The first book of our History of the Origins of Christianity brought us down to the death and burial of Jesus; and we must now resume the subject at the point where we left it—that is to say, on Saturday, the fourth of April, in the year 33. The work will be for some time yet a sort of continuation of the life of Jesus. Next to the glad months, during which the great Founder laid the bases of a new order of things for humanity, these few succeeding years were the most decisive in the history of the world. It is still Jesus, who, by the holy fire kindled in the hearts of a few friends from the spark He himself has placed there, creates institutions of the highest originality, stirs and transforms souls, and impresses on everything His divine seal. It shall be ours to show how, under this influence, always active and victorious over death, the doctrines of faith in the resurrection, in the influence of the Holy Spirit, in the gift of tongues, and in the power of the Church, became firmly established. We shall describe the organization of the Church of Jerusalem, its first trials, and its first triumphs, and the earliest missions to which it gave birth. We shall follow Christianity in its rapid progress through Syria as far as Antioch, where it established a second capital in some respects more important than Jerusalem, and destined, even, to supplant the latter. In this new centre, where converted heathen were in the majority, we shall see Christianity separate itself definitively from Judaism, and receive a name of its own; and we shall note, above all, the birth of the grand idea of distant missions destined to carry the name of Jesus throughout the Gentile world. We shall pause at the solemn moment when Paul, Barnabas, and Mark depart to carry this great design into execution; and then, interrupting for a while our narrative, we shall cast a glance at the world which these brave missionaries sought to convert. We shall endeavor to give an account of the intellectual, political, moral, religious, and social condition of the Roman Empire at about the year 45, the probable date of the departure of St. Paul on his first mission.

Such is the scope of this second book which we have called The Apostles, because it is devoted to that period of common action, during which the little family created by Jesus acted in concert and was grouped morally around a single point—Jerusalem. Our next and third book, will lead us out of this company, and will have for almost its only character the man who, more than any other, represents conquering and spreading Christianity—St. Paul. Although from a certain epoch he may be called an apostle, Paul, nevertheless, was not so by the same title as the Twelve;[I.1] he was, in fact, a laborer of the second hour, and almost an intruder. Historical documents, as they have reached us, are apt to cause some misapprehension on this point. As we know infinitely more of the affairs of Paul than of those of the Twelve, as we possess his authentic writings and original memoirs relating with minute precision certain epochs of his life, we are apt to award him an importance of the first order, almost superior even to that of Jesus. This is an error. Paul was a very great man, and played a considerable part in the foundation of Christianity; but he should neither be compared to Jesus, nor even to his immediate disciples. Paul never saw Jesus, nor did he ever taste the ambrosia of the Galilean’s preaching; and the most mediocre man who had partaken of that heavenly manna, was through that very privilege, superior to him who had, as it were, only an after-taste. Nothing is more false than an opinion which has become fashionable in these days, and which would almost imply that Paul was the true founder of Christianity. Jesus alone is its true founder; and the next places to Him should be reserved for His grand yet obscure companions—for affectionate and faithful friends who believed in Him in the face of death. Paul was to the first century a kind of isolated phenomenon. Instead of an organized school, he left vigorous adversaries, who, after his death, wished to banish him from the Church, to place him on the same footing with Simon the Magician,[I.2] and would even have denied him the credit of that which we consider his special work—the conversion of the Gentiles.[I.3] The church of Corinth, which he alone had founded,[I.4] professed to owe its origin to him and to St. Peter.[I.5] In the second century Papias and St. Justin do not mention his name; and it was not till later, when oral tradition was lost and Scripture took its place, that Paul assumed a leading position in Christian theology. Paul, indeed, had a theology. Peter and Mary Magdalene had none. Paul has left elaborate works, and none of the writings of the other apostles can dispute the palm with his in either importance or authenticity.

At the first glance, the documents relating to the period embraced in this volume would seem scanty and quite insufficient. Direct testimony is confined to the earlier chapters of the Acts of the Apostles, the historical value of which is open to grave objections. The light thrown upon this obscure interval by the last chapters of the Gospels, and above all by the Epistles of St. Paul, however, somewhat dissipates the shadows. An ancient writer serves to make us acquainted not only with the exact epoch when he wrote, but with the epoch which preceded it. Every written work suggests, in fact, retrospective inductions upon the state of society whence it proceeded. Though written for the most part between the years 53 and 62, the Epistles of St. Paul are replete with information about the first years of Christianity. While speaking here of great events without precise dates, the essential point is to show the conditions in which they originated; and while on this subject, I should state, once for all, that the running dates given at the head of each page (of the French edition) are only approximative. The chronology of those early years has but very few fixed points. Nevertheless, thanks to the care which the compiler of the Acts has taken not to interrupt the series of facts; thanks to the Epistle to the Galatians, where there are several numerical indications of marked value; and thanks to Josephus, who furnishes us with the dates of events in profane history allied to undoubted facts concerning the apostles—it is possible to arrange a probable chronology where the chances of error are confined within tolerably restricted limits.

I will repeat here at the beginning of this book what I said at the beginning of my Life of Jesus. Hypothesis is indispensable in histories of this character, where only the general effect is certain, and where almost all the details are more or less dubious, in consequence of the legendary nature of the authorities. There is no hypothesis at all to be made in regard to epochs of which we know nothing. To attempt to reproduce a group of antique statuary which has certainly existed, but of which we have not even a fragment, and about which we possess no written information, is a purely arbitrary work; but what can be more legitimate than to try to re-arrange the frieze of the Parthenon from the portions which remain, and with the aid of ancient descriptions of drawings made in the seventeenth century, and all other possible means of information—in a word, to become inspired with the style of these inimitable sculptures, and to endeavor to grasp their soul and spirit? It need not be said after the effort that the work of the ancient sculptor has been reproduced; but that everything possible has been done to approach it. Such a procedure is much more legitimate in history, because the doubtful forms of language permit that which the marble does not. Nothing prevents us from proposing to the reader a choice between different suppositions. The conscience of the writer need not trouble him as long as he presents as certain, that which is certain; as probable, that which is probable; as possible, that which is possible. When history and legend glide together, it is only the general effect which need be followed out. Our third book, for which we shall have documents absolutely historical, and in which it will be our function to depict characters clearly defined, and to relate facts distinctly set forth, will thus present a firmer narrative. It will be seen, however, that the physiognomy of that period is, upon the whole, not known with certainty. Accomplished facts speak louder than biographical details. We know very little about the incomparable artists to whom we are indebted for the masterpieces of Greek art; yet these masterpieces really tell us more of the individuality of their authors, and of the public that appreciated them, than could the most circumstantial narrations or the most authentic text.

The documents to which we must look for information concerning what was done immediately after the death of Jesus, are the last chapters of the Gospels, containing the account of the apparitions of the risen Christ.[I.6] I do not attend to repeat here my estimate of the value of these documents given in the “Life of Jesus.” We have, happily, in this question, features wanting too often in that work: I would refer to a prominent passage in St. Paul (I. Corinthians xv. 5–8), which establishes—first, the reality of the apparitions or appearances of Christ; second, the duration of these apparitions, differing from the accounts in the synoptic Gospels; third, the variety of localities where these apparitions were manifest, contrary to Mark and to Luke. The study of the fundamental text, in addition to many other reasons, confirms us in the views we have already expressed upon the reciprocal relation of the synoptical Gospels and the fourth Gospel. As regards the resurrection and subsequent appearances of Christ, the fourth Gospel maintains the same superiority which it shows throughout its entire history of Jesus. It is to this Gospel that we must look for a connected and logical narrative, suggestive of that which remains hidden behind it. I would touch upon the most difficult of questions relating to the origins of Christianity, in asking, “What is the historical value of the fourth Gospel?” My views on this point in my “Life of Jesus” have elicited the strongest objections brought against the work by intelligent critics. Almost all the scholars who apply the rational method to the history of theology reject the fourth Gospel as in all respects apocryphal; but though I have reflected much of late on this problem, I cannot modify to any material degree my previous opinion, though, out of respect to the general sentiment on this point, I deem it my duty to set forth in detail the reasons for my persistence; and I will devote to these reasons an Appendix to a revised and corrected edition of the “Life of Jesus” which is shortly to appear.

For the history we are about to dwell upon, the Acts of the Apostles form the most important documentary reference; and an explanation of the character of this work, of its historical value, and of interpretations I put upon it, is here desirable.

There can be no doubt that the Acts of the Apostles were written by the author of the third Gospel, and form a continuation of that work. It is not necessary to stop and prove this proposition, which has never been seriously contested.[I.7] The preface which is at the beginning of each work, the dedication of both to Theophilus, and the perfect resemblance of style and ideas, are abundant demonstration of the fact.

A second proposition, not as certain, but which may nevertheless be regarded very probable, is that the author of the Acts was a disciple of Paul, who accompanied him in most of his travels. At first glance this proposition appears indubitable. In several places, after the 10th verse of Chapter XVI., the author of the Acts uses in the narrative the pronoun “we,” thus indicating that the writer thenceforth formed one of the apostolic band which surrounded Paul. This would seem to demonstrate the matter; and the only issue which appears to lessen the force of the argument is the theory that the passages where the pronoun “we” is found, had been copied by the last compiler of the Acts in a previous manuscript, in the original memoirs of a disciple of Paul, and that this compiler or editor had inadvertently forgotten to substitute for “we” the name of the narrator. This explanation is, however, hardly admissible. Such an error might naturally exist in a more careless compilation; but the third Gospel and the Acts form a work well prepared, composed with reflection, and even with art; written by the same hand, and on a connected plan.[I.8] The two books, taken together, are perfectly the same in style, present the same favorite phrases, and exhibit the same manner of quoting Scripture. So gross a fault in the editing would be inexplicable; and we are forced to the conclusion that the person who wrote the close of the work, wrote the beginning of it, and that the narrator of the whole is the same who used the word “we” in the passages alluded to.

This will appear still more probable on remembering under what circumstances the narrator thus refers to his association with Paul. The use of the word “we” begins when Paul for the first time enters Macedonia (XVI. 10), and closes when he leaves Philippi. It occurs again when Paul, visiting Macedonia for the last time, goes once more to Philippi (XX. 5, 6); and thenceforward to the close, the narrator remains with Paul. On further remarking that the chapters where the narrator accompanies the apostle are particular and precise in their character, there will be little reason to doubt that the former was a Macedonian, or more probably, perhaps, a Philippian,[I.9] who came to Paul at Troas during the second mission, remained at Philippi after the departure of the apostle, and on his last visit to that city (the third mission) joined him, to leave him no more during his wanderings. Is it probable that a compiler, writing at a distance, would allow himself to be influenced to such a degree by the reminiscences of another? These reminiscences would not harmonize with the general style. The narrator who used the “we” would have his own style and method,[I.10] and would be more like Paul than the general editor of the work; but the fact is, that the whole work is perfectly homogeneous.

It seems surprising that any one should be found to contradict a proposition apparently so evident. But the critics of the New Testament bring forward plenty of commentaries which are found on examination to be full of uncertainty. As regards style, ideas, and doctrines, the Acts are by no means what one would expect of a disciple of Paul. In no respect do they resemble the Epistles, nor can there be found therein a trace of those bold doctrines which showed the originality of the Apostle to the Gentiles. The temperament of St. Paul is that of a rigid Protestant; the author of the Acts produces the effect of a good and docile Catholic, with a tendency to optimism; calling each priest “a holy priest,” each bishop “a great bishop,” and ready to adopt every fiction rather than to acknowledge that these holy priests and these great bishops quarrelled, and sometimes most bitterly, among themselves. Though always professing the greatest admiration for Paul, the author of the Acts avoids giving him the title of apostle,[I.11] and is disposed to award to Peter the credit of the initiative in the conversion of the Gentiles. One would deem him a disciple of Peter rather than of Paul. We shall soon show that in two or three instances his principles of conciliation led him to grave errors in his biography of Paul. He was inexact,[I.12] and above all, guilty of omissions truly strange in one who was a disciple of that apostle.[I.13] He does not at all allude to the Epistles; he omits important facts.[I.14] Even in the portions relating to the period when he was supposed to be a constant companion of Paul’s, he is dry, ill-informed, and far from entertaining;[I.15] and on the whole, the vagueness of certain portions of the narrative would imply that the writer had no direct or even indirect relation with the apostles, but wrote about the year 100 or 120.Is it necessary to pause here to discuss these objections? I think not; and I persist in believing that the last writer or editor of the Acts is really that disciple of Paul who used the “we” in the concluding chapters. All the discrepancies, however inseparable they may appear, should be at least held in suspense, if not wholly done away with, by the argument resulting from the use of this word “we.” It may be added, that in attributing the Acts to a companion of Paul, two peculiarities are explained—the disproportion of the parts of the work, three-fifths of which are devoted to Paul; and the disproportion which may be observed in the biography of Paul, whose first mission is very briefly spoken of, while certain parts of the second and third missions, especially the concluding travels, are related with minute details. A man wholly unfamiliar with the apostolic history would not have practised these inequalities. The general design of the work would have been better conceived. It is this very disproportion that distinguishes history written from documents, from that wholly or in part original. The historian of the closet takes for recital events themselves, but the writer of memoirs avails himself of recollections or personal relations. An ecclesiastical historian, a sort of Eusebius, writing about the year 120, would have left us a book quite differently arranged, after the thirteenth chapter. The eccentric manner in which the Acts at that period leave the orbit in which they had until then revolved, cannot, in my opinion, be explained in any other way than by the particular situation of the author, and his relations with Paul. This view will be naturally confirmed if we find among the co-workers known to Paul, the name of the author to whom tradition attributes the book of Acts.

And this is really what has taken place. Both manuscript and tradition give for the author of the third Gospel, a certain Lucanus[I.16] or Lucas. From what has been said, it is evident that if Lucas is really the author of the third Gospel, he is also the author of the Acts. Now, that very name of Lucas we also find mentioned as that of a companion of Paul, in the Epistle to the Colossians, IV. 14; in the Epistle to Philemon, 24; and in the Second Epistle to Timothy, IV. 11. This last Epistle is of more than doubtful authenticity. The Epistles to the Colossians and to Philemon, on the other hand, although very probably authentic, are not the most indubitable of the Epistles of St. Paul; but nevertheless, in any event, they date from the first century, and that is sufficient to positively establish the fact that among the disciples of Paul there existed a Lucas. The fabricator of the Epistles to Timothy is certainly not the same one who fabricated those to the Colossians and Philemon (conceding, contrary to our opinion, that these last are apocryphal). To admit that writers of fiction had attributed to Paul an imaginary companion, would hardly appear probable; but certainly the different false writers would hardly have fallen on the same name for this imaginary personage. Two observations will give a special force to this reasoning. The first is, that the name of Lucas or Lucanus is an unusual one among the early Christians; and the second, that the Lucas of the Epistles is not known elsewhere. The placing of a celebrated name at the head of a work, as was done with the Second Epistle of Peter, and very probably with the Epistles of Paul to Titus and Timothy, was in no manner repugnant to the custom of the times; but no one would have thought of using in this way a name otherwise unknown. If it were the intention of the writer to invest his book with the authority of Paul, why did he not take the name of Paul himself, or at least the names of Timothy and Titus, well known disciples of the apostle of the Gentiles? Luke had no place either in tradition, legend, or history. The three passages in the Epistles previously alluded to were not enough to give him the reputation of an admitted authority. The Epistles to Timothy were probably written after the Acts; and the mention of Luke in the Epistles to the Colossians and to Philemon are really equal to only one allusion, these two works being by one hand. We believe, then, that the author of the third Gospel was really Luke, the disciple of Paul.

This very name of Luke or Lucanus, and the medical profession practised by the so-called disciple of Paul,[I.17] fully accord with the indications which the two books furnish in regard to their author. We have already stated that the author of the third Gospel and the Acts was probably from Philippi,[I.18] a Roman colony, where the Latin tongue was in use.[I.19] Besides this, the author of the third Gospel and the Acts was but indifferently acquainted with Judaism[I.20] and the affairs of Palestine.[I.21] He knew but little of Hebrew;[I.22] he was familiar with the ideas of the heathen world,[I.23] and he wrote Greek in a tolerably correct manner. The work was composed far from Judea, for a people unfamiliar with geography, and who had respect[I.24] neither for a marked Rabbinical science nor for Hebrew names.[I.25] The dominant idea of the author is, that if the people had been free to follow their inclination, they would have embraced the faith of Jesus, and that the Jewish aristocracy prevented them from so doing.[I.26] He always imparts to the word Jew a malevolent signification, as if it were synonymous with an enemy of the Christians;[I.27] and on the other hand he is decidedly favorable towards the heretic Samaritan.[I.28]

To what epoch can we refer the composition of this important work? Luke appears for the first time in the company of Paul, after the first journey of the apostle to Macedonia, about the year 52. Allowing that he was then twenty-five years old, it would have been nothing more than natural had he lived until the year 100. The narrative of the Acts closes at the year 63,[I.29] but the compiling of the work was evidently done after that of the third Gospel; and the date of the editing of this third Gospel being evidently referable to the years immediately following the fall of Jerusalem (year 70),[I.30] it is not possible the book of Acts was written earlier than the year 71 or 72.

If it were quite certain that the Acts were written immediately after the Gospel, we might stop there. But some doubt exists. Several facts lead us to the belief that quite an interval elapsed between the compositions of the two works; and there is, indeed, a singular contradiction between the last chapter of the Gospel and the first chapter of the Acts. In the former, the Ascension seems to be recorded as taking place on the same day as the Resurrection;[I.31] in the latter,[I.32] the Ascension only occurred after a lapse of forty days. It is clear that this second version presents us with a more advanced form of the legend, adopted when it was found necessary to make room for the different apparitions of Christ, and to give to the post-resurrection life of Jesus a complete and logical form. It may be presumed, therefore, that this new method of arranging the history only occurred to the author’s mind during the interval between the composition of the two works. In any event, it is somewhat remarkable that the author should feel himself obliged, a few lines further on, to develop his narrative by the recital of additional statements. If his first book was yet in his hands, would he have made additions which, viewed separately, are so awkwardly devised? Yet this even is not decisive, and an important circumstance gives occasion for the belief that Luke conceived the plan of both works at the same time. This circumstance is found in the preface to the Gospel, which appears common to the two works.[I.33] The contradiction to which we have alluded can probably be explained by the little care taken to account for every moment of time. Indeed, all the recitals of the post-resurrection life of Jesus are thoroughly contradictory in regard to the duration of that existence. So little effort was made to be truly historical, that the same narrator did not shrink from proposing successively two irreconcilable systems. The three descriptions of the Conversion of St. Paul in the Acts[I.34] also show little differences, which only prove that the author was not at all anxious about precision in details.

It would appear, then, that we are very near the truth in supposing that the Acts were written about the year 80. The tone of the book accords with the times of the first Flavian emperors. The author seemed to avoid everything that could annoy the Romans. He loves to show how the Roman functionaries were favorable to the new sect; how they even embraced its doctrines;[I.35] how, at least, they defended its adherents from the Jews, and how equitable and superior to the partisan passions of the local authorities was the imperial justice of Rome.[I.36] He lays special stress on the advantages inuring to Paul as a Roman citizen.[I.37] He abruptly cuts short his narrative at the moment when Paul arrives at Rome, probably to be relieved from recording the cruelties practised by Nero towards the Christians.[I.38] Striking, indeed, is the contrast between this narrative and the Apocalypse, written in the year 68, replete with memories of the infamies of Nero, and breathing throughout a terrible hatred for Rome. In the former case we recognise a quiet, amiable man, living in a time of peaceful calm. From about the year 70 until the close of the first century, the Christians had little to complain of. Members of the Flavian family had adopted Christianity. It is even possible that Luke knew Flavius Clemens, perhaps was one of his household, and may have written the work for this powerful personage. There are several indications which lead us to believe that the work was written in Rome, and it might be said that the author was influenced by the Roman Church, which, from the earliest centuries, possessed the political and hierarchical character that has ever since distinguished it. Luke could well enter into this feeling, for his views upon ecclesiastical authority were far advanced, and even contained the germ of the Episcopate. He wrote history in the apologetic tone characteristic of the officials of the Court of Rome. He acted as an ultramontane historian of Clement XIV. might have done, praising at the same time the Pope and the Jesuits, and trying to persuade us that both parties in their debate observed the rules of charity. Two hundred years hence it will be maintained that Cardinal Antonelli and M. de Merode loved each other like two brothers. The author of the Acts was the first of these complacent narrators, piously convinced that everything in the Church must happen in a thoroughly evangelical manner. He was, too, the most artless of them all. Too loyal to condemn Paul, too orthodox to place himself outside the pale of prevalent opinion, he passed over real differences of doctrine, aiming to show only the common end which all these great founders were pursuing, though by methods so opposite, and in face of such energetic rivalries.

It will readily be understood that a man who possesses such a disposition is, of all others, the least capable of representing things as they really are. Historic fidelity is to him a matter of indifference; he is only anxious to edify the reader. Luke scarcely concealed this tendency; he writes “that Theophilus should understand the truth of that which the catechists had taught him.”[I.39] He thus had already a settled ecclesiastical system which he taught officially, and the limit of which, as well as that of evangelical history[I.40] itself, was probably fixed. The dominant characteristics of the Acts, like that of the third Gospel,[I.41] are a tender piety, a lively sympathy for the Gentiles,[I.42] a conciliatory spirit, a marked tendency towards the supernatural, a love for the humble and lowly, a large democratic sentiment, or rather a persuasion that the people were naturally Christian, and that the upper class prevented them from following out their good instincts,[I.43] an exalted idea of the power of the Church and of its leaders, and a remarkable leaning towards social communism.[I.44] The methods of composition are the same in the two works; and indeed in regard to the history of the apostles, are about as we would be in relation to evangelical history, if our only idea of the latter were derived from the Gospel according to St. Luke.

The disadvantages of such a situation are apparent. The life of Jesus, told only by the writer of the third Gospel, would be extremely defective and incomplete. We know so, because in this case, comparison is possible. Besides Luke, we possess (without speaking of the fourth Gospel) Matthew and Mark, who, relatively to Luke, are at least partially original. We can place our finger on the places where Luke dislocates or mixes up anecdotes, and can perceive the manner in which he colors facts according to his personal views, and adds pious legends to the most authentic traditions. Could we make a similar comparison as regards the Acts, would we not perceive analogous faults? The earliest chapters of the Acts appear to us even inferior to the third Gospel; for these chapters were probably composed from the fewer and less universally documentary references.

A fundamental distinction is here necessary. In a historic point of view the book of Acts is divided into two parts—one comprising the first twelve chapters, and recounting the principal events in the history of the primitive Church; and the other containing the seven remaining chapters, all devoted to the missions of St. Paul.

This second part, in itself, includes two kinds of narrative: one portion related by the narrator from his ocular testimony, and the other consisting only of what he has heard.

It is clear that even in this last case his authority is very important. The conversation of St. Paul himself is often drawn upon for information. Particularly towards its close, the narrative is characterized by remarkable precision; and the last pages of the Acts form indeed the only completely historical record that we have of the origins of Christianity.

The first chapters, on the contrary, are the most open to attack of all in the New Testament. In regard to these early years, particularly, the author betrays discrepancies still more remarkable than those existing in his Gospel.

His theory of forty days; his account of the Ascension, closing by a sort of final abduction and theatrical solemnity; the fantastic life of Jesus; his manner of describing the descent of the Holy Ghost, and of miraculous preaching; his method of understanding the gift of tongues—all are different from St. Paul:[I.45] all betray the influence of an epoch relatively inferior, and of a period when legendary lore finds wide credence.

Supernatural effects and startling accessories are characteristic of this author, who we should remember writes half a century after the occurrences he describes; in a country far from the scene of action; upon events which neither he nor his master, Paul, has witnessed; and following traditions partly fabulous, or at least modified by time and repetition. Luke not only belonged to a different generation from the founders of Christianity, but he was also of a different race; he was a Greek, with very little of the Jew in him, and almost a stranger to Jerusalem and to the secrets of Jewish life; he had never mingled with the primitive Christians, and indeed scarcely knew their later representatives. The miracles he relates, give the impression of inventions À priori rather than of exaggerated facts; the miracles of Peter and Paul form two series, which respond to each other,[I.46] and in which the personages have a family resemblance. Peter differs in nothing from Paul, nor Paul from Peter.

The words which he puts in the mouth of his heroes, although adapted to varying circumstances, are all in the same style, and characteristic of the author himself rather than those to whom he attributes them. His text even contains impossibilities.[I.47] The Acts, in a word, form a dogmatic history so arranged as to support the orthodox doctrines of the time or inculcate the ideas which most fully accorded with the pious views of the author. Nor could it be otherwise. The origin of each religion was only known through the statements of its adherents. It is only the sceptic who writes history ad narrandum.

These are not simply the suspicions and conjectures of a carping and defiant criticism. They are well founded inductions; every time that we have reviewed the Acts we have found the book systematically faulty. The control which we can demand of the synoptical texts, we can demand also of St. Paul, and particularly of the Epistle to the Galatians. It is clear, then, where the Acts and the Epistles do not accord, preference should always be given to the latter, which are older, possess absolute authenticity, thorough sincerity, and freedom from legendary corruption. The most important doctrines for history are those which possess in the least degree the historic form. The authority of chronicles must give place to medals, maps, or authentic letters. Viewed in this light, the epistles of undoubted authors and well-authenticated dates form the basis of all the history of Christian origins. Without them, doubts would weaken and destroy all faith even in the life of Jesus. Now, in two very important instances, the Epistles display in broad light the peculiar tendencies of the author of the Acts, and his desire to efface every trace of the dissensions which had existed between Paul and the apostles at Jerusalem.[I.48]

And firstly, the author of the Acts makes out that Paul, after the accident at Damascus (X. 19, and following verses; XXII. 17, and following verses), came to Jerusalem at an epoch when his conversion was hardly known; that he had been presented to the apostles; that he had lived with them and the faithful brethren on the most cordial terms; that he had disputed publicly with the Hellenistic Jews, and that a conspiracy on their part and a celestial revelation led to his departure from Jerusalem. Now Paul informs us that the matter was quite different. To prove that he owes to Jesus Himself and not to the Twelve his doctrine and mission, he says (Gal. I. 11, and following verses) that after his conversion he avoided taking counsel with any one,[I.49] or going to Jerusalem to consult with those who had been apostles before himself; but that of his own accord he went to preach and to carry out his personal mission in Hauran; that three days later, it is true, he journeyed to Jerusalem, but only to make the acquaintance of Cephas; that he remained fifteen days, but saw no other apostle, excepting, perhaps, James, the brother of the Lord; so that, really, his countenance was quite unknown to the churches of Judea. The effort to soften the asperities of the severe apostle and present him as a co-worker of the Twelve, laboring in concert with them at Jerusalem, hence seems without evidence. It has been given to appear that Jerusalem was his capital and point of departure; that his doctrine was so identical with that of the apostles that he was able, to a great degree, to take their place as preachers; that his first apostolate was confined to the synagogues of Damascus; that he had been a disciple and listener, which was not the fact;[I.50] that the time between his conversion and his first journey to Jerusalem was very short; that his sojourn in that city was quite protracted; that his preaching was received with general satisfaction; that he lived on intimate terms with all the apostles, though he assures us that he had seen but two of them; and that the faithful of Jerusalem took care of him, though Paul declares that they were unknown to him.

The same disposition to prove that Paul was a frequent visitor to Jerusalem, which had induced our author to prolong the apostle’s stay in Jerusalem, seems also to have induced him to credit the apostle with one journey too many. He says that Paul came to Jerusalem with Barnabas, bearing the offerings of the faithful after the year 44 (Acts XI. 30; XII. 25). Now, Paul expressly declares that between the journey made three years after his conversion and that made in relation to the subject of circumcision, he did not go to Jerusalem at all (Gal. I. and II.); in other words, between Acts IX. 26, and XV. 2, Paul makes no mention of any travel. One could wrongly deny the identity of the journey described in the second chapter of Galatians with that mentioned in the fifteenth chapter of Acts, and yet not be subject to contradiction. “Three years after my conversion,” says St. Paul, “I went to Jerusalem to make the acquaintance of Cephas, and fourteen years afterwards I went again to Jerusalem.” There has been some doubt whether this period of fourteen years dates from the conversion, or from the journey three years subsequent to that event. We will assume the first hypothesis as being most favorable to those who defend the account as given in Acts. There would then, according to St. Paul, have been at least eleven years between his first and second journey to Jerusalem; now surely there are not eleven years between that which is related in Acts IX. 26 and the following verses, and the account which we find in Acts XI. 30, etc. By maintaining it against all show of truth, one would fall into another impossibility. The truth is, that which is related in Acts XI. 30 is contemporaneous with the death of James, the son of Zebedee,[I.51] which having just preceded the death, in the year 44, of Herod Agrippa I., furnishes us with the only fixed date in the Acts of the Apostles.[I.52] The second journey took place at least fourteen years after his conversion; and if he had really made that journey in the year 44—the conversion must have occurred in the year 30—a theory which is manifestly absurd. It is then impossible to allow any credence to the statements in Acts XI. 30 and XII. 35.

All of these journeyings to and fro appear to be reported by our author in a very inexact manner; and in comparing Acts XVII. 14–16, and XVIII. 5, with 1 Thessalonians III. 1–2, another discrepancy will be found. As this last, however, has nothing to do with doctrinal matters, we shall not discuss it here.

An important feature of the subject now before us, and one which throws much light on this difficult question of the historical value of the Acts, is a comparison of the passages relative to the discussion concerning circumcision in the fifteenth chapter of Acts and the second chapter of the Epistle to the Galatians. According to the Acts, certain of the brethren of Judea coming to Antioch and maintaining the necessity of the rite of circumcision for converted heathen, Paul, Barnabas, and several others were appointed as a deputation to go from Antioch to Jerusalem to consult the apostles and elders on this question. They were warmly received by their brethren at the Holy City, and a great convention was held. The sentiments of reciprocal charity which prevailed, and the great satisfaction experienced by these co-religionists at thus meeting again together, dispelled all feeling of dissension. Peter gave utterance to the opinion which had been anticipated from the mouth of Paul, viz. that the converted heathen were not subject to the law of Moses. James modified this only by a very light restriction.[I.53] Paul did not speak, and indeed had no reason to do so, because his views were fully expressed by Peter; and the theory of the Judean brethren found no supporters. According to the advice of James, a solemn decree was made and communicated by deputies expressly chosen to the various churches.

Let us now examine the account given by Paul in the Epistle to the Galatians. It was his desire that this journey to Jerusalem should have the effect of a spontaneous movement, or even be deemed the result of a revelation. On his arrival at Jerusalem he communicated his gospel to whom it concerned, and had private interviews with many important personages. No one criticised his actions nor troubled him with communications, but only begged him to remember the poor of Jerusalem. Titus, who accompanied him, consented to be circumcised{I.54}, but only through the representations of “two false intruding brethren.” Paul permitted this incidental concession, but he would not submit to them. As to the more prominent men (and Paul never speaks of them excepting with a shade of bitterness and irony), they learn nothing new from him. He even disputed with Cephas “because he was wrong.” At first, indeed, Cephas mingled with every one without distinction. Emissaries arrived from James; and Peter hid himself, avoiding the uncircumcised. Paul publicly apostrophized Cephas, bitterly reproaching him for his conduct, “seeing that he did not keep in the narrow path of gospel truth.”

Observe the difference. On the one side holy concord; on the other, extreme susceptibility and half-restrained anger. On one side a harmonious council; and on the other, nothing resembling it. On the one side a formal decree emanating from a recognised authority; on the other, antagonistic opinions reciprocally conceding nothing excepting for form’s sake. It is needless to say which version merits our preference. The account given in the Acts is scarcely truthful, because the dispute in which the Council was engaged is not alluded to after the Council was reunited. The two orators here make use of expressions contradictory to what they had elsewhere said. The decree which the Council is reported to have made, is assuredly a fiction. If this decree, emanating from the pen of James, had really been promulgated, why should the good and timid Peter have been afraid of the messengers sent by James? Why should he hide himself? He, as well as the Christians of Antioch, was acting in entire conformity with this decree, the terms of which had been dictated by James himself. The discussion relating to circumcision took place about 51; yet several years after, about the year 56, the quarrel which this decree should have terminated, was more lively than ever. The Church of Galatia was troubled by new emissaries sent by the Jewish party of Jerusalem.[I.55] Paul answers to this new attack of his enemies by his terrible Epistle. If the decree reported in the fifteenth chapter of the Acts had existed, Paul, by referring to it, would have had a much simpler method of bringing the debate to a close. Now, everything that he says, intimates the non-existence of this decree; and in 57, Paul writing to the Corinthians, not only ignores it, but even violates its directions. The decree commands abstinence from flesh offered to idols; but Paul, on the contrary, thinks it no wrong to eat of this flesh as long as no one is scandalized by the act, though he advises abstinence should it give offence to any one.[I.56] In 58, at last, after the last journey of Paul to Jerusalem, James was more obstinate than ever.[I.57] One of the characteristic traits of the book of Acts, clearly proving that the author is less anxious to present historic truth or even to satisfy logical reasoning than to edify pious readers, is this fact, that the question of the admission of the uncircumcised is always on the point of being resolved without ever attaining that consummation. The baptism of the eunuch of Candia, the baptism of the centurion Cornelius, both miraculously ordered; the foundation of the Church at Antioch (XI. 19; and following verses); the pretended Council at Jerusalem—all leave the question yet in suspense. In truth, it always remained in that state. The two fractions of budding Christianity never came together; and that one which maintained the practices of Judaism proved unfruitful, and soon vanished in obscurity. So far from finding general acceptation, Paul after his death was calumniated, and even anathematized, by no inconsiderable portion of Christianity.[I.58]

In our third book we shall dwell at length on the subject to which these singular incidents refer. Our object at present is only to give a few examples of the manner in which the author of the Acts interprets history, and to show how he reconciles it with his preconceived ideas. Must we therefore agree with certain celebrated critics that the first chapters of the Acts are without authenticity, and that his leading characters, such as the eunuch, the centurion Cornelius, and even the deacon Stephen, and the pious Tabitha, are mere creations of fiction? By no means. It is not probable that the author of the Acts invented his personages;[I.59] but he is a skilful lawyer who writes to prove, and who, from facts of which he has heard, tries to deduce arguments in favor of his cherished theories, which are the legitimacy of the calling of the Gentiles and the divine institution of the hierarchy. Though such a document should be used with great care, its entire rejection would show as little critical acumen as its blind acceptation. Several paragraphs even in the first part possess a value universally recognised as representing authentic memoirs quoted from the last compiler. The twelfth chapter, in particular, is without alloy, and seems to emanate from St. Mark.

It would indeed be unsatisfactory if for this history we had as our documents of reference only this legendary book. Happily there are others which, though they relate directly to the period to which our third book will be devoted, yet throw much light upon this epoch. Such are the Epistles of St. Paul; the Epistle to the Galatians, above all, is really a treasure: the basis of all the chronology of that period, the key which unlocks all, the testimony which assures the most sceptical of the reality of things which cannot be doubted. I wish that the serious readers who may feel tempted to regard me as too bold or too credulous, would re-peruse the first two chapters of this singular Epistle; these chapters are certainly the two most important pages in the history of budding Christianity. The Epistles of St. Paul indeed possess in their absolute authenticity an unequalled advantage in this history. Not the slightest doubt has been raised by serious criticism against the authenticity of the Epistle to the Galatians, the two Epistles to the Corinthians, or the Epistle to the Romans; while the arguments on which are founded the attacks on the two Epistles to the Thessalonians and that to the Philippians are without value. At the beginning of our third book we shall discuss the more specious though equally indecisive objections which have been raised against the Epistle to the Colossians and the little note to Philemon; the particular problem presented by the Epistle to the Ephesians; and at last the proofs which have led us to reject the two Epistles to Timothy and that to Titus. The Epistles which shall serve our need in the present volume are all of indubitable authority, while the deductions we shall draw from the others are quite independent of the question whether they were or were not dictated by St. Paul. It is not necessary to revert here to the rules of criticism which have been followed in the composition of this work, and which has already been done in the introduction to the Life of Jesus. The twelve first chapters of the Acts form a document analogous to the synoptical Gospels and to be treated in the same manner. This species of document, half historical and half legendary, can be accepted neither as legend nor as history; while in detail nearly everything is false, we can nevertheless exhume therefrom precious truths. A pure and literal translation of these narratives, which are often contradicted by better authenticated texts, is not history. Often in cases where we have but one text there is fear that if others existed it would be contradicted. As regards the life of Jesus, the narrative of Luke is always controlled and corrected by the two other synoptical Gospels and by the fourth. Is it not probable, I repeat, that if we had a work bearing the same relation to the Acts that the synoptical Gospels do to the fourth Gospel, the book of Acts would be defective in many points on which we now receive it as testimony? Entirely different rules will guide us in our third book, where we shall be in the full light of positive history, and shall possess original and sometimes autographical information. When St. Paul himself relates some episode of his life, regarding which his interest demanded no special interpretation, of course we need only insert his identical words in our work, as Tillemont does. But, when we have to do with a narrator identified with a certain system, writing in support of certain ideas, preparing his work in the vague blunt style and with the highly wrought colors peculiar to legendary lore, the duty of the critic is to free himself from the thraldom of the text and to penetrate through it to the truths which it conceals, without, however, being too confident that he has discovered that truth. To debar criticism from similar interpretations would be as unreasonable as to limit the astronomer to the visible state of the heavens. Does not astronomy, on the contrary, involve an allowance for the parallax caused by the position of the observer, and construe from apparent deceptive appearances the real condition of the starry skies?

Why, then, should a literal interpretation of documents containing irreconcilable discrepancies be urged? The first twelve chapters of the Acts are a tissue of miracles. It is an absolute rule of criticism to deny a place in history to narratives of miraculous circumstances; nor is this owing to a metaphysical system, for it is simply the dictation of observation. Such facts have never been really proved. All the pretended miracles near enough to be examined are referable to illusion or imposture. If a single miracle had ever been proved, we could not reject in a mass all those of ancient history; for, admitting that very many of these last were false, we might still believe that some of them were true. But it is not so. Discussion and examination are fatal to miracles. Are we not then authorized in believing that those miracles which date many centuries back, and regarding which there are no means of forming a contradictory debate, are also without reality? In other words, miracles only exist when people believe in them. The supernatural is but another word for faith. Catholicism, in maintaining that it yet possesses miraculous power, subjects itself to the influence of this law. The miracles of which it boasts never occur where they would be most effective; why should not such a convincing proof be brought more prominently forward? A miracle at Paris, for instance, before experienced savants, would put an end to all doubts! But, alas! such a thing never happens. A miracle never takes place before an incredulous and sceptical public, the most in need of such a convincing proof. Credulity on part of the witness is the essential condition of a miracle. There is not a solitary exception to the rule that miracles are never produced before those who are able or permitted to discuss and criticise them. Cicero, with his usual good sense and penetration, asks: “Since when has this secret force disappeared; has it not been since men have become less credulous?”[I.60]

“But,” it may be urged, “if it is impossible to prove that there ever was any instance of supernatural power, it is equally impossible to prove that there was not. The positive savant who denies the supernatural, argues as gratuitously as the credulous one who admits it!” Not at all. It is the duty of him who affirms a proposition to prove it, while he to whom the affirmation is made has only to listen to the proof and to decide whether it is satisfactory. If any one had asked Buffon to give a place in his Natural History to sirens and centaurs, he would have answered: “Show me a specimen of these beings and I will admit them; until then, I do not admit their existence.” “But can you prove that they do not exist?” the other may say, and Buffon would reply: “It is your province to prove that they do exist.” In science the burden of proof rests on those who advance alleged facts. Why, although innumerable historic writings claim their existence, do people no longer believe in angels and demons? Simply because the existence of an angel or a demon has never yet been proved.

In support of the reality of miraculous agency, appeal is made to phenomena outside of the course of natural laws, such, for instance, as the creation of man. This creation, it has been said, could only have been compassed by the direct intervention of the Divinity, and why was not this intervention manifested at other decisive crises of the development of the universe? I shall not dwell upon the strange philosophy and sordid appreciation of the Divinity manifested in such a system of reasoning. History should have its method, independent of all philosophy. Without at all entering upon the domain of theology, it is easy to show how defective is this argument. It is equivalent to maintaining that everything which does not happen in the ordinary conditions of the world, everything that cannot be explained by the present rules of science, is miraculous. But, according to this, the sun is a miracle, because science has never explained the sun; the conception of mankind is a miracle, because physiology is silent on that point; conscience is a miracle, because it is an absolute mystery; and every animal is a miracle, because the origin of life is a problem of which we know next to nothing. The reply that every life, every soul, is of an order superior to nature, is simply a play upon words. So we understand it, and yet the word miracle remains to be explained. How is that a miracle which happens every day and hour? The miraculous is not simply the inexplicable, it is a formal derogation from recognised laws in the name of a particular desire. What we deny to the miracle is the exceptional state or the results of particular intervention, as in the case of a clockmaker who may have made a clock very handsome to look at, but requiring at intervals the hand of its maker to supply a deficiency in its mechanism. We acknowledge heartily that God may be permanently in everything, particularly in everything that lives; and we only maintain there has never been convincing proof of any particular intervention of supernatural force. We deny the reality of supernatural agency until we are made cognizant of a demonstrated fact of this nature. To search for this demonstration anterior to the creation of man; to go outside of history for historical miracles, dating back to epochs when all proof is impossible—all this is to seek refuge behind a cloud, to prove one doubtful proposition by another equally obscure, to bring against a recognised law an alleged fact of which we know nothing. If miracles, which only took place so long ago that no witness of them now exists, are invoked, it is simply because none can be cited for which competent witnesses can be claimed.

In far distant epochs, beyond doubt, there occurred phenomena which, on the same scale at least, are not repeated in the world of to-day. But there was at the time they happened a cause for these phenomena. In geological formations may be met a great number of minerals and precious stones which nature seems no longer to produce; and yet most of them have been artificially recomposed by Messieurs Mitscherlich, Ebelman, De SÉnarmont, and DaubrÉe. If life cannot be artificially produced, it is because the reproduction of the conditions in which life commenced (if it ever did commence) will probably be always beyond human grasp. How can the planet that disappeared thousands of years ago be brought back? How form an experience, which has lasted for centuries? The diversity of thousands of ages of slow evolution is what one forgets in denominating as miracles the phenomena which occurred in other times, but which occur no more. Far back in the vast range of heavenly bodies, are now perhaps taking place movements which, nearer us, have ceased since a period infinitely distant. The formation of humanity, if we think of it as a sudden instantaneous thing, is certainly of all things in the world the most shocking and absurd; but it maintains its place in general analogies (without losing its mystery) if it is viewed as the result of a long-continued progress, lasting during incalculable ages. The laws of matured life are not applicable to embryotic life. The embryo develops all its organs one after another. It creates no more, because it is no longer at the creative age; just as language is no longer invented, because there is no more to invent. But why longer follow up adversaries who beg the question? We ask for a proven miracle, and are told that it took place anterior to history. Certainly, if any proof were wanting of the necessity of supernatural beliefs to certain states of the soul, it would be found in the fact that many minds gifted in all other points with due penetration, have reposed their entire faith in an argument as desperate as this.

There are some persons who yield up the idea of physical miracles, but still maintain the existence of a sort of moral miracle, without which, in their opinion, certain great events cannot be explained. Assuredly the formation of Christianity is the grandest fact in the religious history of the world; but for all that, it is by no means a miracle. Buddhism and Babism have counted as many excited and resigned martyrs as even Christianity. The miracles of the founding of Islamism are of an entirely different character, and I confess have very little effect on me. It may, however, be remarked that the Mussulman doctors deduce from the remarkable establishment of their religion, from its marvellously rapid diffusion, from its rapid conquests, and from the force which gives it so absolute a governing power, precisely the same arguments which Christian apologists bring forward in relation to the establishment of Christianity, and which, they claim, show clearly the hand of God. Let us allow that the foundation of Christianity is something utterly peculiar. Another equally peculiar thing, is Hellenism; understanding by that word the ideal of perfection realized by grace in literature, art, and philosophy. Greek art surpasses all other arts, as the Christian religion surpasses all other religions; and the Acropolis at Athens a collection of masterpieces beside which all other attempts are only like gropings in the dark, or, at the best, imitations more or less successful, is perhaps that which, above everything else, defies comparison. Hellenism, in other words, is as much a prodigy of beauty as Christianity is a prodigy of sanctity.

A unique action or development is not necessarily miraculous. God exists in various degrees in all that is beautiful, good, and true; but he is never so exclusively in any one of His manifestations, that the presence of His vitalizing breath in a religious or philosophical movement should be deemed a privilege or an exception.

I am not without hope that the interval of two years and a half that has elapsed since the publication of the Life of Jesus, has led many readers to consider these problems with calmness. Without knowing or wishing it, religious controversy is always a dishonesty. It is not always its province to discuss with independence and to examine with anxiety; but it must defend a determined doctrine, and prove that he who dissents from it is either ignorant or dishonest. Calumnies, misconstructions, falsifications of ideas or words, boasting arguments on points not raised by the opponent, shouts of victory over errors which he has not committed—none of these seem to be considered unworthy weapons by those who believe they are called upon to maintain the interests of an absolute truth. I would be ignorant indeed of history, if I had not known all this. I am indifferent enough, however, not to feel it very deeply; and I have enough respect for the faith, to kindly appreciate whatever was touching or genuine in the sentiments which actuated my antagonists. Often, after observing the artlessness, the pious assurance, the frank anger, so freely expressed by so many good people, I have said as John Huss did at the sight of an old woman perspiring under the weight of a faggot she was feebly dragging to his stake: “O sancta simplicitas!” I have only regretted at times the waste of sentiment. According to the beautiful expression of Scripture: “God is not in the fire.” If all this annoyance proved instrumental in aiding the cause of truth, there would be something of consolation in it. But it is not always so; Truth is not for the angry and passionate man. She reserves herself for those who, freed from partisan feeling, from persistent affection, and enduring hate, seek her with entire liberty, and with no mental reservation referring to human affairs. These problems form only one of the innumerable questions with which the world is crowded, and which the curious are fond of studying. No one is offended by the announcement of a mere theoretical opinion. Those who would guard their faith as a treasure can defend it very easily by ignoring all works written in an opposing spirit. The timid would do better by dispensing with reading.

There are persons of a very practical turn of mind, who, on hearing of any new scientific work, ask what political party the author aims to please, and who think that every poem should contain a moral lesson. These people think that propagandism is the only object that a writer has in view. The idea of an art or science aspiring only after the true and beautiful, without regard either to policy or politics, is something quite strange to them. Between such persons and ourselves misapprehensions are inevitable. “There are people,” said a Greek philosopher, “who take with their left hand what is offered to them with their right.” A number of letters, dictated by a really honest sentiment, which have been sent me, may be summed up in the question, “What is the matter with you? What end are you aiming at?” Why, I write for precisely the same reason that all historical writers do. If I could have several lives, I would devote one to writing a life of Alexander, another to a history of Athens, and a third to either a history of the French Revolution or the monkish order of St. Francis. In writing these works I would be actuated by a desire to find the truth, and would endeavor to make the mighty events of the past known with the greatest possible exactness, and related in a manner worthy of them. Far from me be the thought of shocking the religious faith of any person! Such works should be prepared with as much supreme indifference as if they were written in another planet. Every concession to the scruples of an inferior order, is a derogation from the dignity and culture of art and truth. It can at once be seen that the absence of proselytism is the leading feature of works composed in such a spirit.

The first principle of the critical school is the allowance in matters of faith of all that is needed, and the adaptation of beliefs to individual wants. Why should we be foolish enough to concern ourselves about things over which no one has any control? If any person adopts our principles it is because he has the mental tendency and the education adapted to them; and all our efforts will not be able to impart this tendency and this education to those who do not naturally possess them. Philosophy differs from faith in this, that faith is believed to operate by itself independently of the intelligence acquired from dogmas. We, on the contrary, hold that truth only possesses value when it comes of itself, and when the order of its ideas is comprehended. We do not consider ourselves obliged to maintain silence in regard to those opinions which may not be in accord with the belief of some of our fellow-creatures; we will make no sacrifice to the exigencies of differing orthodoxies, but neither have we any idea of attacking them; we shall only act as if they did not exist. For myself, it would be really painful to me for any one to convict me of an effort to attract to my side of thinking a solitary adherent who would not come voluntarily. I would conclude that my mind was perturbed in its serene liberty, or that something weighed heavily upon it, if I were no longer able to content myself with the simple and joyous contemplation of the universe.It will readily be supposed that if my object was to make war upon established religions, I should adopt different tactics, and should confine myself to exposing the impossibilities and the contradictions in texts and dogmas that are viewed as sacred. This work has been often and ably done. In 1865[I.61] I wrote as follows: “I protest once for all against the false interpretation which has been given to my writings, in accepting as polemical works the various essays and religious and historical matters which I have published, or may hereafter publish. Viewed as polemical works, these essays, I am well aware, are very unskilful. Polemics demand a strategy to which I am a stranger; it requires the writer to choose the weak point of his adversaries, to hold on to it, to avoid uncertain questions, to beware of all concession, and practically renounce even the essence of scientific spirit. Such is not my method. Revelation and the supernatural—those fundamental questions around which must revolve all religious discussion—I do not touch upon; not because I may not answer these questions with thorough certainty, but because such a discussion is not scientific, or, rather, because independent science presupposes that such questions are already answered. For me to pursue any polemical or proselyting end, would be to bring forward among the most difficult and delicate problems, a question which can be more satisfactorily treated in the more practical phraseology in which controversialists and apologists usually discuss it. Far from regretting the advantages which I thus deprive myself of, I would be well pleased thereat, if I could thus convince theologians that my writings are of a different order to theirs, that they are only intended as scholarly researches, open to attack as such, when they sometimes attempt to apply to the Christian and Jewish religions the same principles of criticism which are adopted towards other branches of history and philology. Questions of a purely theological nature I am no more called upon to discuss, than are Burnouf, Creuzer, Guizniaut, and other critical historians of ancient religions, to defend the creeds which they have made their study. The history of humanity seems to me to be a vast grouping where everything, though unequal and diverse, is of the same general order, arises from the same causes, and is subject to the same laws. These laws I seek without any other intention than to understand them exactly as they are. Nothing will ever induce me to leave a sphere, humble it may be, but valuable to science, for the paths of the controversialist, who is always certain of the countenance of those interested in opposing war to war.”

For the polemic system, the necessity of which I do not deny, though it is neither adapted to my tastes nor to my capabilities, Voltaire was enough. One cannot be, at the same time, a good controversialist and a good historian. Voltaire, so weak in mere erudition; Voltaire who, to us initiated into a better method, seems so poorly to comprehend the spirit of antiquity, is twenty times victorious over adversaries yet more destitute of true criticism than himself. A new edition of the works of this great man would furnish a reply that is now much needed to the usurpations of theology—a reply poor in itself, but well suited to that which it would combat; a weak, old-fashioned reply to a weak, old-fashioned science. Let us, who possess a love of the true and an inquiring spirit, do better. Let us leave these discussions to those who care for them; let us work for the limited class who follow the true path of the human mind. Popularity, I know, is more easily gained by those writers who, instead of pursuing the most elevated form of truth, devote their energies to combating the opinions of their age; yet by a just compensation, they are of no value after the theories they combat are abandoned. Those who, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, refuted magic and astrology, rendered an immense service to right and truth; and yet their writings are to-day unknown, and their very victory has consigned them to oblivion.

I shall always hold to this rule of conduct as the only one suitable to the dignity of the savant. I know that researches into religious history always bring one face to face with vital questions which seem to demand a solution. Persons unfamiliar with free speculation do not at all comprehend the calm deliberation of thought; practical minds grow impatient of a science which does not respond to their desires. Let us guard against this vain ardor; let us remain in our respective Churches, profiting by their secular teachings and their traditions of virtue, participating in their charitable works, and enjoying the poetry of their past. Let us only reject their intolerance. Let us even pardon this intolerance, for like egotism it is one of the necessities of human nature. The formation of new religious families or beliefs, or any important change in the proportions of those existing to-day, is contrary to present indications. Catholicism will soon be scarred and seamed by great schisms; the days of Avignon, of the anti-popes, of the Clementists and the Urbanists, are about to return. The Catholic Church will see another sixteenth century; and yet, notwithstanding its divisions, it will remain the Catholic Church. It is not probable that for a hundred years to come the relative proportions of Protestants, Catholics, and Jews, will be materially varied. But a great change will be accomplished, or, at least, people will become sensible of it. Every one of these religious families will have two classes of adherents; the one believing simply and absolutely after the manner of the middle ages, the other sacrificing the letter of the law and maintaining its spirit. In every communion this latter great class will increase; and as the spirit draws together quite as much as the letter separates, the spiritually-minded of each faith will be brought nearer. Fanaticism will be lost in a general tolerance. The theory of the dogma will become merely a mysterious vault which no one will ever care to open; and if the vault be empty, of what importance is it? Only one religion—Islamism alone, I fear—will resist this mollifying process. Among certain Mahommedans of the old school, several eminent men in Constantinople, and above all among the Persians, there are the germs of a tolerant and conciliatory spirit. If these germs of good be crushed by the fanaticism of the Ulemas, Islamism will perish; for two things are evident—that modern civilization does not wish to see the old religions entirely die out; and that, on the other hand, it will not be impeded in its work by senile religious institutions; these latter must either bend or break.

And why should pure religion, which cannot be deemed the exclusive attribute of any one sect or church, encumber itself with the inconveniences of a position the advantages of which are denied it? Why should it array standard against standard, all the time knowing that safety and peace are in the reach of all, according to the merits of each. Protestantism, which proceeded from a very absolute faith, led in the sixteenth century to an open rupture. So far from showing any reduction of dogmatism, the reform was marked by a revival of the most rigid Christian spirit. The movement of the nineteenth century, on the other hand, arises from a sentiment which is the inverse proposition of dogmatism. It will not do away with any sect or church, but will lead to a general concentration of all the churches. Divisions and schisms increase the fanaticism and provoke reaction. The Luthers and Calvins made the Caraffas, the Ghislieri, Loyolas, and Philip II. If our church repels us, do not let us recriminate; let us the better appreciate the mildness of modern manners which has made this hatred impotent; let us console ourselves by reflecting on that invisible church which includes excommunicated saints, and the noblest souls of every age. The banished of the church are always its best blood; they are in advance of their times; the heresy of the present is the orthodoxy of the future. And what, after all, is the excommunication of men? The heavenly Father only excommunicates the narrow-minded and selfish. If the priest refuses to admit us to the cemetery, let us prohibit our families from beseeching him to alter his decision. God is the Judge; and the Earth is a kind and impartial mother. The body of the good man, placed in ground not consecrated, carries there a consecration with it.

There are, without doubt, positions when the application of these principles is difficult. The spirit of liberty, like the wind, bloweth wherever it listeth. There are often people like clergymen, riveted, as it were, to an absolute faith; but even among them, a noble mind rises to the full extent of the issue. A worthy country priest, through his solitary studies and the simple purity of his life, comes to a knowledge of the impossibilities of literal dogmatism; and must he therefore sadden those whom he formerly consoled, and explain to the simple folk those mental processes which they cannot comprehend? Heaven forbid! There are no two men in the world whose paths of duty are exactly alike. The excellent Bishop Colenso showed an honesty which the Church since her origin has not seen surpassed, in writing out his doubts as they occurred to him. But the humble Catholic priest, surrounded by timid and narrow-minded souls, must be quiet. Oh! how many close-mouthed tombs about our village churches, hide similar poetic reticence and angelic silence! Do those who speak when duty dictates, equal, after all, in merit, those who in secret cherish and restrain the doubts known only to God?

Theory is not practice. The ideal should remain the ideal, for it may become soiled and contaminated by contact with reality. Sentiments appropriate enough to those who are preserved by their innate nobleness from all moral danger, are not as suitable to those who are of a lower grade. It is only from ideas strictly limited that great actions are evolved; and this is because human capacity is limited. A man wholly without prejudice would be powerless and uninfluential. Let us enjoy the liberty of the sons of God; but let us also beware that we are not accomplices in diminishing the sum-total of virtue in the world—a result which would necessarily arise, were Christianity to be weakened. What, indeed, would we be without it? What would replace the noble institutions to which it gave birth, such as the association of the Sisters of Charity? How cold-hearted, mean, and petty mankind would become! Our disagreement with those who believe in positive religions, is, after all, purely scientific; we are with them at heart; and we combat but one enemy, which is theirs as well as ours—and this enemy is vulgar materialism.

Peace, then, in the name of God! Let the different orders of men live side by side, and pass their days, not in doing injustice to their own proper spirit by making concessions which would only deteriorate them, but in mutually supporting each other. Nothing here below should rule to the exclusion of its opposite; no one force should have the power to suppress other forces. The true harmony of humanity results from the free use of discordant notes. We know too well what follows when orthodoxy succeeds in overpowering science. The Mussulman element in Spain was extirpated because it clung too fondly to its orthodox views. The experience of the French Revolution shows us what we may expect when Rationalism attempts to govern people without reference to their religious needs. The instinct of art, carried to a high pitch of refinement, but without honesty, made of Italy a den of thieves and cut-throats. Stupidity and mediocrity are the bane of certain Protestant countries, where, under the pretext of common sense and Christian spirit, art and science are both absolutely degraded. Lucretia of Rome and Saint Theresa, Aristophanes and Socrates, Voltaire and Francis of Assisi, Raphael and St. Vincent de Paul, all enjoyed, to an equal degree, the right of existence, and humanity would have been lessened, had a single one of these individual elements been wanting.