over the entire believing mind of the catholic world.
Wherever church was founded, or soil was consecrated
for the long resting-place of those who had died in
the faith; wherever the sweet bells of convent or
of monastery were heard in the evening air, charming
the unquiet world to rest and remembrance of God,
there rested the memory of some apostle who had laid
the first stone, there was the sepulchre of some martyr
whose relics reposed beneath the altar, of some confessor
who had suffered there for his Master’s sake,
of some holy ascetic who in silent self-chosen austerity
had woven a ladder there of prayer and penance, on
which the angels were believed to have ascended and
descended. It is not a phenomenon of an age or
of a century; it is characteristic of the history
of Christianity. From the time when the first
preachers of the faith passed out from their homes
by that quiet Galilean lake, to go to and fro over
the earth, and did their mighty work, and at last
disappeared and were not any more seen, these sacred
legends began to grow. Those who had once known
them, who had drawn from their lips the blessed message
of light and life, one and all would gather together
what fragments they could find of their stories.
Rumours blew in from all the winds. They had
been seen here, had been seen there, in the farthest
corners of the earth, preaching, contending, suffering,
prevailing. Affection did not stay to scrutinize.
As when some member of a family among ourselves is
absent in some far place from which sure news of him
comes slowly and uncertainly; if he has been in the
army, on some dangerous expedition, or at sea, or
anywhere where real or imaginary dangers stimulate
anxiety; or when one is gone away from us altogether—fallen
perhaps in battle—and when the story of
his end can be collected but fitfully from strangers
who only knew his name, but had heard him nobly spoken
of; the faintest threads are caught at; reports, the
vagueness of which might be evident to indifference,
are to love strong grounds of confidence, and “trifles
light as air” establish themselves as certainties;—so,
in those first Christian communities, travellers came
through from east and west; legions on the march, or
caravans of wandering merchants; and one had been
in Rome and seen Peter disputing with Simon Magus;
another in India, where he had heard St. Thomas preaching
to the Brahmins; a third brought with him from the
wilds of Britain, a staff which he had cut, as he
said, from a thorn tree, the seed of which St. Joseph
had sown there, and which had grown to its full size
in a single night, making merchandize of the precious
relic out of the credulity of the believers. So
the legends grew, and were treasured up, and loved,
and trusted; and alas! all which we have been able
to do with them is to call them lies, and to point
a shallow moral on the impostures and credulities
of the early catholic. An atheist could not wish
us to say more; if we can really believe that the