strengthening. And we discovered, not without grief, certain striking family resemblances between this second kind and many modern kinds of Principle. But I do not recollect that we were forced to recognize any modern counterpart of the Companionship.

Perhaps these foregoing remarks may be accepted in partial apology for my having chosen to unfold the doctrine of Companionship and chronicle some portion of its practice. I hope that by completing in the next three chapters my sketch of its whole career I shall have made a quite acceptable apology. For this spectacle of the complete career of the Companionship can tell us more about the making of a moral system than most commentaries I have ever met, and as much about the marring of one as most commentators have exemplified.

Let us, therefore, trace the practice up to the splendid climax of its power and glory-its apotheosis, in short; and thence down through its pollution to its petrifaction and final sepulture: and then consider if it be not now both possible and well we should shape forth a modern something, not in the likeness of its long-neglected corpse, but fit for its everlasting spirit to inhabit and inform.

7. APOTHEOSIS

Having hereunto arrived, the reader has been in at the death and, incidentally, the long-belated

obsequies of the original live body of Companionship. The dead body of it stayed above ground a good while, even swelled immoderately and managed now and then to show signs of galvanic life. Which, in fact, was worse by far than knowing it was dead and getting itself duly buried.

Meanwhile, however, the spirit of it had found out a sanctuary, wherein it might have dwelt and wrought until the end of days; but didn't, as we shall see, for quite discoverable reasons. Let us again begin with the beginnings.

It has been written that one brings with him the best part of whatever he finds anywhere; and we may likewise remark, with the activities reversed, that one must already have a good part of whatever he receives. The materials of imagination, the life-imparting power, are stored in the man himself or nowhere: he must interpret all evangels through stored-up experience. Well enough, then, if he can thus piece together a fair comprehension of the message and accommodate it to some chamber of his mind; but better far and best of all, if by a long experience of his own he has prepared a place for counterpart experiences of a higher sphere and may welcome them with joyful recognition.

Such was the case when Christianity approached Companionship. Beneath the ecclesiastical encumbrances and theological accretions of five centuries the simple spirit of the ancient custom recognized a spiritual counterpart, sprang

forth to clasp it, and thereupon proclaimed it in the familiar terms of its own life. Whereof a few examples may perhaps prove not entirely superfluous.

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When, for example, some patient bard, at bidding of a pious royal convert to the new-come faith or perchance of his own piety, would popularize Scripture, he forthwith changed the gospel legend to accordance with the epic type, making of the Prince of Peace and his discipleship a chief and chosen thane. In the "Heliand," or Savior," a ninth century Saxon gospel paraphrase, when Jesus speaks of his approaching entry into Jerusalem, Thomas, "that true thane," turns to the disciples: "Up! Stay we with him. To suffer with the Folk-King, that is a Companion's part: that he stand by his lord's side and gladly die with him. Let us follow him upon the journey and count our own lives nothing worth." And again, in the garden, "the wise ones at the wicked deed of Judas stood full of deep sorrow, and said to their lord: If it be thy will, O mighty lord, that here they shall spear us upon their points, so were it best we died for thee and grew pale in death."" Thus does our bard try to disguise Hebraic and decidedly un-Teutonic hesitation; and thus enthusiastically offsets it: "Then rushed forth Simon Peter, the swift sword thane; his heart boiled, so that he spoke no word

and boldly went he, the quick warrior, to stand before his lord. His mind was not wavering nor

his heart doubtful, but he drew his weapon, his sword from his side, and struck as guard against the enemy with his arm's strength." Easy to place our poet's sympathies in such affairs: submission did not to him seem better than the sword. But Peter had to be rebuked, the enemy to triumph; and the Folk-King's company had not been trained to such self-sacrifice as the companions of that other prince, Chochiliachus, long after taken captive by the selfsame power of this world.

Or read at your peril, reader, in Anglo-Saxon sacred poetry the whole world-drama of revolt in Heaven, conference in Hell, conquest of Eden, redemption, resurrection, and last judgment told in terms of thanehood.

In Heaven the angels are God's thanes. Satan is a recreant thane, forgetful of his "debt immense of endless gratitude," who aims at overthrow of God, and draws into revolt those thanes dependent on him, Satan, as their prince. Hurled down to Hell, he rallies there the warriors who have shared his fall, reminds them of his gifts in other days, and offers that one who will undertake the ruin of mankind a seat on the Satanic throne. The successful one, it is to be observed, while journeying back to Hell rejoices far more in the expectation of his lord's approval than in the anticipation of his own reward, a notable rebuke out of the depths, one thinks, to several throneseeking members of a better-esteemed band since active on the shores of Galilee. Thus these old

bards, we find, looking at all things in the light of their ideal of loyalty, believed in giving every loyal devil his due, regardless of his remaining character and general reputation. And surely, if the mind is its own place, a loyal, loving devil has succeeded for a time in making Heaven of Hell by the transmuting strength of love.

Nor was Eden without thanehood. Adam stood in that relation toward God, and his disobedience was deliberate treachery. God's vengeance on him and the race, with other of God's "all-too-human" traits, was found as fitting in a heavenly as in an earthly king. Had not Lord Wiglaf rooted out those other recreant thanes from house and homestead, their crime embracing branch and seed forevermore? And might not God enjoy as great a vengeance no less justly? No idea in this of God as the asserter of eternal righteousness: he is neither priggish nor pedantic, but quite naturally, from Teutonic standpoint, wrathful and revengeful over his defeated plans. Perhaps a warmer and more human-hearted deity than some 66 Power not ourselves that makes for righteousness.'

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But God, just like a humanly good-natured king, at length relents, and to the rescue of his servants captive unto the power of Hell sends forth his son the Christ. Christ's apostles are, as in the Heliand, his dear comrades, who, in the Christ of Cynewulf, chief of Anglo-Saxon sacred poets, are overwhelmed with grief at his ascension: