so the
sweet story remains human to the very end. I care very little what the
critics may have to say on the matter. They may call it legendary if
they will, they may say that it is the work of an Ephraimite scribe,
bent on consecrating the Ephraimite supremacy by the aid of tradition.
But the incident appears to me to be of a reality, a force, a
tenderness, that is above historical criticism. Whatever else may be
true, there is a breathing reality in the picture of the old weak
patriarch making his last conscious effort; Joseph, that wise and
prudent servant, whose activities have never clouded his clear natural
affections; the boys, the mute and awed actors in the scene, not made
to utter any precocious phrases, and yet centring the tenderness of
hope and joy upon themselves. If it is art, it is the perfection of
art, which touches the very heart-strings into a passion of sweetness
and wonder.

Compare this ancient story with other achievements of the human mind
and soul: with Homer, with Virgil, with Shakespeare. I think they pale
beside it, because with no sense of effort or construction, with all
the homely air of a simple record, the perfectly natural, the perfectly
pathetic, the perfectly beautiful, is here achieved. There is no
painting of effects, no dwelling on accessories, no consciousness of
beauty; and yet the heart is fed, the imagination touched, the spirit
satisfied. For here one has set foot in the very shrine of truth and
beauty, and the wise hand that wrote it has just opened the door of the
heart, and stands back, claiming no reward, desiring no praise.

XXX

By the Sea of Galilee

I have often thought that the last chapter of St John's Gospel is one
of the most bewildering and enchanting pieces of literature I know. I
suppose Robert Browning must have thought so, because he makes the
reading of it, in that odd rich poem, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, the
sign, together with testing a plough, of a man's conversion, from the
unreal life of talk and words, to the realities of life; though I have
never divined why he used this particular chapter as a symbol; and
indeed I hope no one will ever make it clear to me, though I daresay
the connection is plain enough.

It is bewildering, because it is a postscript, added, with a singular
artlessness, after the Gospel has come to a full close. Perhaps St
John did not even write it, though the pretty childlike conclusion
about the world itse