THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE.
By Ruth
O N the sands of Time, on the shore of the great Sea (Rev. 17:15), is built a grand and imposing structure called the Temple of Knowledge. Like a bubble of glass it arises in glittering domes, and towers, and massive bulwarks of much seeming solidity. Here is the seat of all worldly knowledge, human science, and philosophy. Every department of human thought and belief is assigned a room for the development of its favorite 'ism or 'osophy by the presiding genius of the temple. In the left wing of the rotunda, enshrined in a noble auditorium, stands on her high pedestal the Historic Muse, in her right hand the scroll of Fame, and in her left the laurel wreath of Honor. Behind her, arranged in vast tomes dusty with the ages, and portrayed on the panels of the walls, is the history of the nations. From the pillars are hanging the banners and regalia of dead heroes, dynasties, and nations—the symbols of departed human glory. In the right wing rises the stately dome of the Hall of Science. Here, behind an honored shrine, on a lofty throne, sits the Genius of Science. The microscope of the naturalist, the telescope of the astronomer, the hammer of the geologist, and the crucible of the chemist, are all at her command. With eagle eye she searches for the hidden springs of life, and from evident effects seeks to fathom the cause and nature of organic law. With Reason for her guide and counselor, she spins her theories for the various phenomena of nature; but even her piercing ken can not search out Infinity, "seeing it is hid from the eyes of all living;" no, not so much as to explain the law of life and growth in a blade of grass. "The way of an eagle in the air," the way of a fish in his native element, and "the way of a serpent upon a rock," are still "too wonderful" for her. The sublime powers of nature—light, heat, sound, fire, electricity, are beyond her crucible of analysis, and their nature is still the subject of vague and unsatisfactory conjecture and theorizing. Yonder, in her judgment-hall, Justice compiles her codes, or, blindfold, holds aloft the scales of equity, too oft o'erbalanced by the gold of bribery and corruption. Here in the grand central rotunda is the Arena of Literature. Here Fame has hung her laurels on the memorial urn and tablet. Here, down the ages, have rung in ever-changing cadences the musical intonations of human thought. Bards, poets, orators, philosophers, sages, have here in turn swayed the minds of men, and taken captive the popular heart. Here the modern authors blow their gay bubbles, and mix their intoxicating draughts to appease the esthetic cravings of the fashionable literary appetite. Here Wit, effervescent and sparkling, hands her ringing goblets round. Here the Furies, Malice, Envy, and Cruelty, braid the scorpion-lash of satire, and hew the venomed shaft of sarcasm, wherewith to impale the unfortunate victims of their displeasure. Here is the world's great amphitheater of Thought, in whose arena has been fought, since the beginning, the great controversy of the ages, between the Prince of Light and His friends and the Prince of Darkness and his deceived followers—Truth versus Error. Here Jesus, the Son of God, met the craft and subtle intrigue of the Archenemy with wisdom and spiritual judgment so heart-searching and confounding to His adversaries that they durst no more meet Him in open combat; but under cover of darkness and solitude they laid violent hands on His sacred person, and by means of fear, force, and perjury accomplished His condemnation, when they could openly find no just cause against Him. Here Luther met the combined powers of the enemy in the persons of antichrist and his council. Fearing neither papal anathema nor blazing faggot, he wielded the sword of the Spirit with no other shield than his unwavering faith in his heavenly Captain. But time would fail in which to tell of the faithful ones who have met the friends of the Prince of Evil on this hard-fought arena, and have triumphed by the "blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony." Even in death and torture have they glorified their God, being "made a spectacle unto the world and to angels and to men." Behold, their names are written in glory and chronicled in the earth. But let us consider the arena. Outside the circle of the arena, between the great spaces assigned to the multitudes, are arcades leading out to the different departments of human thought and investigation; and through these channels flow, in a continuous stream, the newly-manufactured wares. Within the circle of the arena these are exhibited for sale in the gay booths or stately pavilions representing the different departments, each displaying the colors and the badge of its order. Here, as always, what the enemy can not compass by open hostilities, he essays to accomplish by guileful seduction. In the guise of a charitable and friendly solicitude for the welfare of humanity, and in all-seeming candor and honesty, he offers his victim the poisoned nectar, as he did Eve in the garden. Here and there a silvery-tongued enthusiast who has drunk deeply of the intoxicating cup, pours forth honeyed and ornate oratory; the3 quick hand of the stenographer feeds the ready printing press, and the poisonous stream finds its way in copious draughts to the thirsty multitudes. Wandering through this Vanity Fair, one sees wares of every description gotten up to suit the lusts of the motley crowd. Here are delicious bonbons flavored with delicate flattery, sharp and spicy pickles heightened by the essence of self-conceit; scientific salads, plain, practical sandwiches, and political pastry, embellished with frosted and candied theories on the social problem and its possible cure. Here may be found in nearly every booth, in unlimited quantities, the blood pudding and scandal sausages, upon which the ravenous masses, high and low, daily gorge themselves. Here the enchantress Romance, cupid encircled and floral-crowned, brews her rosy wine for youth and beauty, drugging the seductive draught with the treble extract of idolatry, sensuality, and fornication, according to the taste of the multitudes she serves. Whether in the vellum dress and cultured, elegant phrasing of the popular novelist, or in the plebian paper garb of the third-rate article, the drugs are the same; they emanate from the same source, have the same malevolent purpose, and produce the same deadly effects. At the entrance of each arcade stands the advocate of the 'ism or 'osophy of his department. He is an eloquent enthusiast and a zealous proselyter. His cry is ever: 'This is the way! Here is truth [O much-abused word]. Turn in hither, O all ye sons of men.' The Babel voices of these advocates of the arcades, supplemented by the clashing harmonies of the various bands and orchestras of Vanity Fair, produce a pandemonium of discord most awful and bewildering. Let us glance through the arcades into some of these departments of human philosophy. Here in this Temple, Christian Science, twin sorceress with Spiritualism and legitimate offspring of the master magician, weaves her mazy spells on her willing dupes. And here—go not too near—wierd Spiritualism works her hypnotic charms, and performs her hellish orgies. This stately and costly shrine is dedicated to the siren Theosophy. Daughter of the East, she revels in the wierd, fantastic imagery of that ancient oriental Spiritualism, and many an uneasy conscience is lulled to rest by her siren song. Here, at their hell-heated forges, Materialism, Agnosticism, Infidelity, and Evolution "sear" with their "hot irons" every troublesome conscience that applies. And Higher Criticism, with her X-ray lens and dissecting knife, sits in judgment on the Word of the most high God, and performs her monstrous vivisection act. But what is this great splendor, this high and dazzling seat of royal dignity and authority, that seems to brood over the vast rotunda as if it were the presiding genius of the whole? Now, that shout—the swelling tide of acclamation, like the sound of seething seas—what is it?—'Tis the triumphal entry of the "queen." Rev. 18:7. Down on your knees! let all heads but the cardinal's be bared, and shout till your throat is rent. Chant, seraphic choir, your Latin Mariolatry, and, organ, heave your vast thunders of triumphal homage. Up, up, high above the highest pavilion, above all principalities and powers, authority or creed—still higher, "above all that is called God, or that is worshiped" (2 Thess. 2:4)—see! they have enthroned her on that temple-throne "that far outshines the splendors of Ormus and Ind" in royal magnificence. Who is this after whom all the world wonders (Rev. 17:6; 13:8)?—It is Mystery, Babylon the Great, the mother of harlots and abominations of the earth," arrayed in her purple and scarlet robes, and decked with her jewels, the gifts of her lovers, "the kings of the earth," and holding aloft the "cup" of "the wine of her fornication," wherewith she has made "drunk" the "inhabitants of the earth." Rev. 18:9; 17:2, 4, 5, 8. What is that veil behind her throne, that so carefully enshrouds the background? Hush! that is her nineteenth century "liberal" policy, a pleasing glamour which has blinded the eyes of her "liberal" admirers to her record of the Dark Ages. Let us get an insight into that vailed past. Never mind the frowns of the goddess, or the thunderbolt of papal wrath. Better to feel the "wrath of the dragon" than "the wrath of God." Lift the veil. O God, what a sight! Are these thy holy martyrs, Lord—these mangled, reeking slain—these scorching funeral pyres of living victims, with their agonizing, tortured prayers, their exile tears, their living graves? Is this sea of blood the dye-vat where her robes were stained? Rev. 18:24. How long, O Lord, shall martyr-blood tears cry unto Thee from the dungeon, the rack, the stake, and the slaughter-pen? "Arise, Lord, to judgment," forget her not, O Thou God of justice and vengeance. Rev. 18:7, 8, 20. Save, Lord, thy faithful ones from the clutch of her fell power, according to thy good promise.