faith so spiritual and sublime that it needed no aid from outward form. And, instead of finding himself in heaven, he discovers that he has arrived at Papal Rome. He is standing before St. Peter's; Christ has entered; the poet remains outside, gazing on the marvellous spectacle within. The whole cathedral is alive with men and women, like a hive swarming with bees. It is Christmas Eve; this is the solemn service of the Mass; the silver bell tinkles, and the vast multitude falls in worship upon the marble floor; for at that moment it is believed that the mystery of Love is complete, and God becomes present in the bread and wine of the Divine Sacrifice.

And Christ is there,--even as he was in the whitewashed chapel by the lonely common. Christ is there,— amidst the thousands who crowd the gorgeous cathedral, as he was with the two or three who listened to the stupid preacher. As he holds fast to the garment's hem, he begins to learn that through these clouds of superstition Christ sees the spark of love which is the secret of even the most perverted form of Christian worship. Men believe in the transubstantiation of bread and wine into Christ's flesh and blood, because it seems to bring God so near to them, because it makes the mystery of redemption palpable to their very senses. Faith in this stupendous miracle of the Mass grew out of a consuming hunger of the human heart for the love of God. Through the deepest night of ignorance and error the heart of man still tries to feel the heart of God, just

As a babe can find its mother's breast
As well in darkness as in light.

He looks on the prostrate multitude in a new spirit. He sees the error; but above the scope of error, sees the love. He cannot join in worship which to him seems full of superstition; but he feels a wonderful sympathy with the vast congregation, when he sees LOVER shining on every forehead, written above the earnest eyes of all.

I will be wise another time,

And not desire a wall between us,
When next I see a church-roof cover
So many species of one genus,
All with foreheads bearing LOVER
Written above the earnest eyes of them,
In noble daring, steadfast duty,
Or, lowered for sense's satisfaction,

To the mere outside of human creatures,
Mere perfect form and faultless features.

He says it is a solemn fact that these Italians, with so many sources of satisfaction in literature, art, music, song and architecture, should thus bind up their passionate desires in one great act of faith and worship.

What? with all Rome here, whence to levy
Such contributions to their appetite,
With women and men in a gorgeous bevy,
They take, as it were, a padlock, clap it tight
On their southern eyes, restrained from feeding
On the glories of their ancient reading,
On the beauties of their modern singing,

On the wonders of the builder's bringing,

On the majesties of Art around them,-
And all these loves, late struggling incessant,
When faith has at last united and bound them,
They offer up to God for a present?

Why I will, on the whole, be rather proud of it,-
And, only taking the act in reference

To the other recipients who might have allowed of it,
I will rejoice that God had the preference.

IV.

The poet is impressed by the passionate credulous love of the prostrate multitude in St. Peter's. And yet he feels that he must have something to satisfy the intellect as well as the heart. He says:

I, a man who possesses both,

Will accept the provision, nothing loth,
Will feast my love, then depart elsewhere,
That my intellect may find its share.

As the wish rises, he is again caught up in the folds of the vesture's amplitude; again he follows the silent Christ, until he finds himself at the entrance to a college in Germany. Christ has entered, and the poet, holding the raiment's hem, follows him, resolved not to lose the chance of joining in fellowship with any that call themselves his friends. As he enters the lecture-room, he finds a crowd of students listening to a discourse by a worn, old professor, whose intellect seems to have consumed his frame. The thin studious man, with a consumptive cough that threatens to shake him to pieces,

Stood, surveying his auditory

With a wan pure look, well nigh celestial,—
Those blue eyes had survived so much!

It is Christmas Eve, the professor takes for his subject the origins of the Christian religion. He

reduces much in the gospel to mere mythology. He even questions whether Christ ever lived at all; certainly the "Christ" who is worshipped as a God is only a myth, created partly out of a misunderstanding of the Master's teaching, and partly out of the creative power of such feelings as loyalty, wonder and reverence. The most that can be said, from a rationalistic point of view, is that Christ was a man very good and very wise, whose superior goodness and wisdom afford some excuse for his disciples when they worship him as divine. The professor concludes that, if they are not sure about the historical Christ, they cannot do better than venerate such a splendid myth as that presented by Christianity. He also thinks they will do well to continue to call themselves "Christians;" and if they feel the need of some form towards which to direct their adoration, this gracious Figure of "the Christ" presents a nobler object for their reverence than any who went before him, or who have ever followed after him.

And Christ is there! as he was present in the whitewashed chapel and the gorgeous cathedral, so the Saviour is in the rationalistic college listening patiently to this inquiry as to whether he ever lived at all; and, if he lived, how it is that his followers have counted him divine. As the poet watches, he wonders how Christ can endure this relentless criticism, which reduces the pearl of great price to dust and ashes. At last it dawns him that even here there is at least the ghost of love; at the roots of that dry, analytical brain there is a lurking drop of warm blood, which throbs with feeling at even the myth of divine suffering and sacrifice. Even where there is the ghost of love, Christ is present;

upon

though they only reverence him as a beautiful legend, there he will be in the midst of them.

V.

After these lessons the poet feels no inclination to seek a new church. He thinks Christ has led him to these places to teach a lesson of tolerance. He was so impatient with the noisy people in the vulgar chapel; and the master, he thinks, wished to correct his petulance by showing how, in all the different forms of religion, men come into communion with Eternal Love. A new kind of self-satisfaction creeps over his mind. He will try to "bear with" even the forms of faith most repugnant to his own tastes. This tolerance is a pleasant, genial mood. He will try to cultivate a mild indifferentism by looking at the good which may be found in the most erroneous creeds. He will still value religion for its own sake, and be careless about the sects who dress it up in such various and often grotesque garbs. Like the man in Tennyson's Palace of Art, he will

Sit as God, owning no form of creed,

But contemplating all.

As he was basking in this lazy glow of benevolence, suddenly the storm rose in fury, the hurricane flung him on the college steps, the hem of the garment was swept out of his hand, and far away he saw the Figure disappearing from his gaze.

Tolerance!—was that the only lesson he had learnt from Christ's presence in the chapel, the cathedral and the lecture-room? If that was all, then he was further