of the confidence with which Bentham and his immediate followers wrote of the reform of the law, and of the modifications which a deeper knowledge of history has introduced into their theories. Put aside, however, all these difficulties, and assume the triumph of their mode of thinking. Where does it tend even to suggest any sort of religion, the existence of anything exciting any feeling of awe or reverence, the possibility of any sort of worship? Mankind is the object of our worship—mankind, a stupid, ignorant half beast of a creature, the most distinguished specimens of which have passed their lives in chasing chimeras, and believing and forcing others to believe in fairy tales about them-a creature made up mostly of units, of which a majority cannot even read, whilst only a small minority have the time, or the means, or the ability to devote any considerable part of their thoughts to anything but daily labour. For my part, I would as soon worship the ugliest idol in India, before which a majority of the Queen's subjects chop off the heads of poor little goats.

If human life is in the course of being fully described by science, I do not see what materials there are for any religion, or, indeed, what would be the use of one, or why it is wanted. We can get on very well without one, for though the view of life which science is opening to us gives us nothing to worship, it gives us an infinite number of things to enjoy. There are many who think, or say they think, that if the scientific view of human life is true, life itself would not be worth having. This seems to me altogether false. We should have to live on different principles from those which have usually been professed; but I think that for people who took a just view of their own position, and were moderately fortunate, life would still be extremely pleasant. The world seems to me a very good world if it would only last. It is full of pleasant people and curious things, and I think that most men find no great difficulty in turning their minds away from its transient character. Love, friendship, ambition, science, literature, art, politics, commerce, professions, trades, and a thousand other matters will go on equally well, as far as I can see, whether there is or is not a God or a future state, and a man who cannot occupy every waking moment of a long life with some or other of these things must be either very unfortunate in regard of his health or circumstances, or else must be a poor creature.

No doubt the great leading doctrines of theology are noble and glorious. To be able to conceive of the world as the work of a Being infinitely wise, infinitely powerful, and in some mysterious way infinitely good; to regard morality as a law given to men by such a Being; to look upon this outward and visible life as only a part of some vast whole, other parts of which may vindicate its apparent inconsistency with the wisdom and goodness which are ascribed to its

Author, is a great thing. People really able in good faith to look on the world in that light are ennobled by their creed; they are carried above and beyond the vulgar and petty side of life; and if the truth of propositions depended not upon the evidence by which they can be supported, but by their intrinsic beauty and utility, they might vindicate their creed against all others.

If, however, their views have to be given up, I do not see either that life will become worthless or that morals in particular will cease to be. I think that religion would die with theology; but, as I have said, I think we could live very well without religion, though on principles different from those which most men have hitherto professed, though for the most part identical with those on which respectable people have usually acted. Morality would be transformed, but by no means destroyed. Ubi homines, ibi mores. Men can never associate together without honouring and rewarding and protecting in various ways temperance, fortitude, benevolence, and justice. No individual man can live in any society of any size without observing this fact, sharing more or less in the common feelings, judging his own conduct according to them, and perceiving that his own personal interest is, to an extent more or less considerable, bound up in the general interest. That this state of things will hereafter produce, as it has in the past produced, a solid, vigorous, useful kind of moral standard, reflected to a great, perhaps to an increasing, degree in law properly so called, seems practically certain.

The change would come in regard to the mystical, emotional part of morality. If Christ is thought of as a mere dead man who in his lifetime was a mistaken enthusiast, people in general will have no wish to imitate him in being a man of sorrows acquainted with grief. They will prefer being men of rational pleasure with as little grief as may be. Christianity has deified self-sacrifice. It worships a Being who, as it tells the story, was willingly put to a shameful and painful death without any advantage to himself whatever. If this is recognised to be a mere fable, or if a purely human morality takes the place of Christian morals, self-command, and self-denial, force of character shown in postponing the present to the future will take the place of self-sacrifice as an object of admiration. Love, friendship, goodnature, kindness, carried to the height of sincere and devoted affec tion, will always be the chief pleasures of life whether Christianity

1 I cannot resist the opportunity of a passing allusion to the life of the late Mr. Maurice as an illustration of what I mean. I knew him well. I wholly and entirely disagreed with him as far as I understood him, but it was impossible to know anything of him without seeing that he had that within him which rendered anything mean, or consciously false, or petty, morally impossible to him, and his biography seems to me to show that this was the natural and appropriate effect of his creed, though I suppose most people would agree in Mr. Gladstone's remark, His intellec tual constitution had long been, and still is, to me a good deal of an enigma.'

is true or false; but Christian charity is not the same as any of these or all of these put together, and I think that if Christian theology were exploded Christian charity would not survive it.

There would, no doubt, be a more or less poetic side to the most exclusively worldly morality. Military courage is not an exclusively Christian virtue. It has been exhibited on innumerable occasions in the highest perfection by men of every and of no religion. The same may be said of conjugal and parental love, of patriotism, of the sentiment of professional honour, and even of party spirit, which, by the way, is perhaps the very lowest form of disinterested virtue. But I can only hint at the way in which the vast change I am considering would work itself out. In a few words I contend that to expect to preserve the morals of Christianity while we deny the truth of Christian theology is like expecting to cut down the tree and to keep the fruit; that if the Apostles' Creed is given up, the Sermon on the Mount and the parables will go too; that parodies of them are inexpressibly dreary, that to try to keep them alive by new ceremonies and forms of worship made on purpose is like preparing ingredients and charms which would make Medea's caldron efficacious. But I also contend on the other hand that, if Christianity does pass away, life will remain in most particulars and to most people much what it is at present, the chief difference being that the respectable man of the world, the lukewarm nominal Christian who believed as much of his creed as happened to suit him and led an easy life, will turn out to have been right after all, and enthusiastic believers of all creeds to have been quite wrong.

JAMES FITZJAMES STEPHEN.

WHAT DO THE IRISH READ?

IRISHMEN who return to their country after a few years' absence cannot fail to see, as one of the most noticeable changes, an extension of popular literature; a great increase in the number of readers, not, however, in the upper or middle classes, but in the lower classesthat is, lower as far as the possession of pounds, shillings, and pence is concerned. In a recent article in the London Reader, some statements were quoted from the Reports of the United States Bureau of Education, showing the comparative statistics of education in some of the principal countries in the world, wherein Ireland heads the list, the United States comes second, Germany third, then Switzerland, then England, France, &c. Whether those statistics be correct or not, and whether or not the inference of the Editor of the London Reader be adopted, that Ireland is the least ignorant country in the world, there is no doubt that the reading public in Ireland is comparatively large. Nor can there be any doubt that the increase of readers is mainly in the class who, with an extension of the franchise, will get a voting power they do not now possess. That being so, it may be worth while inquiring, What do they read? Looking at a few rough notes—rough, and very imperfect indeed—a sort of answer to that question, though by no means a complete answer, may be given.

Last year a trout-fisher who was wandering on the banks of the Clashmore, a few miles above its junction with the Blackwater, turned into a cottage from a shower of rain and found an old woman listening to a girl reading some verses.

'It's Mr. T. D. Sullivan's Green Leaves, sir,' said the daughter, in reply to a question; my brother bought it three weeks ago in Youghal for a shilling.'

'And what part do you like best?'

'Well then, sir, I was just repeating about the Lord and the Moon, the Lord who said we might as well ask for the moon as ask for Repeal. My mother has a great fancy for it; it makes her laugh." As the book was being looked through, the girl added, 'There are other songs I prefer myself, though.'

Here are some lines from the old woman's favourite, being Mr.

Sullivan's rejoinder to what was said by an eminent member of the
Cabinet, and, possibly, a future premier :-

So we might as well ask for the moon, my lord;
You think we would get it as soon, my lord;
But there you are wrong,

And we'll teach you ere long

How to sing to a different tune, my lord.

And now, if you speeched yourself hoarse, my lord,
We tell you your laws and your force, my lord,
Are no way like those

You oft put your back to the wall, my lord,
And said that the heavens should fall, my lord,
Ere Ireland should get

What she sought for, and yet

We carried our point after all, my lord.

And then when our freedom is won, my lord,
Your land will be second to none, my lord,
In giving applause

To our glory-crowned cause,

And in shouting, 'Old Ireland, well done!' my lord.

The visitor hinted to the daughter of the house that she probably preferred the verses further on, relating to an approaching marriage. 'No indeed, sir,' she replied, 'there are poems about exiles I rather read.' And she added, 'Not altogether of our own times either: "Saint Columba in Exile " and " O'Neill in Rome," I like them very much.'

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In what professes to be a translation of a Gaelic poem by St. Columba, these lines occur:

But yet with such a love as mine

For Erin and her noble race,
What wonder if my heart will pine
And still fly back o'er leagues of brine
To seek that happy place?

But far from Derry, far from Kells,

And fair Raphoe, my steps must be;

The psalms from Durrow's quiet dells,

The tones of Arran's holy bells

Will sound no more for me.

In the poem describing the exiled chief of three hundred years

ago, the visitor read these verses:

On every side the sweet bells ring,

And faithful people bend in pray`r;

Sweet hymns, that angel choirs might sing,

And loud hosannas fill the air.

His place is with the princely crowd,

Amidst the noblest and the best;