The fall of Constantinople rendered certain the success of the schismatical party. The sultans detested the name, as they feared the influence, of the Roman pontiff; and it was plausibly argued that to avow union with him would be to insure their own destruction. The Catholic element, thus reduced to silence, gradually dwindled away; and the schism, though its abjuration at Florence remains in full force, again blighted the Greek Church.
As to hopes of reunion at the present day, "it is not for us to know the times or moments which the Father hath put in his own power." We can only hope and pray that light may at length dispel the darkness which has so long hung over the Eastern Church. Ottoman policy no longer requires the prolongation of the schism; its only real supporter is Russia. All the Greeks would have to do would be to sign the act of union of Florence. They can have no difficulty about the Council of Trent; for they have always condemned the errors it condemns. Protestantism has never found favor in their eyes. If the Council of the Vatican do not succeed in reuniting them, it will, it is confidently expected, at least renew the missionary spirit, and inaugurate a work which, respecting eastern susceptibilities, may bring the church of Athanasius, Basil, the Gregories, Chrysostom, and so many other great saints and doctors out of "darkness and the shadow of death," and put an end to a schism which commenced with the lawless ambition of Photius, was renewed by the satanic pride of Cerularius, and has had for chief support the perfidious policy, first of the degenerate Christian emperors, then of the victorious anti-Christian sultans of Constantinople.
THE CHRIST OF AUSFELDT.
We live in a sceptical age that laughs at what it calls the superstitions of the olden time; superstitions, if you will, but often most beautiful, particularly when viewed through the mists of time and change. It is a relief to come upon some living legend, so to speak, while travelling over the hard macadamized thoroughfare of our practical lives, and I shall never forget the pleasure I experienced in listening to the recital of a story of the olden time, told me by my gracious hostess at the village inn where I had been stopping for a few days while making a pedestrian tour through the southern part of Germany.
"Ach, mein Herr! and hast never heard the legend of the Christ of Ausfeldt?"
It stood, weather-beaten and worn, just where the solid piers set their mighty feet into the river; an old stone crucifix that seemed to have battled the storms of hundreds of years.
While pausing in my morning walk to gaze on it with a traveller's curiosity, something in the general characteristics of the figure attracted my attention; and examining it more closely, I immediately saw that it displayed greater evidence of artistic skill and execution than is generally manifested in wayside images. Too often they are but caricatures of that semblance which is the most holy and sacred of Christianity; but in the face of the Christ that looked down upon me from the stained and battered cross, I read an expression of patient suffering and God-like endurance that would have borne noble testimony to any sculptor.
Returning to the inn, a desire to discover something of the history rather of the sculptor than of the image prompted me to make inquiry of my good-natured landlady, who sat in the twilight just outside of the house door, knitting as only a German woman can.
From that "Ach, mein Herr!" I knew a story was coming; and knowing, likewise, that Frau Gretchen was a very princess in story-telling, I lighted my pipe, and, stretching myself on the wooden bench before the door, prepared to be either saddened, amused, or delighted, as the case might be.