When a man holds the
hand of the woman he loves, or feels about his neck the little arms of
his child, do you suppose he is likely to injure either of them because
he is unable to accept your dogma about the mystery of this illimitable
universe? Shall I hate my own boy because I disbelieve that Jesus Christ
was born without a father? Shall I keep him without food and clothes
because I see no proof of a special providence? Will Shakespeare's
_Hamlet_ poison my mind because I think it finer than the gospels? If
I treat the Creation Story and the Deluge as legend and mythology, and
smile at the feats of Samson, shall I therefore commit a burglary? If
I think that my neighbor's life in this world is _his all_, that death
ends his possibilities, do you really think I shall be the more likely
to rob him of what I can never restore?

I am at a loss to understand your lordship, and I invite you to explain
yourself. At present I can only see in your account of George Mason, a
very common exhibition of Christian logic, and Christian temper. Your
lordship's is not the charity that "thinketh no evil." You ascribe
wickedness to those who differ from you in opinion. I conceive it
possible for men to differ from you in religion, and yet to equal you
in morality. I conceive it even possible that some of them might surpass
you without a miracle.

A RELIGION FOR EUNUCHS. *

* June, 1890.

This is a strong title, and it requires a justification. We have to
plead that nothing else would serve our purpose. But is our purpose
a sound one? That will appear in the course of this article. Let the
reader finish what we have to say before he forms a judgment.

We purpose to criticise the view of Christianity recently put forth
by the greatest writer in Russia. Count Leo Tolstoi enjoys an European
fame. He is one of the classics of modern fiction. His work in
imaginative literature, as well as his work in religion, said the late
Matthew Arnold, is "more than sufficient to signalise him as one of
the most marking, interesting, and sympathy-inspiring men of our time."
Whatever such a man writes deserves the closest attention. Not, indeed,
that this needs to be bespoken for him. He has the qualities that compel
it. There is the stamp of power on all his productions. We pause at them
involuntarily, as we turn to look at a physical king of men who passes
us in the street.

For some years Count Tolstoi discontinued his work as a novel