqq.; concomitant, consequent and antecedent, , ; vincible and invincible, , ; influence on voluntariness of acts, ; effect on sin, ; sins of ignorance, see ignorance, sin of; invincible, in relation to natural law, ; of christian law, possibility of, ; confessors should examine penitents who show signs of ignorance, . ignorance, sin of, b, sqq,; culpable ignorance as distinct sin, . see also ignorance. images, when obscene, a. immoderation, vice opposed to temperance, b. immorality, see impurity. impatience, vice opposed to patience, b. impediments, simple impediments to reception of holy orders, b; matrimonial impediments, sqq. imperfections, moral, ; when they become sin, . impossibility, physical, a; moral, b. impurity, definition, ; sensuality, luxury and curiosity, n; kinds of impurity, a; gravity of sin, a; one of the capital vices, c; evil fruits of impurity, ; when venial and mortal, a; when directly willed, b; when indirectly willed, c; temptations to impurity, ; resistance to internal temptations, ; what opposition to temptation is sufficient, ; insufficient, harmful and unnecessary opposition, ; weapons against carnal temptations, ; sinfulness of negligence in resisting temptations, ; non-consummated sins of impurity, ; impure thoughts, ; malice of impure thoughts, a; impure rejoicing, ; impure desires, ; malice of impure desires, ; sins of lewdness, ; consummated sins of impurity, ; comparative malice of the sins of consummated lust, a; multiplication of sins of lust, ; fornication, ; incest, ; carnal sacrilege, ; unnatural lust, ; pollution, ; non-sinful pollution, ; unimputable pollution, ; proximate and remote occasions of pollution, ; theological malice of sinful pollution, ; moral species of sinful pollution, ; canonical penalties for immorality, . see also lewdness; fornication. imputability of acts, sqq. inadvertence, resembles ignorance, . incest, definition, . inconvenience, degrees of, . index of forbidden books, c. indifferentism, a. indignation, differs from envy, c, . indolence, d. infamy, sqq. infidelity, ff. ingratitude, see gratitude. inhabitant, definition, ; when subject to laws, . inheritance, title of private ownership, b. inhibition, of passions, . _injuria_, definition, b. injuries, bodily, a form of injustice, . injustice, definition, ; species of legal and particular injustice, ; theological species of legal and particular injustice, ; when injury to private or public right is mortal sin, a, b; moral species of injustice, ; profitable and unprofitable injustice, c; when injury is no injustice, ; internal injustice, ; distributive injustice alone does not oblige to restitution, ; coöperators in injustice and restitution, sqq.; mandator of act of injustice, a; advisor of act of injustice, b; protector in act of injustice, d; consenter in act of injustice, e; partaker in injustice, f; sin of injustice, s; judicial injustice, ; principal sins of verbal injustice, . injustice in buying and selling, see fraud. innocent, unintentional killing of, . insensibility, sin against fortitude, b; vice opposed to temperance, . insurance, c. intellect, art and prudence the two practical virtues of, . intention, as act of will, . see also prayer. internationalism, false, sin against piety, b. interpretation, of law, sqq.; verbal or emendatory, ; by private or public authority, ; of ecclesiastical laws, sqq.; rules for doctrinal interpretation, . invocation, of a demon, ; invocation of spirits, see religion, sins against. irascible passions, , . irregularities, as disqualifications for reception of holy orders, b. irreligiousness, see religion, sins against. jail-breaking, and restitution, . jealousy, lawful and unlawful, . jesting, distinction between derision and jesting, . jingoism, sin against piety, a. joy, fruit of the holy ghost, ; sinful, ; as effect of charity, - . judaism, b. judaizers, b. judge, office of, ; qualifications, ; conduct, ; accepting gifts from litigants, ; obligation to restore bribes, etc., ; duties during a trial, ; duties on conclusion of a trial, ; obligation in connection with a law manifestly unjust, ; catholic judge and degrees of divorce, ; obligation when evidence is contrary to his personal knowledge, ; when judge is unjust cause of damaging evidence, ; obligation in doubtful criminal cases, ; obligation in doubtful civil cases, ; standard by which he should weigh evidence, ; when a judge is bound to restitution, ; when he is not bound to restitution, ; right to question prisoner about his guilt, ; judges who pass death sentence become irregular by canon law, . see also witness. judgment, virtue of, ; public and private judgment, a; three conditions of righteous judgment, - ; necessary quality of lawful oath, e. judgment, rash, b; sinfulness of rash judgment, ; rules on perfect advertence to rashness of judgment, ; rules on insufficiency of reasons for unfavorable judgments, ; rules on gravity of matter in rash judgments, ; moral species of the sin of rash judgment, ; chief reasons for rash conclusions about character of others, ; rash doubts, . judgments, moral, sqq.; the safer and more likely, . jurisdiction, of a judge, . justice, ; golden mean in, a, b; precedence over charity, b; compared with other virtues, ; private justice, b; legal justice, a; justice superior to courage, a; superior to liberality, b; regarded by some as inferior to virtue of religion and mercy, a, b; justice demands proper motives in those who seek or pass judgment, a; legal justice distinct from distributive and commutative, a; distributive justice, b; commutative justice, c; resemblance between distributive and commutative justice, ; special differences between distributive and commutative justice, ; commutations of commutative justice, ; equality sought by commutative justice, ; distributive justice and violation of individual rights, ; commutative justice and violation of individual rights, ; vice opposed to distributive justice, ; distributive injustice frequently accompanied by commutative injustice, ; vices against commutative justice, ; legal justice, classes of courts, ; jurisdiction of , judge, ; quasi-integral parts of justice, ; potential parts of justice, ; degrees of moral debt, ; necessary qualities of lawful oath, c; complements of justice, ; beatitudes that correspond to justice, b; fruits of the holy ghost that correspond to justice, c; commandments of justice, ; justice, a duty of superior, b. see also equity; restitution. killing, of animals, a; of human beings, see homicide. kindness, fruit of the holy ghost, . kinsfolk, order of charity between, sqq. kissing, morality of kissing and similar acts, . knights of columbus, b. knights of pythias, society forbidden by church, b. knowledge, gift of the holy ghost, a; given to perfect theological virtues, . lands, how they may be occupied, b. larceny, definition of, b; petit and grand larceny, b. last end of man, existence of, ; nature of, ; how attained, . latitudinarianism, a. law, sqq.; definition, ; eternal, natural and positive divine, ; collision of laws, ; precedence, sqq,; basis of all laws, ; customs may interpret, abrogate or introduce law, . law, christian, comparison with mosaic law, sqq.; as regards their aims, ; as regards their precepts, ; as regards their difficulty of observance, ; as regards external and internal works, - ; moral, ceremonial and judicial precepts of new testament, ; duration of, ; subjects of, ; ignorance of, ; dispensation from, ; interpretation of, - ; when observance of law is impossible, - ; counsels of (q.v.), sqq.; the three chief counsels, . see also law, mosaic. law, civil, sqq.; persons in whom legislative authority is vested, ; acceptance by people not necessary for obligation of law in itself, ; obligation of laws made by one without authority, ; subject-matter, ; relation to natural law, ; relation to divine and ecclesiastical law, ; and human rights and liberties, ; persons subject to, ; obligation of, ; when penalty is incurred before sentence, ; special kinds, sqq.; laws that determine ownership, ; irritant or voiding laws, ; four kinds of laws with reference to penalty, ; moral obligation, sqq. see also laws, human. law, ecclesiastical, precedence over civil, , sqq.; charter of, ; character of, ; general law of church, ; effects of code on liturgical and disciplinary laws and customs, ; rules governing interpretation of code, ; lawgivers in church, - ; subject-matter of church law, ; kinds of acts governed by church law, ; persons bound by general laws, sqq.; persons bound by particular laws, ; promulgation, ; acceptance of, ; irritant laws, sqq.; effects of ignorance, force or fear on acts irritated by law, ; when an irritant law ceases to bind, ; obligation of law based on presumption of common danger, ; obligation of law based on presumption of particular fact, ; personal, minute, partial and simultaneous fulfillment of laws, sqq.; time of fulfillment, sqq.; unwilling fulfillment, ; intention required in fulfillment, sqq.; virtuous dispositions in fulfillment, sqq.; interpretation of, ; cessation of obligation, ; exemption from, ; ignorance and impossibility as excuses for non-observance, sqq.; cessation of, sqq.; use of epieikeia in determining obligation, . law, eternal, the, basis of all laws, . law, mosaic, began with promise to abraham, a; promulgation, b; excellence, ; subjects of, ; duration of obligation, ; precepts, ceremonies and judgments, sqq.; ceremonial laws, ; sacred times and places, sacraments and customs, ; four periods of ceremonial law, ; four kinds of judgments or judicial laws, - ; comparison with christian law, sqq. law, natural, precedence over positive, ; definition, ; relation to other laws, ; division, ; common and proper, b; primary and secondary, ; first principle and secondary principles, a; precepts (axiomatic and inferred, general and particular), - ; necessary and contingent laws, ; absolute and relative laws, ; properties of, ; of universal obligation, ; unchangeable, sqq,; possibility of dispensation from, , sqq.; possibility of modification, ; when observance is physically or morally impossible, - ; promulgated by light of reason, ; ineradicable from human heart, ; wrong applications of, . law, positive divine, definition, ; necessity, c; differs from natural law in certain respects, ; natural and supernatural commandments, ; division of, ; in state of original innocence, a; in law of nature, b; mosaic law, sqq.; christian law, sqq. lawgivers, in the church, - . laws, administration of, see judge. laws, ceremonial, of old testament, sqq., see also law. mosaic. laws, ecclesiastical, in a wide sense, sqq.; precepts, ; rescripts, ; privileges, - ; dispensations, . laws, human, sqq.; definition, ; divisions, ; qualities, ; should not prescribe what is too difficult, ; obligation, ; necessity, ; when unjust, ; obedience to unjust laws not obligatory, ; degrees of obligation, sqq.; interpretation, - ; epieikeia, ; those subject to law, - ; change of, ; constitutional law, ; effects of custom on law, ; dispensation from, sqq. see also law, civil. laws of new testament, . laws of the first and second tables, . see also decalogue. lawyer, general duties, ; qualifications, ; duties in introducing case, , obligation in charity towards persons in distress, - ; duty when cause is unjust, ; duties when justice of cause is doubtful, ; duty when he discovers case is really unjust, ; duties towards client, ; duties toward other parties, ; concealment of truth in presenting case, ; sinfulness of introducing false or corrupted documents, ; when bound to restitution, . laxism, see systems, moral. laziness, as distinct from sloth, ; various forms, a-e. lease, b. leniency, undue, vice, b. lenten fast, . lesbian love, form of impurity, c. lewdness, definition, ; propriety of external acts, ; morality of kissing and similar acts, ; morality of sensual gratification, ; theological species of the sin of lewdness, ; circumstances that increase or lessen the danger of sin, ; cases wherein the danger of sin is grave or slight, ; lewd books, b; lewdness in speech, a; in reading, b; in looks, c; in touches, d; moral species of lewdness, a. libel, definition, d. liberality, inferior to justice, b; virtue of liberality, b; definition of virtue, ; importance of liberality, . see also avarice; prodigality. lies, see lying. lipstick, morality of use, . liquids, may or may not break fast, . loans, a; loan at interest, b. longsuffering, fruit of the holy ghost, . looting, forbidden by modern international law, . loss, definition, b. lots, use of, when lawful, . lottery, when lawful, e. love, definition, ; root of all appetites of soul, ; effects, ; degrees, ; love of desire and love of benevolence, ; love of creatures not always charity, ; kinds of self-love (q.v.), ; obligatory, a; of supererogation, b. love of god, see charity. love of neighbor, see neighbor, love of. love of self, see self-love. lukewarmness, . lust, . see also impurity. luxury, compared with impurity, a; modesty in luxury, a. lying, definition, ; misunderstanding a form of lying, a; misinterpretation a form of lying, b; divisions of lies, ; hypocrisy, b; simulation, b; misrepresentation and deceit, b; classification of lies, ; lies of inclination, b; pernicious lies, b; motives for lying ; jocose lie, a; officious lie, a; comparison of gravity of various lies, ; sinfulness of all lies, ; when lying entails no formal sin, ; pernicious lies, ; concealment of the truth, ; mental reservation, ; morality of strict mental reservation, ; morality of broad mental reservation, b; when broad mental reservation is lawful, ; ambiguous answers, ; simulation or pretence, ; sinfulness of simulation, . macedonianism, c. magnanimity, see greatness of soul. majority, age of, . malefactor, when bound to accuse himself, . malice, sins of, e; caused by sloth, . _mandatum_, a. manicheans, b. manicheism, c. marriage, see matrimony, sacrament of. marriage, trial, definition, c. marriages, dangerous, ; canonical consequences, ; prenuptial guarantees, ; remedies against mixed and dangerous marriages, . martyrdom, definition, ; kinds of martyrdom, ; conditions for martyrdom, ; practical questions about martyrdom, . mass, sacrifice of the, ; obligation of saying mass, ; dispositions for the celebration of mass, ; confession before mass, a; distractions during the canon, b; preparation and thanksgiving before mass, a; eucharistic or natural fast, b; rubrical vestments, b; time of mass, a; place, b; rites, c; when it is lawful to discontinue mass, ; application of the mass, ; obligation of pastors to say mass for flocks, a; obligation of mass stipends, b; persons for whom mass may be applied, ; how mass must be applied, b; lawfulness of mass stipends, . masturbation, form of impurity, a. material sin, . matrimony, sacrament of, first blessing of marriage (offspring), a; second blessing of marriage (fidelity), b; third blessing of marriage (sacrament), c; obligation of paying the conjugal debt, ; absence of obligation, ; suspension of obligation, ; obligation of requesting conjugal intercourse, ; morality of venereal acts of marriage, ; unnatural consummated acts, c; artificial fecundation, c; rectal copulation, c; contraception, ; contraception an injury to god, a; an injury to society, b; an injury to the family, c; an injury to the individual, d; arguments of neo-malthusians and other advocates of contraception, ; is birth-control ever lawful? ; _coöperatio uxoris ad onanismum vel contraceptionem_, ; _recapitulatio de licitis et illicitis in conjugio_, ; marriage as a sacrament, ; reasons that justify separation, a; husband superior to wife in authority, b; husband has duty of providing for wife, c; no obligation for individual to marry, a; unity of marriage its first property, d; indissolubility of marriage its second property, e; pauline privilege, e; dissolution, e; divorce under mosaic law, e; marriages of infidels, e; true, presumed, putative and attempted marriage, a; legitimate, ratified, consummated marriage, b; clandestine, secret, public marriage, c; marriage of conscience, c; marriage is canonical or civil, d; elements of contract of marriage, a; ends of contract, b; essence of contract is the consent, c; valid consent, ; defects in consent, ; mental derangement as defect, a; ignorance as defect, b; error as defect, c; effect of forced consent on validity, a; effect of forced consent on lawfulness, b; conditional consent, ; elements of marriage as sacrament, ; ministers and recipients of matrimony, b; effects of matrimony, c; duties in connection with marriage, ; obligation of betrothal or engagement, ; is engagement necessary before marriage? ; duties to parents or guardians in reference to marriage, ; duties of parents in reference to marriage, ; obstacles to marriage, ; duty to make known impediment to marriage, c; duties of pastor in examination of engaged persons, ; special proofs of freedom to marry, ; proof of baptism, a; proof of single state, b; matrimonial impediments, ; sinfulness of marrying with an impediment, ; impedient or prohibitive impediments, ; vow as impediment, a; impediment of legal relationship, b; impediment of mixed religion, e; duties of pastor and parties in connection with mixed marriages, ; valid engagement forbids marriage with third party, a; special prohibition of particular marriage by the church, b; closed times, e; diriment impediments to marriage, ; absolute diriment impediments, ; impediment of age, ; impediment of impotency, ; impediment of bond, ; impediment of difference of religion, ; impediment of kinship, ; consanguinity, a; affinity, b; public decency, c; spiritual relationship, d; legal relationship, e; matrimonial impediments produced through misdeeds, ; impediment of abduction, a; impediment of crime, b; duties of pastor after inquiry about impediments, ; dispensation, a; publications of banns of marriage, b; duties of pastor after examination and proclamation, ; duties of pastor as regards religious instruction of engaged couple, ; pastor and duties of engaged couple, ; pastor's duties to parents, a; pastor's duties to civil law, b; opposition of parents to marriage, ; religious duties of parties before marriage, ; confession, a; communion, b; celebration of marriage, ; requisites for validity, a; requisites for lawfulness, b; rite of matrimony, ; nuptial blessing and nuptial mass, b; coöperation in unworthy marriage, ; registration of marriages, ; when impediment is discovered after marriage, ; lawfulness of divorce and separation, . see also betrothal. matter of sin, grave, - ; light, . matter, sacramental, see sacrament. meanness, vice against greatness of deed, b. medicinal afflictions, as remedies against sin, . meekness, fruit of the holy ghost, ; potential part of temperance, c; definition, . memory, a. mental derangement, removes theological guilt, a. mercy, result of charity, ; definition, c; natural and supernatural, ; causes of unmerciful spirit, ; mercy compared with other moral virtues, ; compared with charity, ; obligation, ; seven corporal works of mercy, ; seven spiritual works, - ; regarded by some as superior to justice, b. merit, definition, ; human and divine, ; natural and supernatural, ; condign and congruous, ; the right standard for distributive justice, c. merits, former merits recovered by repentance, c. methods in moral theology, casuistic, positive and scholastic, . minors, legal privileges in connection with contracts, . misrepresentation, form of lying, b. moderation, see temperance. modernism, c, b. modesty, fruit of the holy ghost, ; of bearing and living potential part of temperance, e; definition of modesty, ; modest behavior or decorum, a; vices opposed to modesty, b; modesty in style of living and dress, a; morality of self-beautification, ; fruit of the fear of the lord, c. mohammedanism, a. monophysitism, c. morality, definition, ; constitutive norm, ; manifestative norm, ; perceptive norm, ; three species of, ; three sources, the object, circumstances, and end, sqq.; moral value of passions, sqq.; important influence of habits on, . moral science, office of, b. moral systems, see systems, moral. moral theology, objects, ; medium, ; sources, ; use of natural reason, philosophy and natural sciences in, - ; positive, scholastic and casuistic methods, ; history of, ; patristic period, a; medieval period, b; modern, c; division and order of parts, ; general and special, . mormonism, b. mortgage, d. motions of the soul, first and second, . motives of sin, sqq. munificence, virtue, e. murder, see homicide. murmuring, definition and sinfulness of, . mutilation, definition, a; when lawful, . _mutuum_, definition, a. mysteries, that must be believed, sqq., , ; substantial and scientific knowledge of, . narcotics, licit use, . naturalism, b. necessity, spiritual, degrees of, . necessity, temporal, degrees of, ; extreme necessity justifies conversion of others' property, a. necromancy, form of divination, b. necrophilism, form of impurity, d. negligence, a. _negotiorum gestio_, definition, a. neighbor, love of, three kinds, sqq.; sacrifice of spiritual goods or bodily welfare for neighbor's sake, sqq.; order of charity between neighbors, sqq. see charity; friendship; emulation; jealousy; hate; correction, fraternal. neo-malthusians, arguments in favor of contraception, . nestorianism, c. new testament, ordinances, ; counsels, ; laws, ; temporary regulations, ; law of, see law, christian. nihilists, society forbidden by church, b. non-catholics, participation in catholic rites, sqq. non-combatants, treatment during war, . nurses, duties of, c. oaths, moral effects of accidentals added to contracts, b; definition of an oath, ; assertory or promissory oaths, a; comminatory or confirmatory oaths, a; contestatory or execratory oaths, b; explicit or implicit oaths, b; solemn or simple, judicial or extrajudicial oaths, d; moral difference between various kinds of oaths, ; lawfulness of oaths, ; necessary qualities of a lawful oath, ; sinful oaths, ; incautious oath, a; perjured oaths, b; wicked oaths, c; mental reservation in oaths, ; coöperation in sinful oaths, ; sinful oaths demanded or accepted by private persons, ; fictitious oaths, ; expressions confused with oaths; obligation imposed by promissory oath, ; obligation imposed by negative oath, ; obligation of oath is personal, ; interpretation of promissory oath, ; kind of obligation produced by a valid promissory oath, ; cessation of obligation of promissory oath, . see also adjuration. obedience, definition of virtue, ; power of jurisdiction and dominative power, ; degrees of obedience, ; comparison of obedience with other virtues, ; comparison of acts of obedience, ; duty of obedience, ; when obedience is not lawful or obligatory, ; internal actions and human superiors, ; obligation of vow of obedience, ; sins against obedience, ; definition of disobedience, ; kinds of disobedience, ; theological sinfulness of formal disobedience, ; moral species of disobedience, ; circumstances that aggravate formal disobedience, ; comparison of formal disobedience with other sins, ; vow and virtue of obedience, c; obedience due to superiors, b. objects, sinful, formal coöperation by manufacture of, ; material coöperation, sqq. obscenity, definition, ; internal and external, a-b; general rules for determining what is obscene, ; persons who give scandal through obscenity, ; government suppression of obscenity aim of league of nations, e. obstacles to consent, sqq.; fear, ; ignorance, , sqq. occasions of sin, sqq. occult heresy, c. occult sin, . occupation, title to private ownership, a; chief ways of occupation, ; when occupation of others' goods is lawful, sqq. see also theft. occupations, forbidden to clerics, b. odd fellows, society forbidden by church, b. offerings, act of religion, . office, divine, distractions during, ; obligation of matter and manner, a; excuses from the obligation of the divine office, a. officials, public, lawfulness of revelations about, . offset, definition of, a. old testament, moral precepts still binding, ; ceremonial laws no longer obligatory, . omen, form of divination, d. omissions, voluntary, ; effect of may be voluntary, . oneiromancy, form of divination, a. opinion, as state of conscience, sqq. ordeal by fire, sin against religion, c. order of charity, ; between neighbors, sqq.; in almsgiving, . orders, holy, sacrament of, ; distinction of the orders, ; major and minor orders, b; hierarchy of orders, a; hierarchy of jurisdiction, b; matter and form of the various orders in the latin church, ; episcopal consecration, a; minister of ordination, ; special duties of minister, ; recipient of orders, ; conditions for validity of reception, a; conditions for lawfulness of reception, b; canonical requirements for ordination, ; irregularities, b; simple impediments, b; irregularities from defect or delinquency, b; duties of ordinandi according to canon law, a; registration of ordinations, ; ordination of acolyte, a; ordination of exorcist, a; ordination of porter, a; ordination of reader, a; ordination of subdeacon, b; ordination of deacon, c; ordination of priest, d. ordinances, of the new testament, . orientals, c. original sin, sqq. ouija boards, form of divination, c. ownership, private, allowed by natural and divine law, ; chief titles to private ownership, . pacifism, extreme, not inculcated by christ, . pain, of loss, a; of sense, b. _palpo_, definition, e. pan-christianism, b. parents, duties of charity and piety, ; compensation of children, ; sex education of children, . participation of catholics in non-catholic services, ; active and passive participation, - ; things wherein communication is possible; ; simulated active assistance, ; cases of communication in false worship, sqq.; cases where a communication in another catholic rite is allowed, ; participation in non-sacramental rites, ; participation in religious places, times and objects, . partnership, b. passion, as obstacle to consent, , ; antecedent, makes act less free, ; consequent, does not affect voluntariness of acts, ; when it removes or diminishes theological guilt, a. passions, definition, , sqq.; definition, ; concupiscible, - ; irascible, , ; moral value of, sqq.; physical, mental and moral dangers of, ; antecedent or involuntary (first motions of the soul), ; consequent or voluntary (second motions of the soul), ; inhibition of, ; important influence of habits on, . pastor, duty to give sacraments, a; duties in reference to baptism, ; to confirmation, ; to communion, c; to worship, c; to celebration of mass, b; to application of mass _pro populo_, a; jurisdiction for confession, a; on reserved cases, b; duty to hear confessions, b; to give extreme unction, c; rank among the clergy, b; duties in reference to marriage, , , , sqq., , . pathological states, see abnormal mental states. patience, fruit of the holy ghost, ; act of fortitude, b; definition, ; patience differs from temperance, a; differs from longsuffering and constancy, c; greatness of patience, ; vices opposed to patience, ; virtue of steadfastness, . patriolatry, sin against piety, a. patriotism, very like to religion, d. pawn, d. pawning, unjustifiable, g. peace, fruit of the holy ghost, ; as effect of charity, sqq.; reconciliation with god, ; reconciliation with enemies, ; reconciliation with enemies demanded by charity, ; what duty of reconciliation demands, ; what this duty necessitates, sqq.; person who should make the first advances, ; manner and time of seeking reconciliation, - ; sins against peace, sqq. see discord; contention; schism; war; fighting; duelling; sedition. pederasty, kind of impurity, c. pelagianism, c. penance, sacrament of, ; remote matter, a; proximate matter, b; form of, c; subject of, d; probabilism in administration of sacrament, ; contrition the first act of the penitent, ; valid and fruitful reception of the sacrament of penance, ; resolution of amendment, ; confession, second act of penitent, ; qualities of confession, ; gravity of lying to confessor, ; integral confession, ; material and formal completeness, a, b; moral species of sin must be confessed, a; number of sins must be given, b; circumstances that change the species must be declared, c; external act that completed an internal sin must be declared, d; circumstances that notably aggravate a sin without changing its species, a; external effects of a sin must be confessed, b; uncertain sins must be confessed, c; when material integrity is not necessary, ; completion or repetition of past incomplete confessions, ; when a general confession should be made, c; satisfaction, the third act of the penitent, ; effects of actual satisfaction, ; conditions for effective satisfaction, ; obligation of accepting and performing a penance, ; causes that excuse from a penance imposed, ; requirements in the minister for valid absolution, ; power of jurisdiction, ; when the church supplies jurisdiction (cases of common error and of uncertainty of law or fact), ; limitation of jurisdiction, ; reserved sins, a; reserved persons, b; absolution from reserved cases, ; absolution given by one not possessed of jurisdiction, ; duties of confessor before confession, ; duties of confessor as judge in hearing the case, ; duties of confessor in deciding about cases, ; duties of confessor in passing sentence, ; penitents to whom absolution should be denied, ; backsliders (recidivists), c; obligation, quality and quantity of sacramental penance, ; duties of the confessor as spiritual physician, ; duties of the confessor as teacher and guide, ; spiritual direction, b; duties of the confessor after confession, ; probabilism or epieikeia may not be applied to sacramental seal, a; attitude of confessor to tempted and afflicted, b; attitude to scrupulous, b; treatment of sick and dying, b; attitude towards the pious, b; attitude towards the hardened sinner, b; manner of repairing defects made in hearing a confession, ; excuses from duty of repairing mistakes, ; obligation of seal of confession, ; sins against the seal of confession, ; special abuses to which confession is exposed, ; danger of defamation, a; danger of impurity, b; _absolutio complicis_, ; _effectus legis de absolutione complicis_, ; _sollicitatio in confessione_, ; _denuntiatio sollicitantis_, . perception, b. pessimism, defective judgment, f. philanthropy, as distinguished from almsgiving, . philosophy, use in moral theology. , . phrenology, form of divination, b. physicians, duties of, c. physiognomy, divination by, b. pictures, when obscene, a. piety, gift of the holy ghost, b; a potential part of justice, b; various senses of, ; definition of virtue of piety, ; reverence required by piety, ; assistance required by piety, ; sins against piety, ; malice of sins against piety, ; gift of piety directed to our father in heaven, a. plants, when they may be occupied, b. plays, when obscene, c; formal coöperation with evil plays, ; material coöperation with, . pleasures, sensible, and temperance, b. pleasures, spiritual, and temperance, b. pledge, d. pollution, see impurity. pope, authentic interpreter of all ecclesiastical laws, ; three ways of rejecting papal decisions, . positive method, in moral theology, . possessors, unlawful, three kinds of, sqq.; obligations in reference to the property and its fruits, sqq. poverty, vow and virtue, a. power of jurisdiction, and dominative power, . practicality, . praise of god, ; internal and external praise of god, ; excellence of praise of god, ; qualities that should be present in the divine praises, . prayer, definition, ; the psychology of prayer, ; the necessity of prayer, ; a duty for all adults, ; times and frequency of prayer, ; corollaries about prayer and confession, ; to whom prayer may be offered, ; persons for whom prayer is offered, ; things that may be prayed for, ; qualities of prayer, ; confidence requisite for successful prayer, ; attention and intention in prayer, ; actual, virtual and habitual intention in prayer, a, b, c; internal or external, verbal or superficial, literal, spiritual, perfect or imperfect attention in prayer, ; acts that exclude external attention, ; when external attention is sufficient, ; kind of internal attention required in prayer, ; distractions in prayer, ; voluntary and involuntary distractions, ; sinfulness of distraction in prayer, ; distractions during divine office, . precepts, axiomatic and inferred, ; general and particular, ; ecclesiastical, - . precepts of the church, first derived from natural and divine as well as ecclesiastical law, a; affirmative and negative parts of first precept, ; how mass must be heard, ; external and bodily assistance, a; internal or mental assistance requires actual or virtual intention of will, b; the necessary attention, b; time and place of mass, ; servile works, ; forensic and commercial labors forbidden, b; liberal works tolerated, b; definition of common works, a; doubtful works, b; lawfulness of hiring non-catholics to do servile work, ; obligation of first precept, ; excuses from observance of first precept, ; scope of second precept, ; definition of flesh meat, a; broth and condiments, c; obligation of second precept, ; exceptions to the obligation, c; the obligation of fasting, sqq.; scope of third precept, ; subject and matter of third precept, a; time for fulfillment of third precept, ; origin and gravity of third precept, ; scope of fourth precept, ; origin and gravity of fourth precept, a; fifth precept, ; sixth precept of the church, . prescription, title to private ownership, b; conditions for valid prescription, ; may terminate the obligation of contract, b. presumption, sin of, sqq.; definition, ; objects of, ; comparison with temptation of god and blasphemous hope, ; malice of, ; gravity compared with other sins, ; presumption and unbelief, ; presumption takes away virtue of hope, ; causes of, ; vice against greatness of soul, a. presumption of a pact, . pretence, see simulation. price, just and unjust, see fraud. pride, as origin of discord, ; origin of contention, ; cause of contumely, a; definition of pride, ; acts of pride, a; sinfulness of pride, a; pride compared with other sins, n; pride mother of the seven capital sins, c. principles, first and secondary, a; reflex, see reflex principles. prison, escape from, lawfulness, b. prisoners, treatment during war, , . privilege, pauline, see matrimony, sacrament of. privileges, sqq.; definition, ; wide and strict interpretation of, ; obligation to accept and use, . probabiliorism, see systems, moral. probability, intrinsic signs of, a; extrinsic signs of, b; kinds of, ; of law, a; of fact, b, . probabilism, see systems, moral. prodigality, a vice opposed to liberality, ; sinfulness, ; comparison of avarice and prodigality, . promotion of undeserving candidates, . profession of faith, commandment of, sqq. see faith. propensities, natural, effect on voluntariness of acts, . property, private, chief ways in which it may be occupied, ; when lost property may be occupied, d; conversion of property against the wishes of owner, b; conversion of property, . propriety, integral part of temperance, b; propriety of external acts, . protestantism, e. providence, b. prudence, , ; ranked first among cardinal virtues, ; definition of prudence, ; one of the two practical virtues of intellect, a; inferior to the gift of wisdom, b; objects of act of prudence, a; prudence concerned with application of truths and first principles of morality to contingent and particular cases, b; formal object of prudence, a; material object, a; prudence needs certitude, ; relation of prudence to the other moral virtues, a; prudence rules the inferior virtues and serves the superior, ; prudence and the intellectual virtues, a; prudence and the theological virtues, b; the exercise of prudence, ; the three acts of prudence, deliberation, decision, direction, ; qualities of prudence, ; moral, integral, subjective, potestative parts of prudence, , ; integral parts of prudence, ; prudence knows how to reason correctly, a; subjective parts of prudence, ; individual prudence, a, a; social prudence, b; political prudence, a, c, ; domestic prudence, b, b, ; governmental prudence, a; military prudence, b, d; utility of prudence for society, ; potential parts of prudence, ; persons who possess prudence, ; evil prudence, a; imperfect prudence, ; indifferent prudence, b; good prudence, c; infused prudence, a; prudence in young people, a; formed habit of prudence, a; prudence a duty of superior, a; formative prudence, b. puberty, age of, . punishment, eternal and temporal, . punishment, capital, lawfulness of, ; when it should not be imposed, ; unlawful killing of offenders, a. punishments, bodily, . punitive sterilization, b. purity, virtue of, ; definition, ; definition of chastity, a; definition of decency, b. see also virginity; impurity. purpose, wrong, may make venial sin mortal, ; or mortal venial, . pusillanimity, ; as incentive to envy, ; vice against greatness of soul, a. pyromancy, form of divination, c. pythian sisters, society forbidden by church, b. pythonism, form of divination, b. quickness, b. rancor, caused by sloth, . rape, . rash opinion, . see also judgment, rash. rationalism, . reason, age of, . reason, natural, use in moral theology, ; as subject of sin, . reading, dangerous, sqq.; forbidden by natural and ecclesiastical law, . rebeccas, society forbidden by church, b. rebellion, not schism, . recoupment, definition of, a. reflex principles, for solution of doubts, sqq.; may supply indirect certitude, b. _regulæ pro confessariis de licitis et illicitis, in conjugio_, . relationships, various kinds, . relatives, order of charity among, sqq.; duties of near, . relaxation, as virtue, a, b; sins opposed to moderate enjoyment, a. religion, virtue of, regarded by some as superior to justice, a; a potential part of justice, a; definition of the virtue, ; religion as a moral virtue, ; superiority of religion as a virtue, ; necessity of the acts of religion, ; internal acts of religion, ; definition of devotion, ; external and internal causes of devotion, ; external acts of religion, ; definition of adoration, ; difference between _latria_ and _hyperdulia_ and _dulia_, b; difference between _latria_ and civil homage, b; unity and variety of adoration, ; definition of sacrifice, ; essentials of sacrifice, ; obligation of sacrifice, ; exemptions from sacrifice based on the natural law, ; sacrifice compared with the other acts of religion, ; goods unsuitable as offerings to god, ; contributions to religion, ; obligation of contributing to the support of the clergy, ; quality of the obligation of contributing to the church, ; priest's attitude towards persons refusing to contribute, ; those to whom religious contributions are due, ; external acts of religion in honor of god, . religion, sins against, ; superstition, ; false worship, a; superfluous worship, b; sinfulness of improper worship of god, ; worship of false deity, ; definition of idolatry, ; kinds of idolatry, ; sinfulness of idolatry, ; comparison of different sins of idolatry, ; idolatry possible in christian worship, ; definition of divination, ; distinction between the fact and sin of divination, ; forms of explicit invocation, ; forms of implicit invocation, ; malice of the sin of divination, ; when knowledge is obtained from god, ; when knowledge is obtained through natural causes, ; use of lots, ; vain observance, ; forms of vain observance, ; distinction between fact and sin of vain observance, ; superstition in religious observances, ; sinfulness of vain observance, ; coöperation in divination or other form of superstition, ; doubtful cases of vain observance, ; licitness of using doubtfully superstitious means, ; irreligiousness, ; temptation of god, ; cases wherein there is no temptation of god, ; kinds of temptation of god, ; causes that exclude the interpretative temptation of god, ; refusal of medicine or hygienic care, ; sinfulness of temptation of god, ; malice of temptation of god, . see also sacrilege; simony. religious, special duties of, ; perfection of charity, a; evangelical counsels, b; obligation of the three principal vows, a. remorse of conscience, penalty of sin, . repentance, virtue of, ; character of repentance, ; excellence, ; dignity, a; necessity, b; repentance as a means and as a precept, ; accompaniments of repentance, ; fruits of, ; restores infused virtues and former merits, c; removes every sin, a. reproach, definition, b. reprisals, in war, . reputation, when charity requires one to seek good reputation, ; when sacrifice of reputation is lawful and unlawful, ; when self-detraction is lawful, ; definition of good, true, false, ordinary and extraordinary reputation, a-c; right to good reputation, ; right to true and false reputation, ; meaning of the expression "infamous in a certain place," ; rights that have precedence over a false reputation, ; unlawful attack on another's false reputation, ; conditions that justify revelation of another's defects, ; revelations about public officials or candidates for public office, . see also defamation. rescripts, . reservation, strict and broad mental reservation in an oath, . see also lying. resident, definition, ; when subject to laws, . restitution, distinct from payment, restoration and satisfaction, ; difference between satisfaction and restitution, ; when restitution is due, ; confessor's duties regarding the obligation of restitution, ; roots of restitution, ; when unjust damage obliges to restitution, ; restitution for damages that are only venially sinful but seriously harmful, ; for damages only juridically culpable, ; for careless discharge of fiduciary duties, ; restitution when culpability seems doubtful, ; coöperators and restitution, ; circumstances of restitution, ; restitution _in solidum_ or _pro rata_, ; order of restitution among coöperators, ; person to whom restitution must be made, ; creditors with right _in re_ have preference over creditors with right _ad rem_, ; "thing" to be restored, ; "amount" of restitution in certain cases, ; "manner" of making restitution, ; second restitution, ; "time" when restitution must be made, ; unjust refusal to make restitution, ; "place" where restitution must be made, , ; causes that excuse temporarily from restitution, ; causes that excuse permanently from restitution, ; excuse from restitution on account of doubtfulness of obligation, ; restitution for frustration of another's good, a; restitution for injury done to goods of fortune, b; restitution for injury done to goods of body or personal goods, c; restitution for unjust homicide or mutilation, ; restitution for fornication or adultery, b; restitution for injuries of soul, c; restitution for occupied goods, ; restitution of bribes, etc., c; restitution for jail-breaking, ; obligation of witness to make restitution, ; when a lawyer is bound to restitution, ; restitution for contumely, sqq.; cessation of obligation of restitution for contumely, ; restitution for defamation, sqq.; restitution of temporal price received for spiritual thing, ; restitution of temporal price received for temporal things annexed to spirituals, ; circumstances of restitution for simony, ; restitution of spiritual thing simoniacally received, ; restitution necessitated by breach of promise to marry, d; restitution for theft. see also compensation. restraint, definition, d. revelations, private, . reverence, potential part of justice, c; definition of virtue, ; species of honor, ; obligation of religious cult of _dulia_, . revilement, definition, b. rights, precedence in case of collision, . robbery, comparison with theft, a; kinds of theft and robbery, a; what constitutes grave matter in robbery, . see also theft; injustice. rubrics, directive and preceptive, in administration of the sacraments, c. rudeness, vice opposite to modesty, b. sacraments, of old testament, ; denial of christian sacraments in cases of scandal, ; nature of sacrament, ; outward sign, a; instituter of sacraments, b; purpose of sacraments, c; sacraments of the dead and of the living, c; indelible character of some sacraments, c; matter and form of the sacraments, ; substantial changes in matter or form, a; substantial separations of matter and form, b; simultaneity of matter and form, ; accidental changes or separations of matter and form, ; substantial changes or separations, ; doubtful matter, ; sacraments that have a necessity of means, ; reception of sacraments _in re_ or _in voto_, ; sacraments that have a necessity of precept, ; twofold ministry of the sacraments (production and bestowal), ; requirements in the minister for valid performance of sacrament, ; necessary intention, ; virtual, actual, habitual and interpretative intention, b; rules on plurality of intentions, ; requisites for use of conditional intention, ; lawful administration of sacraments, ; minister's worthiness before god, a; minister's worthiness before church, b; worthiness of ministration, c; directive and preceptive rubrics, c; explanation of ceremonies advised, c; multiplication of sins by unworthy administration, ; requirements for valid sacrament in recipient, ; qualities of recipient's intention, ; neutral intention, b; when virtual intention is necessary, ; when habitual and explicit intention suffices, b; when habitual and implicit intention suffices, b; requirements for lawful or fruitful reception of sacrament by adult, ; obligation of minister to confer sacraments, ; obligation of pastor to confer sacraments, a; when minister is bound to deny them, ; administration to unworthy persons, ; simulation and dissimulation of sacrament, ; administration of penance and extreme unction to heretics and schismatics, ; repetition of sacrament on account of invalid administration, ; reception of sacrament from unworthy minister, ; forgiveness of sin through use of sacraments, . sacrament, blessed, see eucharist, holy. sacramentals, definition, ; necessity and use, a, b. sacrifice, see religion, virtue of. sacrilege, definition, ; violation of what kind of consecration involves sacrilege? ; is sacrilege a special sin? ; species of sacrilege, ; personal sacrilege, a; local sacrilege, b; desecration, a form of sacrilege, b; profanation, a form of sacrilege, b; real sacrilege, c; special cases regarding local sacrilege, ; cases wherein there is no sacrilege, ; sacredness as aggravating circumstance of sin, ; malice of sacrilege, ; conditions that govern gravity of sacrilege, ; carnal sacrilege, ; personal sacrilege, c; local sacrilege, d; real sacrilege, e. sadness, concupiscible passion, . sapphism, form of impurity, c. satisfaction, for sin, . see also penance, sacrament of. scandal, various uses of word, - ; definition, ; causes of, ; directly intentional (diabolical) and indirectly intentional, ; active and passive, ; acts that give scandal, ; obscenity (q.v.), sqq.; results of scandal, ; scandal resembles solicitation and complicity, ; persons apt to be scandalized, ; scandal given and scandal taken, ; pharisaic scandal and "scandal of little ones," b; sinfulness, ; is scandal a distinct species of sin? ; how scandal should be confessed, ; responsibility of scandalizer for injuries to third parties, - ; gravity of sin, ; is any person immune from scandal? ; duty of avoiding, ; scandal of the weak forbidden by the natural law, ; surrender of temporal goods to avoid scandal, ; surrender of church goods to avoid scandal, - ; duty of repairing scandal, ; ways of repairing, ; public and private scandal, a; ordinary and extraordinary, b; denial of sacraments in cases of scandal, ; prohibition against, . schism, books in favor of, forbidden, b; definition, ; principal schismatic movements, ; directly and indirectly voluntary schism, ; schism committed in two ways, ; three ways of rejecting decisions of pope, ; schism compared with heresy, ; opposition between schism and charity, ; greatest sin against neighbor, a; not so serious as unbelief, b; formal and material schism, . schismatics, spiritual powers of, . scholastic method, in moral theology, . schools, dangerous, sqq.; sectarian and neutral, ; absolution of parents of children attending, ; catholic teachers in non-catholic schools, . sciences, natural, use in moral theology, . scripture, as source of moral theology, . scrupulous, see conscience. seal of confession, see penance, sacrament of. second sight, a. secret, violation of (infidelity), ; definition of a secret, ; natural, promised, entrusted or committed secret, ; sinfulness of violating secret, ; prying into others' secrets, ; reading another's letters or papers, ; lawfulness of utilizing knowledge of secret, ; sin committed by stealing or unduly using secret of another, ; obligation of keeping secret, ; comparison of secrets as regards binding force, ; cases wherein it is not necessary to keep secret, ; cases wherein it is not lawful to keep secret, ; lawfulness of revealing secret learned by stealth or force, . sedition, definition, ; distinct species of sin, ; resistance to tyrannical government not sinful, . seduction, sqq.; definition, ; malice, ; differs from mere permission to sin, ; sinful request, ; advice to commit evil, ; prearrangement of circumstances that lead to sin, . self-abuse, form of impurity, a. self-beautification, morality of, . self-defamation, sin opposed to charity, e. self-defense, right of, ; conditions for exercise of this right, a; self-defense must be moderate, ; when it is obligatory, ; when it is not obligatory, ; defense of neighbor's life against unjust aggressor, ; defense of material goods against unjust aggressor, ; defense of bodily purity against an unjust aggressor, ; defense of bodily integrity against an unjust aggrossor, ; defense of honor or reputation, . self-depreciation, form of lying, . self-glorification, form of lying, . self-love, commandment of, ; understood in many senses, ; sinful, natural and supernatural, ; charity demands an elicited supernatural self-love, ; demands pursuit of all goods necessary for attainment of happiness, ; care of the mind, ; neglect of education sinful, ; care of the body and health, ; care as to food and drink, ; fresh air, rest, physical exercise, - ; pursuit of honors and good name, - ; when self-detraction is lawful, ; dislike of self, , ; may one wish evil to self? . self-starvation, sin opposed to abstemiousness, a. seminaries, courses of theology must follow st. thomas aquinas, . sensuality, , sqq.; compared with impurity, a. sentence, judicial, when it may be resisted, c; moral obligation when this is certainly just, ; moral obligation when this is certainly unjust, . separation, see matrimony, sacrament of. servility, vice opposite to modesty, b. set-off, definition, a. shamefacedness, integral part of temperance, b. shintoism, a. simony, origin of name, ; definition, ; temporal price in simony, ; spiritual thing in simony, ; temporal thing united with spiritual, ; temporal thing annexed to spiritual, ; various kinds of simony, ; confidential simony, ; simony against divine law, ; rules of alexander iii for determining simony, ; simony against divine law in reference to things annexed to spirituals, ; simony against ecclesiastical law, ; certain and uncertain simony, ; doubtful cases of simony, ; cases in which transaction is not simoniacal, ; theological malice of simony; ; moral malice of simony, ; invalidity and penalties of simoniacal contracts, ; canonical penalties for simony, ; influence of simony on spiritual effects, ; restitution of temporal price received for spiritual thing, ; restitution of temporal price received for temporal things annexed to spirituals, ; circumstances of restitution for simony, ; restitution of spiritual thing simoniacally received, . simulation, form of lying, b; definition, ; sinfulness of simulation, . see also hypocrisy. sin, definition, ; spiritual and carnal, a, sqq.; against god, neighbor or self, h; mortal and venial, c, ; of commission or omission, d; stages of (heart, mouth, work), e; by excess or defect, f; original and actual, g; when matter of sin is grave, - ; advertence and consent conditions of mortal sin, sqq.; mortal, condition of, sqq.; venial, definition, ; conditions, sqq.; when imperfections become a sin, ; when venial sin becomes mortal, - ; coalescence of, ; multiplication of, ; possible effect of wrong purpose, circumstances and harm foreseen, sqq,; when mortal sin becomes venial, sqq,; causes of sin, ; effect of ignorance, passion and malice on, ; external causes of, ; distinct from temptation, ; proximate and remote danger of, ; possibility of, ; guilt of one who exposes himself to sin, ; occasions of (proximate or remote, necessary or free, present or absent), sqq.; motives of, sqq.; results and penalties of, sqq.; original and actual, sqq.; stain of, ; every sin removed by repentance, a; forgiveness of sin through the use of the sacraments, . see also sins. sincerity, see truthfulness. sinners, charity for, ; association with, ; friendship with, . sins, theological and moral species, ; specific distinction, ; numerical multiplication, , sqq.; rules of numerical distinction, sqq.; comparison of, ; sins against god, ; against creatures, ; subjects of (sensitive appetites, reason, will), sqq,; sins of sensuality, ; sins of thought, sqq.; sins of desire, sqq.; material (or objective) and formal (or subjective), ; sins of weakness, ignorance and malice, . see also sin. slander, definition, d. see also defamation. sloth, ; spiritual, , capital sin, sqq.; definition, ; sinfulness, ; qualities of sin, ; sins that spring from sloth, ; conquest of sloth, ; prohibition against, . sluggishness, sin opposed to diligence, b. sobriety, subjective part of temperance, a; definition, ; obligation to practise sobriety, ; sins against sobriety, a; morality of total abstinence, a; licit use of narcotics, . see also drunkenness. societies, forbidden, sqq.; forbidden by code, ; absolution of members, . sodomy, form of impurity, c. softness, a. solicitation, resemblance to scandal, a. see seduction. sons of temperance, society forbidden by church, b. soul, first and second motions of the, . sortilege, form of divination, d. speculation, sinful, f. spiritism, b; sin against religion, b. sponsors, see baptism, sacrament of; confirmation, sacrament of. stain of sin, . state of life, duties of, knowledge of obligatory, . statesmanship, a, a. states of man, four historical, . steadfastness, act of fortitude, b. sterilization, morality of, a. stiffness, vice opposite to modesty, b. stipends, mass, institution of, b. see also mass, sacrifice of the. stocks, purchase by clerics, a. stocks and bonds, b. stolidity, vice opposed to patience, . stranger, definition, ; when subject to laws, - . students, duties of, b. studiosity, potential part of temperance, c; definition of studiousness, ; vices opposed to studiousness, a; malice of the sins against studiousness, a; negligence, a sin against studiousness, b. subjects, duties to domestic and civil superiors, . suffrage, power of, b. see also voting. suicide, books in favor of, forbidden, b; voluntary and involuntary, direct and indirect, a; sinfulness of suicide, ; coöperation in suicide, ; authorization to commit suicide, ; when indirect suicide is lawful, , ; when indirect suicide is unlawful, ; is it suicidal to refuse s necessary surgical operation? ; canonical penalties for suicide, a. sunday, sanctification of, see precepts of the church. superfluities, from which alms must be given, - . superior, clerical, duties of, a; special duties to flock, a. superiors, domestic and civil, duties of, . see also employers; subjects. superstition, see religion, sins against. surety, d. surgeons, duties of, c. surliness, sin against affability, b. syncretism, b. synesis, part of judgment, d. synteresis, and moral theology, ; directs the moral virtues, a. systems, moral, sqq.; tutiorism, a, sqq.; anti-tutiorism, b; condemned by church, ; laxism, sqq.; condemned by church, ; probabiliorism, sqq.; equiprobabilisrn, ; probabilism, sqq.; compensationism, sqq.; practical conclusions, ; respective merits and use of the rival systems, ; use by confessors, . tale-bearing, definition, ; sinfulness, ; circumstances which affect the species of tale-bearing, . taoism, a. taunting, form of contumely, definition, b. taxes, definition, ; kinds of taxes, ; just taxes, ; obligation to pay taxes, sqq.; obedience to tax laws, . teachers, duties of, b. telepathy, and the virtue of religion, a. temperance, ; golden mean in, a, b; differs from patience, a; definition of temperance, ; temperance and sensible pleasures, b; temperance and spiritual pleasures, b; rule of moderation, ; excellence of temperance, ; vices opposed to temperance, ; subjective parts of temperance, a; potential parts of temperance, c; integral parts of temperance, b; sobriety, sqq.; continence, ; incontinence, c; sinful indulgence, ; complements of the virtue of temperance, a; commandments of temperance, a. temptation, not a sin, ; implicit or explicit, internal or external, direct or indirect, virtual or actual resistance to, ; rules regarding resistance to, ; exterior and interior temptations to impurity, ; resistance to internal temptations, ; what opposition to temptation is sufficient, ; insufficient, harmful and unnecessary opposition, ; weapons against carnal temptations, ; negligence in resisting temptations, . temptation of god, see religion, sins against. tepidity, consequence of sloth, . testament, new, see new testament. testament, old, see old testament. testimony, see witness. theft, sin of injustice, ; definition of theft, ; plagiarism is form of theft, c; copyright infringement, a form of theft, c; kidnapping, a form of theft, c; comparison of theft and robbery, a; kinds of theft, a; sinfulness of theft, a; grave matter in theft of sacred objects, ; grave matter in domestic theft, a; theft by wife or minor child, a; theft by employees, a; theft of things about whose loss owner is less concerned, a; travelling without paying fare, ; when small thefts amount to grave matter, sqq.; moral connection between repeated acts of theft, ; interval of time between acts of theft, ; theft from joint owners, ; restitution in cases of theft, a; cases of doubt as to grave matter, a; occult compensation, b; when conversion of others' property is permissible, ; conditions for lawful occupation of others' goods, a; restitution for occupied goods, ; occupation in case of merely grave necessity, ; occupation of large sum by one in dire need, a; lawfulness of receiving support from thief, ; compensation for theft, see compensation; condonation of domestic thefts, . theologians, as source of moral theology, . theological virtues, ; golden mean in, c; rank among virtues, . see faith, hope and charity. theology, ascetical and mystical, . theology, moral, definition, ; relation to dogmatic theology, . theosophical societies, forbidden by church, b. theosophy, b. third orders, secular, a. thomas aquinas, saint, as source of moral theology, ; arrangement of moral theology, ; opinion on obligation of judge when evidence is contrary to his personal knowledge, c. thought, sins of, sqq. thoughts, impure, see impurity. thoughts, sinful, . timidity, sin against fortitude, b. trading, definition, ; morality of trading in the strict sense, ; trading forbidden to clerics, a. tradition, ; divine, apostolic, ecclesiastical, . treasure trove, when it may be occupied, c. tribadism, form of impurity, c. truth, necessary quality of lawful oath, b. see also truthfulness; lying. truthfulness, a; definition of virtue, ; excellence, ; sincerity and fidelity, ; vices opposed to truthfulness, . see also lying. truths, natural and supernatural, to which assent must be given, . tutiorism, see systems, moral. tyrannicide, lawfulness of, a. unbelief, sin of, negative and positive, ; ordinary and apostasy, ; direct and indirect, - ; non-assent, ; dissent (private and contrary unbelief), ; infidelity, a; order of gravity in unbelief, ; dangers which lead to external expression of unbelief, sqq. see also heresy; apostasy. unction, extreme, sacrament of, ; remote matter, a; proximate matter, b; form, c; recipient, d; minister, e; effects of, f; special duties of recipient, a; special duties of minister, b; special duties of pastor, c; special duties of faithful, d. understanding, integral part of prudence, a. understanding, gift of, a; given to perfect theological virtues, . unity of the church, threefold, . uranism, form of impurity, c. use, act of will, . usury, definition, . _vagus_, definition, ; when subject to laws, . vainglory, as origin of discord, ; origin of contention, . vanity, vice against greatness of soul, c. vengeance, definition, ; morality of vengeance, ; excess and defect in vengeance, ; circumstances of vengeance, . viaticum, see communion, holy. vice, definition, ; and sin, see sin. vices, capital, seven, sqq. vindication, virtue, a. see also vengeance. violence, invalidates consent to contract, d. see also coercion. virginity, definition, ; loss of virginity, ; conditions necessary for virtue of virginity, a; excellence of virginity, a. virtue, subjective parts, h, ; integral parts, , ; potential parts, , ; parts, , , , . virtues, definition, ; division, ; practical intellectual, - ; moral, definition, ; four cardinal virtues, ; theological, ; three causes of virtues (nature, practice and infusion), ; inchoative and perfected, ; properties of, ; golden mean in, b; rank among virtues, - ; in the blessed, ; complements of, ; properties of seven infused virtues, ; order of theological virtues, ; priority of a virtue in duration, by nature, and in excellence, . see also faith; hope; charity; cardinal virtues; act, virtuous. vision, beatific, relation to charity, . vocation, internal, ; external, b; vocation to the clerical state, a; sinfulness of disregarding vocation, a. volksverein, b. voting, duty of exercising the electoral franchise, ; manner of voting, ; obligation to seek office, . vow, definition, ; personal, real and mixed vows, ; singular and common vows, b; temporary and perpetual vows, c; absolute and conditional vows, d; penal and non-penal vows, d; explicit and implicit vows, e; determinate and disjunctive vows, e; private and public vows, f; simple and solemn vows, f; vows in canon law, ; distinction between solemn and simple vows, ; knowledge and deliberation necessary for valid vow, ; freedom of will necessary for valid vow, ; cases in which fear does not invalidate vow, ; vows of doubtful validity, ; intention necessary for valid vow, ; matter of vow, ; vows that promise something necessary, ; when fulfillment of vow is only partly possible, ; vows that promise something displeasing to god, ; vows that promise something indifferent, ; meaning of better good in vow, ; vows invalidated by promise of lesser good, ; when one has taken two opposite vows, ; obligation of vow, ; gravity of obligation, ; rules for determining what is important matter in vow, ; coalescence of light into grave matter in vow, ; delay in fulfilling vow, ; time when vow obliges, ; person obliged to fulfill a vow, ; manner of fulfilling vow, ; obligation of certain kinds of vows, ; interpretation of doubtful vows, ; advantages of vows to vowers, ; when good vow may be sinful, ; merit of fulfilling vow that one regrets, ; persons who can make vow, ; dependence of vower on will of another, ; validity of vows made by subjects, ; cessation of vows, ; annulment of vows, ; reason necessary for annulment of vow, ; differences between direct and indirect annulment of vow, ; dispensation of vow, ; reasons sufficient for dispensation, ; sinfulness of unnecessary dispensation, ; persons who have power of dispensation, ; dispensation from religious vow of chastity, ; dispensation from vow made for benefit of third party, ; commutation of vows, ; good works that may be substituted for vows, ; persons who have authority to commute vow, ; cause required for commutation of vow, ; reversion to original vow, ; duties of confessors in reference to private vows, ; obligation of vow of obedience, ; religious vows, obligation of the three principal vows, a. vulgarity, vice against greatness of deed, b. wagers, sinful, c. waldensianism, c. war, definition, ; just and unjust, ; offensive and defensive, ; not against law of god, ; nor against law of nature, ; three conditions for lawfulness, ; who may declare war? ; what is just cause of war? ; sufficient causes, sqq.; insufficient causes, ; when justice of cause is doubtful, ; can there be justice on both sides? ; duties before beginning war, - ; duties during war, sqq.; lawful means of warfare, ; acts of war and sacred times, ; and sacred places, ; and sacred persons, ; combatants, non-combatants and neutrals, ; killing or wounding of combatants, ; of non-combatants, ; punishment of military crimes, ; imprisonment and restraint of enemy subjects, ; destruction and seizure of property, ; booty and looting, - ; lawfulness of stratagems, ; of reprisals, ; duties of victor, ; rights, ; obligation of victor whose cause was unjust, - ; indemnities, ; guarantees for future, ; punishment for crimes committed during war, ; preparation for future wars, ; preparation for peace, . weakness, sins of, a. whispering, form of defamation, sqq. whoremongering, definition, b. wicliffism, c. will, acts elicited or commanded by, - ; three acts of, ; consent of, condition of mortal sin, , , ; as subject of sin, . will (testament), definition, ; defects of a will, . wisdom, intellectual virtue, c. wisdom, gift of, a; corresponds with and serves charity, ; nature of gift, ; object of, d; in its cause, wisdom belongs to the will, a; in its essence, to the intellect, b; wisdom is both speculative and practical, ; practical uses of, ; likeness to the other gifts, a; difference from, b; persons who possess wisdom, ; differs from the "word of wisdom," b; varying degrees, ; exercise of gift, ; corresponds to seventh beatitude, a; and to certain fruits, b; direction given by wisdom to human actions, ; sins opposed to wisdom, ; false wisdom, . wish, as act of will, . witness, reliability of, ; obligation of freely appearing as witness, ; obligation of appearing under lawful citation, ; obligation to answer truthfully, ; witness and concealment of facts, ; payment of witnesses, ; matters regarding which witness should not testify, ; sinfulness of false testimony, ; obligation of witness to make restitution, ; concealment of truth in presenting case, ; sinfulness of introducing false or corrupted documents, . wives, see matrimony, sacrament of. "word of wisdom," b. words, unjust, see injustice. works of mercy, seven corporal, ; seven spiritual, . worship, false, communication in, sqq.; coöperation in, sqq.; contributions to, ; building of houses of false worship, . see also religion, sins against. wounding, definition, b. writings, forbidden, ; when use allowed, ; permission to read, ; censures incurred through use, ; formal coöperation with, . see books and reading, dangerous. y.m.c.a., society forbidden by church, b. young men's institute. b. zoroastrianism, a. provided by the internet archive morality without god including letter to right rev. bishop anderson a lecture delivered before the independent religious society. orchestra hall, michigan ave. and adams, chicago, sunday at a. m. by m. m. mangasarian right rev. bishop anderson, chicago, ill. reverend and dear sir:-- last sunday's papers announced that the episcopal church has arranged for a series of meetings in this city "to arouse a national revival of interest in church extension at home and abroad." the report also furnished the names of the distinguished speakers who will address these meetings at orchestra hall. i write this note to suggest that, if agreeable to you and your committee, a representative of your church be sent next sunday morning to deliver an address before the independent religious society, which holds its sunday meetings at orchestra hall. we shall be very much pleased to have you deliver this address, but it will be equally agreeable to us to welcome anyone whom you may delegate in your place. if you have no objection, i request that your address be on the following important and timely question: "can there be any morality without a belief in god?" this subject will offer you, or your representative whom you may send in your place, an opportunity to show the importance of the church in the moral education of the people. it is understood, of course, that the lecturer of the independent religious society will be upon the platform with you at orchestra hall, to introduce you, and to present his thoughts on the same subject you may speak first, or if you prefer to make the closing address, there will be no objection to it. let me assure you that this meeting will not be in the nature of a debate, as no interruptions from the audience or comments by the lecturer upon your address will be permitted. immediately upon the conclusion of the two addresses, the house will be dismissed. if it will be a help to you to know in advance what position i will take on the subject of the proposed addresses, let me say as clearly as i can, that i will try to show that morality is independent of a belief in god or gods, and that, therefore, church attendance is not essential, but that, on the contrary, often church going retards both intellectual and moral progress; and further, that the countries in which a larger proportion of the people go to church, and the ages of faith, in which everybody went to church, are and have been, the least moral. hoping that you will not refuse to come and present your views on this serious question to the large audience which will receive you most cordially at orchestra hall, next sunday morning,--or if you cannot come next sunday, on any other sunday morning that you may appoint,--i remain, yours with all good wishes, m. m. mangasasian. morality without god |when i invited bishop anderson of the episcopal church of this city to address you, it was from a sincere desire to give you an opportunity to hear in this house, and under the auspices of this movement, a strong and comprehensive statement from the other side, if i may use that expression. i invited the bishop because he is freer on sundays than the average clergyman who has his own people to preach to, and in the second place, because he has the authority to send someone in his place if he could not come himself. in the third place, i addressed my letter to the episcopalians because they were to have a convention in this same hall for the purpose of rousing interest in church work. the right reverend bishop anderson of chicago should have accepted cordially our invitation, yet not even of the courtesy of a reply has he deemed either you or me worthy. i do not know how to explain the good bishop's indifference to our invitation, except by saying that, either the bishop considered us hopelessly beyond the saving power of his religion, or that in his own heart he considered his creed, while good enough for the unquestioning, a little antiquated for an inquiring american audience. but the fact is now on record that he was invited to deliver his message to us, and he has not even acknowledged the invitation. to reconcile such action with the spirit of "brotherly love," publicly professed by the bishop, or with the divine command to preach the gospel to every creature, will require considerable mental dexterity. we have heard the bishop and his people sing the hymn= ```onward, christian soldiers, marching as to war."= where are the soldiers? why do they avoid a conflict if they _are soldiers?_ we did not invite them to a fight: we did not ask them to a debate; we did not care to enter into a "duel of words," as some papers have put it. far from it: we assured the bishop that there would be no questions asked by the audience, and no comments permitted. he would listen to our message and deliver his. but suppose we had invited him to a clash of ideas--to an argument--suppose we had asked him to give us "the reasons for the hope that is in him," as the bible says--how could he decline such an invitation? the apostle paul reasoned before pagan rulers, and from mars hill, in athens, he preached to pagan philosophers--to doubters. why should bishop anderson have less courage, or be more cautious? when a great cause, or a cause that has been great once, declines a public opportunity to advance its interests, to justify its claims, to convince--to convert, it is a pretty sure sign that its fires are burning low, and that it has fallen into the "sere and yellow leaf." christianity, once an aggressive and virile movement, now resorts to apologetics, compromise and concession to prolong her life. she seeks shelter against the spirit of the age. she is cultivating the art of silence. yes, christianity is seeking a lower level. it attacks wooden idols seven thousand miles away, but at home,--in the presence of intellectual inquiry, it is paralyzed. of course it could be said that if we wished to hear the bishop's gospel we could have gone to his church. yes, we could. but so could he have come to us. furthermore, the bishop does not say to the hindoo, or to the japanese, "if you want my religion, come and get it." he sends it to them, and he even asks for iron-clads to compel the japanese and the chinese to hear his gospel. yet at home he will not step around the corner to deliver his message to us. the invitation to the bishop is a standing one; it will never be withdrawn. the same invitation is extended herewith, this morning, to any clergyman or layman who is willing to come and deliver his message to us and to hear ours--on one condition, however--that the clergyman or the layman who accepts our invitation shall come as the representative of his denomination or church--he must come with his credentials--he must be commissioned by his church to speak for the church. and whenever any denomination in this city or country shall send a delegate to address us, he will be received with the greatest cordiality, and his message shall be listened to in a spirit of fairness. the question: can there be any morality without a belief in god, is a fundamental one, and the fact that we are willing to study it proves that we take more than a superficial interest in what might be called radical problems. to this question the first answer is that of philosophy, and the second is that of history. this morning we will confine ourselves to the theoretical or philosophical aspect of the question. what is there in a belief in god which should be indispensable to the moral life? why should the moral life be inseparably associated with a belief in god? the theological position, in which you and i were brought up, is, that morality is impossible without a belief in god. the scientist's position is that morality is independent of a belief in god. the scientist does not deny dogmatically, the existence of a god. the scientist is far from denying even that there is at the heart of the universe a mystery,--an insoluble problem, at least a problem that hitherto has refused to reveal its secret to the human mind,--but he contends that to associate the moral life with this mystery, this insoluble problem, is to envelope it in darkness and uncertainty. "no god, no morals," says the theologian. he even earnestly desires all unbelievers in his creed to be immoral. he is really grieved and disappointed when he finds goodness among unbelievers in his religion. he knows that the people must have morality. he knows that the world cannot last without morality, and if he can get the people to think that they can't have morality without his creed, the future of his creed will be secure. he either denies that goodness without his creed is goodness at all, or he tries to show that the credit of it really belongs to his religion. these good unbelievers are really believers, without knowing it, argues the theologian. if the japanese can be patriotic and honest, it is due to christian missions, declares the preacher. if darwin and huxley were noble men, it was because they lived in a christian atmosphere. in short, directly or indirectly, according to the theologian, his religion is responsible for all the goodness in the world. we shall not stop to inquire, for the present, how so conceited and partisan a spirit can be reconciled with true morality. but it is evident that in associating belief with morality the preacher is trying to save "belief," not morality. but how are we going to dislodge him from his position? it is as if the czar of russia, whose people are having a strenuous time just now, were to say to them, "you cannot have either order or peace in russia without the autocracy." he knows the people desire order and security, and hopes to make autocracy permanent by associating it with the things the people want. it is like the republican party going before the country and saying "you cannot have prosperity in america, unless you keep the republican party in power," or the democrat-claiming that they alone can save the country. it is taking advantage of the people's dependence upon order, peace and prosperity to promote partisan politics. and so the theologian who says "you cannot have morality unless you have my creed," is trying to play the role of a politician. he too would see the country ruined if that would advance his party or church. we wish to see this morning how much truth there is in the theological position. the believer in god argues that to question the existence of god is a crime. he insinuates, nay, he declares boldly, that only the wicked question the existence of the deity,--just as only rebels would question the right of the czar to be a despot. but to call the man who questions the existence of god wicked, is no answer to his question at all. when you have no way of meeting the argument of your opponent and you attack his character, you only prove yourself to be in great distress. to call a man whose questions you can not answer, a "monster," a "blasphemer," a "devil," is, if i may have permission to say it, the policy of cowards. if you cannot answer his question, why attack his character? but the theologian knows what he is about. if he can get people to believe that whoever questions his creed is a scoundrel and a wretch, he will succeed in associating, in the popular mind, inquiry or doubt with immorality, and thereby he will be strengthening his position that only believers in his creed could be good. another result would be that, if he succeeds in defaming the character of the inquirer, people will avoid him--it will not be respectable to be seen in his company or to think as he does, all of which will protect him a little longer against the disturbing inquirer. but, listen to this: let us suppose that every one who questions the existence of god is a villain, would that relieve clergymen from the solemn obligation of producing their evidence--of proving their dogmas? the other day a mass meeting was held in one of our public schools to denounce reckless automobile driving. one of the speakers, a clergyman, said that darwinism and infidelity were responsible for criminal driving. this was the clergyman's way of confuting darwinism. he thinks that if he can prove that the evolutionists kill people, he will have disproved darwinism. but darwinism is a scientific theory, and if it is true, why, even if it killed people wholesale, that would not prove it false. if darwinism is false, on the other hand, all the painstaking and respect for human life on the part of darwinian automobiles would not make it true. darwinism does not stand or fall with the characters of automobilists. but this clergyman had no other way of answering darwinism, so he said that. it is the argument of sheer desperation. he is trifling with a subject he feels is beyond him. instead of discussing it, he calls it names. small talk for small people! the christian religion in which we were brought up, teaches that to believe is a virtue, and--not to believe is a crime. is it true? if i were to say to you, "you must believe that george washington was the first president of america," would you deserve any credit for believing it? the evidence is so overwhelming that you cannot help but believe it. there is no virtue in believing in a statement which cannot be reasonably doubted. but suppose i were to say "'you must also believe that george washington invented the theory of evolution." could you be blamed for refusing to credit a statement which there is no evidence to establish? you believe in the first statement because it agrees with the facts, you object to the second because it does not agree with the facts. in other words, you believe or question according to the nature or force of the evidence. it is precisely the same with religion. the priest says "god made the world in six days." if he can prove it we have to believe it. if he can not prove it, we are not to be blamed for saying "not proven." the priest says jesus was born of a virgin. we don't deny it--we ask for evidence. if a doctrine or proposition should be accepted as true in the absence of convincing evidence, why then is not mohammedanism as true as christianity? why is not a bit of blue glass as good as a god? to believe intelligently, one must have evidence; to believe blindly, one religion is as good as another. the existence of god has always been disputed and is still in dispute today. a hundred books are written to prove his existence; a hundred others question his existence. a great thinker in the eighteenth century said "that which is the subject of eternal dispute cannot be a foundation for anything." the scientist, therefore, in striving to separate morality from theology (for it is theology and not true religion that we object to) is rendering a great service to the cause of righteousness. he is removing morality from the sphere of uncertainty and controversy into the air and light of day. but it is not about the existence of god alone that there is uncertainty; there is misunderstanding and disagreement also about his character. it is not enough to say there is a god,--we must agree about his character. yet that question is even more in dispute than his existence. if the mere belief in a god is enough, why is not the mohammedan god enough? the christian god has a son, and you cannot approach him except through his son. the mohammedan god has no son. how can they be the same being? the god of the christian believes in the atoning blood of christ. the mohammedan god repudiates such an idea. how can they be the same being? what are we going to do,--if we associate morality with a being whose character is in dispute? are they the friends of the moral life, who perplex our conscience with conundrums? even when we have decided that the mohammedan god is no god at all, and agreed upon our own deity, are we sure that his character as represented to us is calculated to encourage the moral life? that is an important point. what do we know about the character of god except what the priests tell us, and what we read in their books about him. now, i wish to make an explanation. it is not the first time i have been compelled to make it either. it is very unpleasant to say unpopular things. to stand up here and say the things which make me appear sacrilegious and blasphemous in the eyes of the respectable majority is not, i assure you, a pleasure; it is a sacrifice. but i have undertaken the work and i must do it. the character of god as painted for us in the bible is not calculated, in my humble opinion, to encourage the moral life. the god of the jewish and christian scriptures is not a moral being. he does not live up to his profession. he violates his own commandments. i do not say this hastily or carelessly,--i have studied the question. take the commandment, "thou shalt not kill." jehovah breaks that commandment a hundred times, if the bible is reliable. no sooner had moses descended from mt. sinai, with the ten commandments, than god urged him to get the jews to kill one another, and fifty thousand were slain in one passion. the repeated commandment of god to the jews to exterminate their neighbors,--to put men, women and children to the edge of the sword, would indicate that he did not mean to live up to his profession. in the same way he commands "thou shalt not steal," and then tells his people how they may spoil their neighbors, destroy their altars and temples and seize their lands. he says "thou shalt not commit adultery," and then commands his soldiers to capture the daughters of the gentiles and keep them forcibly. he says "thou shalt not bear false witness," and on every page in the old testament, everything base is said of the egyptians, the babylonians, the assyrians, whose character modern research has vindicated, and it has been proved that their civilization was far in advance of that of their accusers. he says "thou shalt not covet"--and then shows them the pleasant lands and homes of other peoples, to arouse their covetousness, to satisfy which they wade through a sea of blood from egypt to the land of canaan. how can a being, who does not live up to his profession,--who breaks his own commandments, be our moral ideal or model? in our attempt to reconcile god's conduct with morality, we resort to sophistry. we say god is not bound by the same moral law that we are: he can take away life, land, or property from one man and give it to another. he is above all law. he is good even when he does that which if we did it would make us criminals, and so on. thus, sophistry becomes a profession. we develop jesuitical powers; we become intellectual gymnasts, dancing on ropes and splitting hairs to prove that god can break all the moral commandments and still be our model and pattern for morality. it is a fact, moreover, that close indentification with such a being has contributed to corrupt both the church and the state. tyrants have claimed the right to violate the moral law when ever it interfered with their personal pleasures. as the anointed of god, kings have tried to answer all protests against their misdeeds by quoting the example of god. priests have persecuted and exterminated whole races, and have given the example of god who destroys the heretics as their justification. the atmosphere created about us by the consciousness that our moral teacher has himself done the very things he has forbidden is an evil one. but it may be answered that the old testament is no longer the authority it once was, and that the new testament, or rather, the character of god as revealed in christ, is our ideal. i have the highest reverence for the beautiful things jesus is reported to have said. i rejoice that some of his words have made twenty centuries of the world's life fragrant i would sooner die this instant than feel that i am guilty of misrepresenting the facts, of taking a fact and twisting it into an argument for my party. if i have any happiness in life, if i have any self-respect, it is from this source,--that i am honest with the facts. yet the teachings of jesus condensed in his direct command not to resist evil is the very negation of morality. we had recently the yellow fever in new orleans. what did we do? we organized against it, threw ourselves against it, resisted it. it is the only way physical evil can be destroyed. there was a time when if the cholera came to a city it was said that god had sent it, and it was useless to fight it. today we don't care who sent it, we don't want it, and shall not have it. we shall resist it. consider the disclosures of dishonest banking houses and insurance companies. what do we do? we drag the guilty into the light; we examine, we investigate, we expose, we punish, we do not say to these people, you have taken so much of our money, take also what is left. we resist evil. in politics, in commerce, in every department of life we find that in resistance alone is our salvation, and yet jesus, the oriental monk, believing the end of the world to be close at hand, would tie our hands, paralyze our will and give evil, physical or moral, a free field. if we do not resist evil we will soon be so incapacitated for effort, so emptied of energy and ambition that we will become the victim not only of every physical pest but also of every moral iniquity. "resist not" is just what a priest would say to his people, and a king to his subjects. but "resist" is what the liberator would say to his fellowmen. but are there not examples of the highest morality in the christian world? yes, surely, and i am glad to admit it, but it is in spite of the christian creed. it shows that,--listen to this,--theology is listened to only one day in the week, the other six days we listen to common sense. we are better than our beliefs, better than our creeds. the asiatic theology which we call inspired has not succeeded in perverting anglo-saxon human nature. that is what it proves. what importance did jesus attach to the moral life? let us see. you know that when he was on the cross there were two thieves crucified with him. one of them reviled him, the other said to him "lord, when thou comest into thy kingdom remember me," and jesus said, "this day shall thou be with me in paradise." ah, indeed! what had this man done to deserve such sudden glorification? it gives me pain to say, but say i must, that a greater slight upon morality could not have been placed. think of saying to a malefactor whom the laws of society were justly punishing,--that his life of guilt and crime, that the thefts and perhaps murders which he had committed,--were all forgiven him. is the moral life as easy as that? is it possible that by simply calling jesus "lord," and by accepting him as the son of god, a malefactor can enter heaven, while the man whose whole life has been above reproach must go to perdition if he has not the faith of the malefactor? why then be moral at all? what is required of men is that they use deferential language to jesus, call him "lord"--believe in him, and all their wickedness shall not prevent them from glory. if in one moment, and by a mere profession, a thief and a murderer can step ahead of the righteous and the honest, then the christian religion is right, righteousness is but "filthy rags." no deeper accusation could be brought against christianity than that it calls righteousness "filthy rags." but is such a religion--is the example of the malefactor taken to heaven, and his victims permitted to go to everlasting destruction--calculated to command the respect of noble minds? charles spurgeon must have had the example of jesus in mind when he said to his hearers, in the london tabernacle, that "thirty years of sin will take less than thirty minutes to wipe out in." to him repentance at the last moment was better than a whole life of "godless" morality. but let us get a little closer to our subject: when the preachers state that morality is impossible without god, they really mean--without the christian religion. as we intimated above, the mohammedan god and the christian god, not being the same, can not both be true. and it is not enough to believe in the christian god, one must also believe in christ, the holy ghost, the atonement, and so on. hence, the christian religion is the only power that can save the world, according to the preachers. let us follow this thought and see where it will lead us to. if you have imagination try to bring the whole world before your mind's eye. think of the millions upon millions of human beings dwelling upon its surface--of the five hundred millions of buddhists, the two hundred millions of moslems, the one hundred and fifty millions of brahmans, and to these add the millions who follow confucius, who profess shintoism, judaism, jainism, and the millions who once followed zoroaster, zeus, apollo, mithra and isis. compare with this tremendous host the number of people who during the last two thousand years have called themselves christians, and tell me if it would be inspiring to think that the christians who are but a handful compared with this innumerable majority are the only people who can be moral? if the heathen, so called by christians, can be as moral as ourselves, then christianity can not claim to be the only divine faith, but if it is, as the preachers claim, the only power that can save, then think of the gloom and the despair which must be the portion of every sensitive soul who realizes the hopelessness of the situation! for thousands of years our humanity was denied the christian religion, and even now, twenty centuries after the birth of jesus, only a handful, compared with the earth's population, have accepted the only true religion. is this inspiring? if we were to paint the globe in two colors--black and white--allowing the black to represent the "heathen," and the white the christian, we would see spread before our eyes a limitless sea of inky blackness, with a few white dots floating in it. oh, how long will it take before this black earth of ours shall change its color? if we feel uncomfortable when we see an animal maltreated, how can we have the heart to subscribe to a doctrine that denies to the great majority of our human fellows, not only future bliss, but even the right to be moral? if instead of being a religion of love, christianity were a religion of hate, could it be less generous? if instead of being the religion of the "meek and lowly" it were the religion of the proud and the haughty, could it have been more conceited? that people can enjoy a religion which blackens the face of all mankind outside its pale is a pitiful commentary on human nature. but let us follow the lead of the preacher a little further. he says there can be no morality without god, which means, no morality without the christian religion. but which christian religion does he mean? the catholics denounce protestantism as a perversion; the protestants call catholicism an imposture. which, then, is the christian religion without which there can be no morality? if the one is as christian as the other, why then do they try to convert each other--why do the catholics send missionaries to the protestants? evidently, it must be the protestant religion which is alone christian, at least we in this country seem to think so. if true, then there is no morality possible without the protestant faith. now see to what a small faith and to what a pale and sickly hope the preacher has brought us. ah! he has led us into an alley--moldy, stuffy, and choking. the world is no longer in sight, the sun and stars have disappeared, the winds that sweep the face of the earth and the sky are heard no more. yes, we are in an alley! now this protestant religion which is alone the hope of the world, what is it? a moment ago we asked, which is the christian religion? we now ask, which is the protestant religion? is it the church of england? is it lutheranism? is it methodism? is it presbyterianism? is it unitarianism? is it the baptist church? is it christian science? we believe we have mentioned enough to select from. it will not do to say that all these sects are equally christian. why, then, are they separated? why do not the baptists commune at the lord's table with the presbyterians, and why do the episcopalians claim that they alone have the apostolic ordination? a methodist preacher is not allowed to speak from an episcopal altar--his ordination is not considered valid, and his church is only a sect in, the eyes of the church of england. which of these, then, is the true protectant religion without which no morality is possible in this world or salvation in the next? the proposition that there can be no morality without god when analyzed, comes to this: there can be no morality without the protestant religion, and it is as yet uncertain which is the protestant religion. how educated people can find cheer and comfort in an alley and mistake its darkness for a horizon--how they can be happy in the belief that no one can be good or brave without believing as they do,--is beyond my comprehension. and when we remember that this protestant religion did not exist before the sixteenth century--that it is only about three hundred years old, and that, if it is the only true religion, it waited a long time--until mankind had reached middle life--until the world had begun to turn gray--before it commenced to minister to its needs--we begin to realize that there is no thoroughfare to the alley to which the preacher has conducted us--for it is a _blind_ alley, and we feel creeping upon us the chill of death and despair! oh, let us turn back! let us hasten out of this darkness! let us return to the kisses of the sun and the wind, to the air and the light! to think that the whole world, past and present, has been, is, and will be irrevocably lost, unless it accepts our three hundred years old and much-divided religion! what gentle and refined mind can stand the strain? who can walk straight under the weight of such crushing pessimism? is it not fortunate that only one day in seven is devoted to church-going? when i was a presbyterian minister, one of the hymns we used to sing in church began with the words "from greenland's icy mountains," and went on to speak of "india's coral strands" and "africa's sunny fountains," ending with this sentiment.= ````"where every prospect pleases ````and man alone is vile."= think of the essentially unmoral mind of the man who could write such a hymn, and of the callousness of the people who can sing it! think of putting so false, so uncharitable, so conceited, so mean and small a thought into music, and singing it! if they wept over it, if they mourned over it, it would be less incongruous, but to sit in their pews and with the help of organ and piano to sing about the vileness of the earth's greater population seems to me in my haste, to lend considerable support to the doctrine of total depravity. the christian will trade with the "heathen," he will travel into their country, he will trust them in business, but, on sunday, when he is in church, when he is kneeling at the altar, in the house of his god, he calls them "vile." if the only way we can appreciate our own morality is by defaming the majority of humanity, how contemptible must our morality he? when we sing that all the hindoos, the chinese, the japanese and the rest of the non-christian world are "vile,"--that there is no love, no devotion, no patriotism, no honesty, no friendship, no temperance, no philanthropy, no chastity, no truthfulness, no mercy and no honor, in these heathen lands--when we deny that in these parts of the world any virtue can exist, are we not bearing false witness against our neighbors? to preach the brotherhood of man in one breath, and in the next, to call your brothers who do not believe in your creed "vile," has about it the unmistakable air of cant and hypocrisy. is it any wonder that the "heathen" distrust the christian nations of europe and america? a clergyman of chicago, one of our leading, popular, successful, talented, and respected preachers--one who has had phenomenal success as a minister of the gospel, and who addresses the largest christian audiences in the country, speaking to the young men's christian association, declared that "this earth would have been a hell if christ had not died on golgotha." there must be something of the nature of a blight in a creed that can force from the lips of an educated and benevolent man such unlovely words. and there is. it is so self-centered, so intolerant, so exclusive, that in its eyes the whole world, except its own little corner, is nothing but "a hell." to intimate that the world which gave us our republic, the world which gave us our constitution--our jurisprudence, our law courts--the world which has crowded our galleries with works of imperishable beauty, and our libraries with immortal poetry, literature and philosophy--which has given to our universities their classical curriculum--which created socrates, plato, aristotle, pericles, seneca, cicero and the antonines--a world whose ruins are more wonderful than anything we possess, whose dead are more immortal than our living--to suggest that this pre-christian world as well as the non-christian countries to-day, was "a hell," takes my breath away. i never imagined that this fearful asiatic creed could smite or sting an otherwise wholesome soul into such a contortion. what is there in this palestinian jew whom our famous preacher worships as his god that can tempt a man to bear even false witness for his sake? heavens! how can a man with the example of heroic japan fresh and fragrant before him, think of this earth as a hell without his "shibboleth?" victor hugo says "it is a terrible thing to have been a priest once;" it is not less terrible to be an orthodox protestant preacher to-day. and why? because for the preacher there is something higher than the truth--his creed. but the proposition that there can be no morality without god--that the earth would be a hell without christ, in its final analysis means this: people will not be moral without the belief in a future life. it is the hope of future rewards which gives to the god idea its value. st. paul himself admitted that if the christians believed in christ for this life only "they were of all men the most miserable." were the clergy to tell their flocks this morning that although they felt sure of the existence of god, they had their doubts about another life, how many of them would return to worship on the following sunday? yes, it is the mingled hope and fear of the future which gives the belief in a god its importance. if there were no death--if men could live here forever, they would not much concern themselves about spirits and invisible beings. it is the idea that when we die we fall into the hands of god, the idea that it is a terrible thing, as the bible says, to fall into the hands of the living god--it is this idea which lights the altars, bends the knee, and builds churches. to placate the deity that he may reward us in the future is, frankly, the object of all religious ceremonies. if this be true, then the proposition that without god there can be no morality amounts to this: without future rewards and punishments no man will live a moral life. this doctrine leads to the following conclusions: first, man is naturally immoral, and the only way he can be arrested in his career of vice and crime is to promise him future rewards if he will behave himself, and to menace him with hell fire if he will not. secondly, the proposition implies that morality _per se_ is not desirable, that no one could be virtuous enough to desire virtue for its own sake, and that without great and eternal rewards morality would go a-begging. and this is religion! what then is atheism? why do people desire health? certainly not for any postmortem rewards. the health of the body is cultivated for its own beautiful sake. health is joy, it is power, it is beauty, it is strength. are not these enough to make it sacred to all men? but if the health of the body does not need the prop of future rewards to commend itself to us, what good reason have we to think that morality, which is the health of the mind, is a wretched investment if there be no other life? morality is temperance. how can our ideas about the unseen world change the nature of temperance so that instead of being a virtue it would become a stupid and irksome restraint? if it is good to be temperate in the pursuit of pleasure or wealth, or in the gratification of desire, why should our speculations about the hereafter alter our attitude toward the value of temperance and self-control in everything? god or no god, a future life or no future life, is not temperance better than intemperance? to ask why a man should practice temperance even if it be granted that it is better than intemperance is to go back to the terrible charge that man is by nature a monster, and that he will not behave well unless he is promised enormous returns in the shape of eternal rewards--palaces, mansions, crowns, thrones, in the next world. well, if the preachers are right it is a serious question whether so depraved a creature as man deserves to be saved at all. to have created so contemptible a creature was a great enough blunder, but think of perpetuating his race forever and ever! let us see how much truth there is in the preacher's estimate of human nature. take the example of a father who is devoted to his little motherless girl. he lives for her, cares for her, protects her, and provides for her future that she may feel his blessing long after he has passed away. will this father be less a father without the belief in future rewards? but to love and care for one's child is only natural morality, replies the clergyman. of course it is. and that is why it is genuine, sweet, spontaneous, and untainted with expectations of a reward. it never enters his mind that he is going to be paid big wages for being good to his motherless child. he loved her, and that was heaven enough for him. it is artificial morality that pines for rewards and sickens and dies when the expected reward is questioned. if there is no future glory, who will abstain from meat on friday, or sprinkle his children, or read the bible or listen to sermons? but the natural virtues will spring up like flowers in the human soil. men and women will love, will sacrifice, will perform heroic deeds of devotion, whatever may be their theories concerning the hereafter. let us take another case. why is an employer of labor good to his men? is it because he expects to be rewarded for it in the next life? analyze his motives and you will find that if he treats his hands well it is because he believes it to be the best way to get along with them, to earn their good will, to keep his own self-respect, and to merit the approval of the community in which he lives. he is not going to change his conduct toward his employees, nor will the motives which now influence his conduct lose their force immediately after he finds out that there is nothing coming to him in the next world for being good and just to his workmen. the theologians appear to labor under the impression that morality being irksome and undesirable, it would be an injustice not to reward the people who put up with it with a paradise of some kind. they think that the man who did not rob his neighbor, beat his wife and children, or get drunk, ought to be rewarded. certainly he ought--if it is for a future reward that he does not do these things. if we have an influence at all we shall see that these people who have denied themselves the pleasure of cutting their neighbors' throats, or of leading an intemperate, dishonest and brutal life, shall receive their reward. there is no doubt that some people are kept from doing wrong by the fear of a distant hell, and others are provoked to good works by the hope of a heavenly crown. but the mistake of the theologian consists in thinking that anybody actuated by such motives can be moral. a vicious dog is not made gentle by chaining him--he is only prevented from doing harm. it is true that to prevent a savage beast from hurting people is a service to humanity. it is also true that if by preaching the fear of hell the churches succeed in preventing vicious men from doing harm, they are benefactors. fear, while not the highest motive, is nevertheless quite effective with some people. of course, as far as my own preference goes, i would not preach the doctrine of everlasting hell even if i could be assured it was the only thing that could save mankind. i would not care to save mankind under those conditions. there is nothing more immoral than the idea of unending torture. the worst criminals are not half so immoral as the creators and perpetrators of the unquestionable hell of christian theology. i can not think of a greater insult to the human conscience than to say that this fearful establishment with its everlasting stench in our nostrils is the parent of all virtue, and that if its fires were to be extinguished there would be an end to human morality. "it is quite easy," i imagine the preacher saying, "to talk in this strain now, but wait until you are on your death-bed." but the frightful death-bed scenes we read of in religious literature are generally fictitious. when they are not impostures, a careful investigation will show that they are the effect of pulpit sensationalism. the dying thoughts of a sane and brave man or woman are as free from torture as the sleep which closes the tired eye-lids. what does a mother think of in her last moments? she thinks of her dear ones--her chil dren! whom she has to leave motherless in the world. how noble is human nature! and it is this nobility which makes theology jealous. the dying mother should be thinking of her god,--her soul, her creed--she should be trembling with fear, and be filled with consternation, instead of thinking lovingly and tearfully of her little ones! and when theology can not get horrible death bed scenes, she invents them. in _theron ware_, the deacons of the methodist church say to their minister, "give us more of the death-bed scenes of voltaire and thomas paine." for a long time it was a part of the vocation of the theologians to postpone the attack upon an intellectual giant until he was dead or dying. it is not true that when people come to die they confess that the preacher's hell and his heaven are real after all. the other day a negro shot his wife and babe fatally and ran away. when the neighbors arrived upon the scene of the tragedy, they found the dying mother with her arms around her infant trying to soothe its pains. she had torn a fragment of her bodice to stop with it the bleeding wound in the child's arm. motherhood! was she worrying about her own soul, about eternity, about god, about the devil, about heaven, about hell! oh, no! she had one thought which puts all preaching to shame--to ease the pain of her dying child. she forgot she was dying herself. she forgot all about her future reward--but she did not forget her child. that is the way mothers die. no christian can die a better death. when preachers can speak to us of a god who can love like this negro mother,--or who in the words of the english poet, wordsworth, will= ```"never blend his pleasure or his pride ```with sorrow of the meanest thing that feels,"= then, we shall worship him,--not for his heaven, nor from fear of his hell, but for his own blessed self. others may be able to tell whether or not there is another life. i can not. but whether or not there is a life beyond the grave, i know that spring will come every year, that the gentle rains will fall, the sunlight will woo and kiss all it meets, the harvests will wave, and the world will sleep and wake each day. in the same way i know that whatever the preachers may say about a godless morality, the charities, the devotions, the humanities, the friendships, and the loves, will spring up eternal in our daily lives, and beauty and glory shall never perish from human nature. "conscience is born of love," wrote shakespeare. in the alembic of this glorious truth all the terrors of the jewish-christian religion dissolve into nothingness. a word from shakespeare, and the nightmares of the past are no more. love!--attachment, devotion, friendship, behold the cradle in which conscience was born! fear is a tomb--it lives upon hell. love is a cradle, nursing into being and maturity all that is good, all that is true, all that is beautiful. says tennyson:= ``"perplext in faith, but pure in deeds ```at last he beat his music out. ``there lives more faith in honest doubt, `believe me, than in half the creeds."= this _is_ music, and it descends over the babel of wrangling creeds, as the sunlight, after a long storm, over the spent and weary waves. the independent religious society believes ``that the greatest good in life is truth. ``without truth--love, hope, charity ``and all other human virtues dark ``en. truth is to life what the sun ``is to the world. we believe that ``the only truth which can be trusted ``is that which can be tested.