ptible to the same criticism. He is not balanced.
He means well, but is erratic, fitful, lacking center. He is like a
bird lost in storms, flying in circles. He thought to be a saint,
whereas Christ did not come to make saints, but to make men; and the
sooner we realize that a "saint" or a "Christian" is not the end of the
gospel, the better will it be for Christianity. Christianity is God's
method of making men; and Christianity is not an end, but a means.
When God gets his way, he wants to have this world populated with men
and women. Whether Caine meant John Storm for an ideal Christian we
can not say. There is strength here, as in all he has written; but
Storm's lacks are many and great. He is enthusiast, but flighty. He
means well, but is spasmodic in its display. Storm might have grown
into a hero had he lived longer, and, as a flame, leaped high at some
point in his career. Both as man and Christian, he disappoints us.
Red Jason, in "The Bondman," is a worthier contribution to the natural
history of the gentleman. View him how you will, he is great. His
moral stature lifts itself like the mass of a mountain. His nature
seems a fertile field seeded down to heroisms, and every seed
germinating and growing to maturity. Jason has virtues vast of girth
as huge forest-trees, but he is scarcely companionable. Glooms gather
round him as night about a hamlet in a valley. He is moral, imposing,
heroic, yet is there something lacking--is it voice, self-poise,
what?--lacking of being quite a gentleman. Nor was he shaped for such
a role by his creator, but was meant to sit for the portrait of a hero.
And such he is to the point of moving the spirit, as by the lightning's
touch, Goethe was not capable of conceiving a gentleman. His "Wilhelm
Meister" and himself fall so low in the scale of worth as to preclude
his seeing so serene a face. Goethe's sky was clouded, and fine lines
of finest character are only brought out under unhindered sunlight.
Manhood is a serene thing. Though storm-bolts rain about it thick as
hail, the quiet of deep seas reigns in it. And Dumas's men are each a
_bon vivant_, save the son of Porthos. These dusty and bloody
guardsmen had not enough moral fiber to fill a thimble. They think the
world of men and women a field for forage. This physical dash and
courage, this galloping of steeds, and sabers pummeling steeds' sides,
stands instead of character. In "Marius the Epicurean," Wal