chre 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