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But then some glaring inconsistency of
those within her pale would recur to his memory, and he would turn
with a sigh from some pictured Christ, or the peaceful beauty of the
madonna. Well might Lionel exclaim, "In this age of seeming, what is
truth! for what grade of society has not its shams! in what church are
there not hypocrites as saints! in what government is there not
imperfection! in what political campaign is there not a bribe given!
in what age were there so many Churches." In what age was religion so
fashionable! Yes, to-day, it is not charity which covers the multitude
of sins, it is the cloak of religion, and yet 'tis not the fault of
creeds, 'tis _errare est humanum_. Ah me! we gay nineteenth century
butterflies are a favoured generation; we are so respectable you know;
we give the Church her innings, and that ancient firm of Bacchus and
Comus have their innings also. Such thoughts as the above often came
to Lionel, in his lonely wanderings far away from the gay cities, a
life which he adorned with such gay abandon when one of them.


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