ordinary sense. The single Christian miracle on which he dwells the only one which he anywhere even mentions--is the Resurrection of our Saviour. And it is quite superfluous to point out how minutely, repeatedly, incessantly, he dwells on it: how he returns to it again and again, with all its earthly and human characteristics, from his flights into the highest empyrean of pure theology: how he grounds on it his own belief in the religion he teaches, and his own hopes of a life to come, and how sedulously he labours to inspire his hearers with similar sentiments. It was to him no legendary event, established in belief by traditional sanctity: it was a fact, alleged to have taken place in his own middle age, probably in his own immediate vicinity, reported by sundry men personally known to himself, credited by great numbers equally known to himself. But in itself (humanly speaking) it was a fact utterly incredible. It was no half-miracle, to be accounted for in the usual way by compounding a certain number of grains of good faith, enthusiasm, and deception. If untrue, it was either an inconceivable delusion, or a gross imposture. And it was open to all the world to believe it either. In point of fact, it was or had been, as we know, the established belief among what the world would call right-minded people, that it was an imposture. And St. Paul was, as has been seen, one of the least credulous of men in the sense in which I have been using the word; the least disposed to dwell on miraculous agency, or to be moved with enthusiasm by the narration of it. Now, under these mingled and conflicting circumstances, he speaks of Christ's resurrection throughout as of a fact as unquestionable as the very existence of Christ on earth. He, the reasoner, never condescends to reason on it, save as to its consequences: he, the philosopher, never apologises for the apparent childishness of receiving it: he, the incredulous by temperament, never hints at a doubt of it, never skims it over or passes it by. Judging of all this, as far as we are able to do so by mere canons of criticism, I cannot but think that the case is without a parallel. To those, however, who receive revelation as really containing a record of supernatural occurrences, the solution may not be immediately easy, but it is deducible, I think, by study and attention; and the considerations which it opens are of incalculable importance. 469 THE ANGEL OF BYZANTIUM. WATCHMAN, what of the night? Heavy the clouds roll by : Black and heavy they pall on the sight, And there glitters no streak of the faintest light Here for ages, in vain, I have gazed from my watch-tower height; From the snows of Russia, the vineyards of Seine, Hither their eyes through the darkness they strain, To ask me, what of the night. For the legend lies deep, Deep in the heart of the world, That when o'er the nations enveloped in sleep Here, from night's bondage released, The first rays of that dawning must shine, Which shall wake the tribes of the boundless East, Subject and sovereign, people and priest, To bow at a single shrine. Therefore the heir of old Rome Here, to the Wisdom on High, Fit for the worship of ages to come, That ever spanned the sky. For this the Crusader might pray, Warrior of saint-like fame, Who marshalled his myriads of Christian array To die for their Saviour's name. Such was the vision which glowed Even when in blasphemous triumph he rode They and their hopes are dust : 'Twas not for such to scan, Souls dark with pride or with earthly lust, Ere my vigil is spent, Earth and her rulers must learn To break the shrines where their fathers have bent, Christ's gold from man's dross to discern. From the altar of prayer and of praise When Eastern and Western strife Are swept into darkness away, And their fifteen hundred years of life, Like the Crescent of yesterday; The so-called mark of the bloody hand of Sultan Mahomet is still shown in Saint Sophia. |